He looked at me again. His eyes settled on mine and didn’t waver. It made me think all of it—the fluttering hands, the nervous gestures—was some kind of act, something to keep the people he spoke to off balance. Because his voice sounded steady and sure as he delivered the next piece of news to me.
“We’re treating your mother’s death as a possible homicide,” he said. “That’s why we need to ask you these questions.”
The glass slipped out of my hand and hit the carpet with a dull thunk.
Chapter Two
“The paramedics who responded to the 911 call noticed some irregular bruising on your mother’s body.” Richland continued to speak in a flat, even tone, as though he were telling me what the weather was like or relaying the score of an unimportant sporting event. His hands fluttered less. “They contacted us to perform a preliminary investigation.”
His words flew past me like flung rubber bands. Post came in from the kitchen with a paper towel and dabbed at the water by my feet.
“I can clean that up,” I said.
“It’s fine,” Post said. “You’ve had a shock.”
“What kind of bruises?” I asked. “Was she beat up? Did someone beat her to death?”
“I really can’t talk about that—”
“She’s an older woman. A mom. Who would hurt her like that?”
“We haven’t confirmed a cause of death yet,” Post said. “We’re not even sure it’s a homicide.”
“Homicide,” I said. The word sounded offensive to my ears, brutal and nasty. I wasn’t ready to associate it with my mother.
“It’s early still,” Richland said. “Give us time to sort things out.” He did something with his mouth. His lips moved, and some of his teeth showed. I think he was trying to smile at me. “Let’s all be patient.”
“I want to see my brother,” I said. “I need to see him, to make sure he’s okay.”
Post stood up, the limp towel in her hand.
Richland nodded, the smile-thing still on his face. “He’s in his room.”
“And I want to see Mom. I want to see her before they take her away.”
“I’ll take you to your brother,” Richland said.
He waited for me to stand up.
Detective Richland led me to the door of Ronnie’s bedroom and stepped aside. But before he did, he said, “We’re going to have to do some additional processing of the house. We started before you arrived, but we have some more to do.”
“Processing?” I asked.
“Photographs of the scene. Fingerprints.”
“Okay,” I said, although I wasn’t sure what I was even referring to.
Ronnie was twenty-seven, just one year older than me. He was a high-functioning adult with Down syndrome. Before I went in there, I looked to the end of the hall, to my mother’s bedroom. I saw the back of someone wearing a Harris County Medical Examiner Windbreaker. I couldn’t see anything else.
Ronnie kept his room immaculate with a militarylike efficiency. His bed was always made, his clothes and things always put away and out of sight. Part of this came from my mother and her lifelong quest for order and cleanliness in her house, but part of it came from Ronnie’s dedication to routine, his determination to master any task handed to him. He controlled his living space. It was his entirely.
Ronnie sat on the side of the made bed, his hands folded in his lap. Down syndrome kept him shorter than me—only about five foot three—and he possessed the characteristic short neck and flattened facial features common to those who have the condition. He also had the dark brown hair and dark brown eyes that could only have come from our father, whom Ronnie resembled a great deal. He looked up when he saw me, his face expectant.
“Oh, Ronnie,” I said.
He didn’t move from his spot until I sat down next to him on the bed. Then he let me fold him into my arms. He pressed his face into my neck, and I pulled him tight.
“Mom’s gone,” he said.
“I know.”
We sat like that for a long time. Then he said, “They won’t tell me anything. They won’t tell me what went wrong.”
“Me either.”
Ronnie could hold a conversation with just about anybody, despite having a slight impairment that forced him to wear hearing aids in both ears. He worked a part-time job at a local store, bagging groceries and stocking shelves. He managed to get himself there every day by riding the bus or walking when the weather was nice. But he still lived with Mom, which was more her choice than his. She protected him—hovered over him, really. I knew her death would hit him harder than I could imagine. He didn’t like disruptions to his routine. He didn’t respond well to emergencies or sudden changes. I had no idea what would become of him.
I waited as long as I could before I asked another question. “What happened, Ronnie?” I said. “Did she collapse? Did she say anything?”
He didn’t answer.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it yet.”
“I found her on the floor in her room,” he said.
“She was unconscious?”
“I wasn’t home,” he said. “I came home and she was on the floor.”
I looked at the large digital clock next to Ronnie’s bed. Ten forty-five p.m. The police had called me about twenty minutes earlier, which meant—
“You weren’t home? Where were you? Were you at work?”
He sat up and shook his head. He used his thick fingers to reach into his pants pocket and draw out a neatly folded handkerchief. He wiped his nose and eyes. “I was at Mrs. Morgan’s house.”
Mrs. Morgan was the elderly—very elderly—widow who lived two doors down. She sometimes “watched” Ronnie when Mom had things to do, although Ronnie was perfectly capable of being left on his own for long stretches of time.
“Why were you there?” I asked. “Did Mom go somewhere?”
Ronnie shrugged, still holding the handkerchief. “I don’t know. She told me to go to Mrs. Morgan’s house around six o’clock. She didn’t call for me, and Mrs. Morgan fell asleep. So I walked home…” His voice trailed off.
“And you came in and found Mom?”
He nodded. “I called 911 like I was supposed to. I did it right away.”
“Of course,” I said. “You did the right thing.”
Before I could dwell too long on the horror my brother must have felt when he found our mom unresponsive on the floor, Detective Post stepped into the doorway of Ronnie’s room.
“Ms. Hampton?” she said. “Could I speak with you?”
I looked at Ronnie. He seemed withdrawn. Sad.
“Sure,” I said.
I hugged Ronnie, pulling him close to me again. His body felt stiff under my embrace. I let him go and stood up. I followed Post into the hallway, and again my eyes tracked to Mom’s bedroom. Someone had closed the door.
“We’re ready to remove your mother’s body from the house,” Detective Post said. “I wondered if maybe you wanted to close the door to your brother’s room or take him out of the house while we do it.”
“I want to see her before you take her away.”
Post pursed her lips. “Are you sure about that?”
“Is she damaged in some way?” I asked. “I thought you said she wasn’t beaten.”
“There are bruises, but they’re not consistent with a beating,” Post said. “It’s just… it can be upsetting.” She looked me in the eye and I didn’t waver. “But if you want to, I think you should.”
The detective walked down the hallway to the door of Mom’s bedroom and knocked lightly. She looked back at me. “Would you like me to sit with your brother?”
“He’s fine,” I said. “He’s not a child.”
Someone opened the door of Mom’s room, and Post stuck her head in. She said something, then stepped back, leaving the door open.