Chapter Nine
My older brother Benjamin died when I was two. I don’t remember him, but my mother told me he passed away at the age of four from the same kind of heart abnormality as my father.
She never recovered from his death; I expect no parent ever does, but they do usually move on. Not her. She talked about him constantly, and the theme was always the same: Benjamin could do no wrong. Sometimes it felt as though he ruled my life from the grave, since I spent my childhood competing against him for my mother’s affection. It was hard going up against a ghost, so naturally I lost.
I came to realize her grief wasn’t normal, that it wasn’t really even about Benjamin—it was about her. She used him as a tool to draw attention to herself, as a weapon to make me feel less-than. Whenever she became angry or upset with me, what usually followed was, “Your poor brother would turn in his grave if he saw the way you treated me. God rest his soul.”
My poor brother. I don’t know…sometimes I thought he got off easy; after all, he didn’t have to live with her for very long. I was the one who ended up doing hard time.
I started blaming my brother just like my mother blamed me, grew resentful, privately referring to him as Saint Benjamin. Condemnation always rolled downhill in our house, and since Benjamin couldn’t defend himself, he was an easy target.
Then one day, the inevitable happened; I’d always figured it would, I just didn’t know how, or that it would hurt so much.
My mother had a music box that she loved. Her father had given it to her. It was a porcelain figurine of a young girl sitting Indian style, facing a corner, with tears rolling down her cheeks. When my mother wound it up, the music played and the girl would slowly spin around. “There’s my Little Sad Girl,” she would often say. Personally, the thing gave me the creeps. Sometimes I’d walk into the living room and find her holding it lovingly against her cheek, her own tearful eyes closed as the music played softly. She’d look up at me, startled, then try to act unaffected, as if doing so might somehow negate her moment of vulnerability.
I arrived home to an empty house after school one day. Nothing unusual there. Mother always seemed to be running around, although I never understood where. I tossed my books on the counter, then searched the fridge for something to eat. Hardly anything there—also not unusual—just a single apple somewhere on the outer edges of its lifespan and a can of soda. The phone rang as I was pulling them out. I put the soda down so I could answer; it was a call from the dentist, reminding mother of her appointment the next day. After writing the information down, I headed for the living room.
I had just turned on the TV when I realized I’d forgotten my soda in the kitchen, so I tossed the apple onto the side table, then headed back. A few steps later, I heard the smashing noise.
Little Sad Girl was on the floor in pieces.
Then I heard mother pull up in the driveway.
She walked in, took one look, and froze in her tracks.
“It was an accident!” I said, shaking my head, stepping away from the broken pieces as if doing so might somehow separate me from my catastrophic mistake. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”
“No!” She leaped forward, dropping to her hands and knees. Then came the tears as she scrambled around on the floor, frantically trying to gather up the pieces. I knelt beside her to help. That was when she shot me the death glare, and with her voice filled with venom and anger, screamed, “Get away! Don’t you touch her! Don’t you dare!”
I stood, then backed away slowly as she continued picking up the pieces, examining each one, and sobbing uncontrollably. I knew there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do except stand and watch.
Finally, she looked up and caught my gaze. With tearful, bloodshot eyes and in a tone low and angry, my mother said, “You…ruin…everything.”
“I’m sorry!” I said, crying, “I didn’t mean to—”
“Get out of my sight.”
I turned away, headed for my room. And then behind me I heard her say those words, the kind you can never take back.
“I wish you were the one who died.”
Chapter Ten
The Sports Page didn’t seem very sporty. The theme, more than anything, was dark. Dark ceilings, dark walls, dark floors. Just your typical hole-in-the-wall bar. They did have a baseball game playing on the big screen, but that was about as athletic as it got. A kid who barely looked old enough to drink, let alone serve one, took my order. About a half hour later, CJ walked in.
“Sorry,” she with a smile that matched her apology. “Got hung up at work. You know how that goes.”
“I do. And don’t worry about it. I’ve kept my share of people waiting. More times than I can count.”
“We do make horrible dates, don’t we? One of the many downfalls of being in this business, I guess.”
She had that right.
A few moments later, Waiter Boy came back with a Tom Collins for her and another beer for me. CJ smiled her thank you.
“So …” she said while settling into her seat. “Nathan Kingsley.”
“Yeah. What can you tell me about him?”
“It was the biggest story this town’s ever seen, but like I said, kid’s been dead for a long time. Lucas too …” She shrugged, took a sip. “We do a follow-up every now and then—you know, on the anniversary if nothing else is going on— but really, it ends up being more of a recap than anything else. Same old stuff, recycled.”
“They never found him,” I confirmed.
“Nope.” She lifted her glass, swirled it around, stared into it.
“And they were still able to convict without?”
“A classic no-body murder trial. No question the kid was murdered. Evidence was rock-solid. Lucas was dumb enough to leave some pretty incriminating stuff in his apartment.”
“I read about that. The boy’s clothing and the knife.”
“With Nathan’s blood on them—it left little doubt.”
“And blood typing was enough?”
“It was all they had at the time, but they were able to confirm that the clothes belonged to Nathan. The parents verified. You put one and one together—”
“And you get two.”
“Hopefully. If you do it right. Plus there was Lucas’s history. It tore at his defense that he was a convicted sex offender, but even worse was the eyewitness who placed him in the neighborhood at the time of the kidnapping.”
“The mailman.”
“Exactly.”
“Pretty compelling.”
“About as slam-dunk as they get,” she said. “Only took three hours to come back with a verdict. Guilty on both counts. Then they went for the death penalty. Not much sympathy in Texas for child killers.”
“Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
She took another sip, nodded. “True.”
“So what about the body?”
“He buried it out in the desert somewhere; they’re pretty sure of it. You could get more on that from Jerry Lindsay.”
“Jerry Lindsay,” I repeated.
She nodded. “The sheriff at the time. Retired now but still local. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to hook up with him, anyway. He’s an irascible old bastard but good for a quote or two. I usually drag him out whenever I do a follow-up.”
“How about the boy’s parents? What were they like?”
“Salt of the earth, decent, but very young at the time. Father worked. Mom stayed home. Dennis is still in town, lives up in the hills north of here. Keeps to himself. Can’t say I blame him.” She placed her drink firmly on the table and frowned at it, shaking her head. “Their lives really fell apart after Nathan died.”