Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Goren wandered around Carl Roth's apartment, picking up an item here, scrutinizing a book there. He was opening the cupboards in the kitchen when Eames returned.

"How's the canvas?" She shook her head.

"They're only about halfway through, but it's not hopeful so far." Eames and Goren had headed to Roth's building, in search of the mysterious Rebecca Garnet, who might have been the last person to see Roth alive, or who might also be a victim, but there had been no listing for Rebecca Garnet on the building's mailboxes. The super knew at least five single women in the right age range, all of whom, he said, were "premium grade hotness". Eames wasn't sure what the super's standards were for hotness, although judging from the posters on the inside of his door, he seemed solidly in favor of airbrushed brunettes.

Goren looked as if he were about to say something. Eames smiled,

"And no, I don't think we have probable cause to search all of their apartments to discern their taste for open-toed slingbacks. "

Goren gestured to the shelves.

"His taste in books was scholarly, at lot of books, mostly on the Enlightenment, with detailed footnotes, citing primary sources. There are professional journals here, too. His interests, professionally, had depth." Goren crossed to the kitchenette. "But here, in the cupboards, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, spaghetti, and just one or two jars of spices – Italian seasoning and Old Bay. And he's a Metropolitan Museum employee with nothing on his walls."

"They would have tossed him out of the scruffy Bohemian academic club if they had known"

"He's got all of this deep meaning, flavor, in his work life, but nothing at home, just a big void."

"That maybe Rebecca Garnet meant to fill."

Eames looked up, noting that Goren was staring at a picture of Roth and an older woman. Both Roths were smiling.

"I'm starting to get a sense of him."

"Please sit down, Detectives." Mrs. Roth was a short woman with perhaps a few extra pounds. In her white sweater, floral blouse, and cotton pants, she was definitely someone's mother. She smiled pleasantly at the detectives, but there was something hollow about her expression. People don't expect their children to die first, thought Eames, ruefully.

Bobby sat on the sofa next to Mrs. Roth, but at a respectful distance. He looked around at her home. It was small, but neat, with landscape prints (Eames will like those, he thought) and a lot of potted plants.

"We're very sorry about Carl, Mrs. Roth," said Goren. Eames was always grateful when he took the lead with grieving parents. "Had he been worried about anything lately?"

"I don't think so. I thought that he was mugged. Do you think this was deliberate?" Eames stepped in; this wasn't a woman who missed things.

"We're still in the early stages of the investigation, Mrs. Roth. We just have to gather as much information as possible."

"Well, Carl didn't say that anything was bothering him. He did seem a little preoccupied. He didn't really say why. He was always a bit closed about his private life, and he was always so studious as a boy, not one of the popular ones. I tried to be as supportive as I could of his interests, but I also tried to have him invite his friends over, so that he could connect. I think, though, that his relationships with people drained him a little"

Goren continued, "So he didn't have a girlfriend?"

"Not that I know of. I had always hoped he'd find someone who could really appreciate him. Now I wish he had. If he was only to be given a few years, why shouldn't they have been good ones."

"Carl deserved better."

"He did. He was truly a fine son, never any trouble, even as a teenager. He took me to dinner once a week, and whenever there was a plumbing issue or something with the house, he always came as soon as he could. I always felt very lucky to have him."

Eames looked over at Goren. He had a kind of faraway look in his eyes. She wondered if it was like this for him every time. Maybe it was. You'd think, though, that after all of those years, he might have lowered his expectations, the way she had with those guys she had dated over the last few years.

Goren shook his head slightly and looked intently at Mrs. Roth. Here was a woman who had loved her son, accepted him, and had probably found a way to let him know that. He couldn't help the wistful feelings that he got whenever he met these functional, doting parents, people whose expectations for their children were always met because they were so reasonable. He wondered what such feelings said about him. The professional psychology literature on children from abusive or dysfunctional homes was pretty clear. The ones who made it out, made something of themselves, didn't repeat the patterns, they were generally able to detach, to see the parents' random acts of violence for what they were: a sickness. The kids who continued to seek their parents' approval, they were the ones who repeated the patterns, who ended up in jail. So had he detached? Enough to go into the army, to find another way of life besides the endless cycling of each of his family members' pathologies, to put his mother in a place where they understood her better than he did. But still, hadn't he continued to try to win their approval?

Mrs. Roth smiled at him, looking back and forth from him to Eames with a flustered expression.

"Detectives, I thought… Carl…in the park…the other officers made it sound like a robbery or a random attack. If it wasn't, was Carl…had he gotten himself…was he mixed up in something…inappropriate?

Eames lowered her eyes. Mrs. Roth had this image of the perfect son. She had already lost the son, and it would be almost too much to lose that image too. The memories of the good times, Eames knew, were the things you cling to in the dark times. She cleared her throat.

"I wouldn't worry too much just yet, Mrs. Roth. There are a lot of reasons why a person can be in the in the wrong place at the wrong time."

As they walked out, he said

"That was good, what you said to Mrs Roth."

"Great, if it turns out to be true. And our only lead apparently doesn't exist."

"Well, if we get a description from Albert Gow, maybe we can find her at the building ourselves."

"Something tells me our curator is going to do very well with a sketch artist."