Author's note: For some reason, I had a lot of difficulty with this chapter. Which is strange, because the angst-factor is low; it's mainly just procedural crime scene stuff. But, I guess there's no accounting for writer's block.
Chapter 7
Standing on the porch of the Hudson's home with Grissom mutely beside me, I gaze out absentmindedly across the perfectly manicured lawn, idly noting that the crowd of morbidly curious onlookers has not diminished significantly.
A few silent minutes tick by before Grissom asks, staring at me with that penetrating intensity of his, "What are you thinking?"
Prevaricating, I reply, "Well, the attacker obviously was familiar with the house. He knew where he was going. Unplugging the nightlight. Not waking the daughter. I'm curious about the wife though, how she wasn't wakened—"
Appearing from the rear of the house, Greg bounds onto the porch, and into the conversation: "This family's a white picket fence and a cocker spaniel shy of a Norman Rockwell painting."
"Well, it seems that Scooby Doo and his fence weren't the only things missing from the Hudson family portrait," Brass sardonically retorts, following Greg at a more sedate pace. "Apparently, fidelity was omitted from their wedding vows."
"His or hers?" comes Grissom's immediate query.
"Both. Evidently, they were equal opportunity adulterers," quips Brass. "Hubby fished from the company pier, while the missus frequented the community pool."
"Was she 'swimming' last night?" Grissom sharply asks.
"Yep," Brass tersely replies. "Two blocks over and one house down. A Mr. Michael Reston."
"Well," I dryly observe, "That explains how she 'slept' through her husband's murder."
Switching topics with his usual ambiguous continuity, Grissom inquires, "Greg, did you find anything on the perimeter?"
Greg circuitously responds, "They're the leading cause of cancer in the United States, highly addictive, and the 'cool kids' take 'em out to the bleachers during recess."
Apparently, Greg's time spent in the DNA lab this evening resurrected his old habit of speaking in riddles.
"Cigarettes?" I compute from his clues.
"A half-smoked butt, in the bushes out back," Greg grins pleasedly. "Also pulled a partial off of the sliding glass-door."
"Well, considering that this house looks as if Good Housekeeping is expected at any moment," Brass comments, "There's a good chance that a smudged window wouldn't survive ten minutes, let alone ten hours, under Suzie Homemaker's watchful eye."
We all silently acknowledge our potentially good fortune of a DNA-fingerprint evidence combo, before Grissom asks, "Anything else to report, Greg?"
"No visible signs of forced entry, to either the front or back doors, or to the garage. Two vehicles parked inside, both engines cool when we arrived on the scene."
"With only a two-block commute to her romantic rendezvous, it's no surprise that she would walk," I observe. "More discrete."
"Especially with Nebby Neighbor Ned's hawk-like eyes tracking the entire community's every move," Brass says. "Our 'Chatty Cathy,'" he clarifies, at the trio of confused expressions facing him. "'Mr. I-know-everything-about-everyone.' Ned Barnes. And," sounding somewhat astounded, "he really does."
"Is there a 'for instance' to be had?" Grissom impatiently inquires.
"For instance," Brass obliges, referring to his note-pad, "Mr. 2182 North Franklin Lane was audited by the IRS last year. And Ms. 1708 West Eddington Drive is one late payment away from having her car repossessed."
"That's fascinating, Jim," is Grissom's acerbic response. "Anything actually relevant to the case?"
"Oh. You weren't interested in the financial disclosures of the entire Pendleton community? Sorry," Brass says, blatantly unrepentant. "Regarding our vic and his devoted wife – The madam had extra-curricular playdates every Monday and Thursday evening. The monsieur went out to play on Wednesdays and Saturdays."
"So, they had an established routine," I reflect. "Indicating that the attacker was familiar with their comings and goings."
A brief silence ensues before Grissom, consulting his watch, observes, "There's only an hour of shift left. And the two of you," glaring exasperatedly at Greg and me, "Are already tipping the scales of your overtime quotas. I refuse to be subjected to the banalities of another HR lecture on employee guidelines and timesheets. So, Greg, take the evidence back to the lab, start running the samples. And clock out at 8 o'clock. No excuses. No exceptions."
Turning to me, Grissom continues, "Sara, process the daughter. If she got blood evidence on her—"
At this, Brass clears his throat self-consciously. "Actually…"
Upon Grissom's sharp glance, he contritely explains, "Patrol… took the mother and the daughter to Desert Palms, for sedation and stitches, respectively." Holding his hands out in a defensive gesture, he continues, "Don't worry. I left a uniform with each of them, with strict orders not to dispose of any potential evidence."
Grissom huffs at Brass in aggravation, before sliding his gaze to me. Smirking slightly in understanding, I say, "Right. I'm off to the hospital then."
Hefting my kit over to the parked GMCs, I transfer all of my sealed evidence bags into the rear of the vehicle. Tossing the keys over to Greg, I say, "Looks like you graduated to the driver's seat today, Greg. I'll grab a ride to the hospital from patrol."
Suddenly remembering the elaborate security gate at the entrance to Pendleton Heights, I call out, loudly enough for Grissom and Brass to hear, "Hey guys? With the gated-entry system to the community, we should be able to monitor any incoming and outgoing vehicles around the time-window for the murder." I speculate, "So, if the suspect is an outsider…"
"I guess I'll be stopping by the guardhouse, on my way to the lab," Greg reluctantly accedes, with an exaggeratedly-aggrieved sigh.
"Excellent initiative, Greg," Grissom praises, without a trace of artifice. "Pick up the visitor logs. And check for any video cameras."
"Uh huh," Greg waves his hand in acknowledgement, as he trudges morosely to the GMC.
I flag down Jenkins, one of the patrol officers, and explain my need for a chauffeur to Desert Palms. Bending over to pick up my kit, my movement is aborted when a voice calls from behind me:
"You're going to see Mandy?"
Turning, I see a slightly stocky man. Forty, maybe forty-three, I mentally gauge his age. Based on his rumpled appearance, I suspect that he grabbed the nearest available clothing this morning – well-worn jeans, his shirt buttoned but only half-tucked in and with the collar askew. And still wearing slippers.
I tilt an eyebrow in inquiry.
"Aaron Mitchell," he introduces himself. "We live next door," gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb. "Did you say you're going to the hospital, that you'll see Mandy?" he repeats his earlier question. "It's just – I have something of hers. She dropped it… earlier, in all the… chaos. And I know she'd really want to have it."
"What is it?"
"A wishing stone." At my confused expression, he clarifies, "It's supposed to bring good luck, when you rub it. She brought it back from Ireland last year, never goes anywhere without it. So, could you just… make sure she gets it?" thrusting a small stone, dangling from a short strand of rawhide, toward me.
I automatically fish out an evidence envelope from my vest, indicating for him to deposit the object inside.
"I found her… this morning. Sittin', on the curb of their driveway, by the garage. Soaked to the skin, the poor little darling," shaking his head mournfully. "The lawn sprinklers are programmed to go off every morning, around 3:30," he says in explanation. "I get up at 4, and always grab the 'paper first thing. Which is when I found her. Sittin' there, shivering, cradling her hand, which she'd cut on something. I went in, saw the blood on the stairs, and woke up Theresa. And that's when she found Denny. She was totally incoherent, and that's when I called you guys."
Thanking Mr. Mitchell for his assistance, I record his contact information and assure him that Mandy will get her wishing stone, just as soon as possible.
On the verge of escape, I'm waylaid one again. This time, by Brass' Chatty Cathy. I momentarily debate pretending to ignore his frantic gesticulations, but, if he truly is as knowledgeable as Brass claims, then he may have valuable information to impart. Intermixed, of course, amongst a bundle of pompous displays of importance. I really don't have the patience for Napoleonic posturing right now.
Releasing a long-suffering sigh, I apologize once more to Jenkins for postponing my taxi-ride to the hospital, and approach the elderly man.
"Ned Barnes," he introduces himself. And I instinctively sense that he is the switchboard operator of the neighborhood rumor-mill, inputting and processing every byte of information, controlling the ebb and flow of scandal like a stockbroker, trading secrets and bartering rumors like currency, monitoring the export of gossip.
Glancing around surreptitiously, he begins, "An unspeakable tragedy. The Hudsons always were the perfect, all-American family. Fine upright folks. Untouched by hardship. 'Til young Tyler's unfortunate accident. Things never were right after that. Denny blamed Theresa, she blamed Mandy, and poor Mandy just tried to hang on. Oh, superficially, nothing changed. They still attended all of the neighborhood barbeques, still active in the PTA. But, the marriage never recovered from Ty's death." Dropping his voice to a whisper, he continues, "They… sought other recourse," with a wink and a nudge, "if you get what I mean."
Offering him only a tight-lipped smile, all I say is, "Tell me about Tyler."
The transformation is almost palpable, as Barnes switches roles from yenta to storyteller, openly pleased to assume the mantle of the latter. And, I observe with some trepidation, inordinately smug at the prospect of a captive audience.
"Such a tragic tale," he begins, shaking his head remorsefully in the universal gesture of commiseration. "Tyler… was their son, and had just celebrated his third birthday. The whole neighborhood attended his party…
"One week later, we attended his funeral."
I shift restlessly, subtly readjusting my weight. But evidently, Mr. Barnes views storytelling as an art, and will not be hurried.
"It was a year-and-a-half ago. One of those pristine autumn desert days – crisp, but not cold; the sky a canvas of pure azure; the sun a golden pendant dangling from the heavens."
And, unwittingly, I find myself nodding in comprehension, his words weaving an arachnid's web, ensnaring me in the past. Idly, I wonder how Brass broke free.
"It was mid-week, in the middle of the day. Back then, Theresa wasn't working; she stayed at home with Mandy and Ty.
"That day, Mandy was home from school – nothing serious, just a light cold. But, she'd been coughing for several days, so Theresa and Denny decided to let her stay home and rest."
At this point in his narration, Barnes glances at me, clearly seeking confirmation that I am engrossed in his tale. I nod obligingly. Apparently satisfied with this gesture, he continues, "It was such a trifling, little thing. It often is, I suppose…
"They had run out of cough medication. Theresa was going to run down to the store, to pick up a bottle. A five-minute errand. Out and back. She told Mandy to keep an eye on her brother – Mrs. Mitchell was home next door, and Pendleton is the safest community in the country."
Pausing here, the still-mingling patrol officers obviously recollecting the events of this morning, Barnes amends, "Well, it was…
"Anyway, she was only going to dash out, just for a minute. Ty was asleep, down for his mid-day nap; Mandy was curled on the couch, absorbed by cartoons on the television. It was supposed to be so simple. But everything went so horribly wrong."
My stomach twists uncomfortably in anticipation.
"Theresa got in her car, opened the garage door, backed up into the driveway.
"Ty was supposed to be asleep…
"But, somehow, he'd gotten outside. Playing with his brand-new tricycle, a birthday present. Theresa and Denny had emphasized to him that he was never to ride in the street, only on the sidewalks and in their driveway. And, being a respectful and obedient child, he listened. That day, he was happily riding up and down, 'round and 'round in front of the Hudson's house.
"Ty was supposed to be asleep," Barnes repeats. "So, when Theresa backed the car out of the garage, she didn't even check the rearview mirror."
Silence.
"The sirens of the ambulance alerted me that something was wrong. That the peaceful tranquility of our little community was irreparably shattered.
"I found Theresa, in their driveway, with little Ty in her arms."
And, in my mind, I can see the broken body of the toddler, cradled in his mother's embrace. The battered tricycle, its crumpled and twisted frame forgotten. Abandoned. Rocking gently, back and forth.
"Mandy rushed out of the house, just then. Over to her mother. Reaching out to her brother. But Theresa roughly shoved her away. Not being deliberately cruel, just… in shock. It was a forceful push to Mandy's shoulder. She stumbled, fell. Skinned her knee.
"That was the last time I ever saw Theresa touch her daughter."
And this statement, more than any other, assaults my soul. Remembering my impression of earlier. Of Mandy, cloaking herself from the world. Shielding herself. Hiding. From touch.
I somehow manage to thank Mr. Barnes, for the information, before stumbling blindly to Jenkins' patrol car, tears burning my eyes, burning my soul. Traveling to the hospital, I am unable to escape the mental image of Mandy, clutching the blanket around her fragile frame. And the emptiness of her eyes.
A/N: So, I'm not overly happy with this chapter. Nothing specific, just some vague, indefinable dissatisfaction. I guess I just prefer writing the emotion and angsty-stuff to dialogue. But hopefully, it's still reasonably realistic and in-character, and still worth reading! Comments welcome!