Separation Anxiety
Chapter Seven
(Exterior, night, shabby row homes in a poor neighborhood. Coroner's van and police vehicles are parked along the street.)
Finn strode up the sidewalk swinging her kit, Morgan trailing behind. Captain Brass met them at the front porch with his notebook in hand.
"Sorry for the wait, Captain. What's going on here?" Finn asked.
"This is one sad case. The family has five kids and four of them are disabled. One deaf, one on life support, two with severe developmental disorders. One little girl that's healthy. There's a nine year old boy upstairs lying dead in his bed. That's the mother over there talking to the neighbors. Denise Tucco. The father has been taken into custody."
"Do we think he killed the boy?"
"Not exactly. Jamie Tucco claims he found his son Jamie Jr, dead, and…well, he didn't tell anyone. Not even the mother. For 4 days. "
"What! Four DAYS? I can smell the decomp from here," Finn exclaimed.
"She thought it was some dead mice in the ceiling. The father bought a lot of mothballs, as if that would cover up the stench."
Morgan made a disgusted noise. "Didn't she ever check on him?"
"Apparently the father takes care of two of them upstairs, and the mom takes care of the three downstairs. Junior didn't go to school or eat with the family as he had 'behavioral issues'. Something called Fragile X Syndrome."
"When did she last see the boy?"
"Says it's been a few years."
"A few YEARS?"
"Why didn't the father tell her?" "Tell her the kid died?" Finn and Morgan said in rapid succession.
"That's the question, right? I intend to ask him that in interrogation. David's upstairs. Maybe he knows more."
"Thanks, Brass."
The CSIs cautiously edged into the dimly lit house. The furniture was shabby but fairly clean. The narrow carpeted stairs creaked as they made their way up two dim flights of stairs, the stabbing lightbeams of flashlights preceding them. The women's faces contorted as they got closer to the source of the vile, sickly-sweet odor of death. They moved along the narrow hallway to the last bedroom.
An open door to their right revealed what looked like a miniature hospital room, with a regulation bed, IVs, monitoring machines, medication, needles, bedpan, but with it unoccupied it seemed particularly creepy. The two CSIs continued on after giving it a look over. In Junior's bedroom, David Phillips stood near the decomposing body taking notes and waving away a multitude of buzzing flies. They greeted each other.
"Do we think suspicious circs, David?"
"At this point, all I can say is there is no sign of trauma or obvious cause of death."
"Clearly neglect, though. I mean, look at this room." Finn swung her flashlight across the filthy bed and floor. "I don't even need to ALS to determine that's urine and feces on the bed, the sheets and the floor. I can smell it. There's even smears on the walls."
Morgan examined the door. "Door locks from the outside and it's worn, so the boy was apparently locked in here. I don't see any food or water. No bottles, no empty plates, no clean clothes. Smells like an Port-a-potty."
"The boy died four days ago, that I can confirm. Lividity is fixed, so he died in bed. We'll know more…"
"In autopsy," Morgan finished for him, smiling.
(Cut to)
(Interrogation Room, LVPD)
A grim-looking broad shouldered 45 year old white man sat one side of the table. His hair was cut very short. Mr Tucco wore an orange prison jumpsuit and his muscles filled it out. Brass burst through the door, clearly agitated. Officer Mitchell followed coolly and calmly, and took up position next to the door to watch the suspect.
"Jamie Tucco, I'm not going to waste my time. For now I'm going to charge you with endangering the welfare of children, concealing the death of a child, and abuse of a corpse. Depending on a tox screen and other tests and the autopsy, your charges could be upgraded to homicide."
Tucco said nothing, staring at the table before him.
"Just a few questions before I throw your sorry ass in jail. What were you thinking? Why is there a dead, decomposing body in your house? Why didn't you tell anyone your son died? Why was he locked in there, without food, without water, without access to a toilet, lying in his own filth?"
"All I want to say is my wife had nothing to do with this. It's all on me. She's innocent. And then I want a lawyer."
"Oh, my, my, how noble," Brass snarled. "What a hero, to stand up for your poor wife. Who stood up for Jamie Junior?"
"I didn't want…"
"You didn't want what?"
"I didn't want the family to be separated."
"Oh good God." Brass collapsed in a chair and rubbed his face. "If that's what you think 'family' is, what being a father, a husband means—you are one stupid son of a bitch. At least your children—the living ones—have just gotten their golden tickets out of hell. You'll never see any of them again. You might see poor wifey at arraignment, but we haven't decided if we're going to charge her too."
"I told you…"
"Yeah, yeah, she's innocent as a lamb. Get this dumb fuck out of here." Brass waved Officer Mitchell over. Mitchell rolled his eyes at the police captain and swung a pair of handcuffs into view. Brass stormed out of the room.
(End Scene)
