report with the 10th Precinct, who were not answering their phones when Gabi had Sparkles calling around to every police station yesterday. Blame it on bureaucratic failures, lack of resources, lack of funding, lack of giving a shit.
They drive up to the house in Ewald Circle with the bad tidings. It’s her and Bob Boyd, who is surprisingly good with grief (he credits the suit), and Sparkles, who is getting a crash course in terrible conversations you never want to have, but will, over and over again.
Gabi has found that small talk works like stepping stones to bridge the shock of the gap between “I’m sorry to inform you that your son has been killed. May we come in?” and the brutality of “I need to ask you some questions.”
The hows that come in between. Skirting around the issue. Using technical terms. “Lateral bisection.” “Possible hunting accident.” “There was a dead animal on the scene.” Testing them to see what they know, how they react, because the parents are suspects too. The paralysis of disbelief that she has to penetrate. The official script only gets you so far.
“Do you have a recent picture of him?” Gabi asks the parents as gently as she can. On the piano, next to a goofy candid shot of the boy peering through the grill of an oversize hockey helmet, and a school portrait, three-quarter profile, looking hopefully to a future he’ll never see, there’s a photograph of Daveyton with the disgraced former mayor, who is now doing jail time.
She picks it up. The kid looks worried by the attention, or maybe by Kwame Kilpatrick’s expression, brow furrowed, mouth open, speechifying. Maybe his kid instincts told him the mayor was a rotten, corrupt thug.
“We were all real proud at the time,” Mrs. Lafonte says, taking the frame out of Gabi’s hands and putting it back on the piano. She readjusts it, angling it just so. “He shook us all by the hand. Didn’t mean so much to Davey, though. He wanted to meet Steve Yzerman. Always loved the Red Wings. Kwame promised he’d set it up. He wanted to play hockey, but all that equipment is expensive.”
“Mayor promised our boy wouldn’t get hurt again,” Mr. Lafonte says. He is sitting bolt upright on a black leather recliner that’s not designed for it.
Mrs. Lafonte makes a strangled bird sound in her chest. She doesn’t seem aware of it, as if her body is something detached from her. Marcus looks down at his shoes, stricken. There’s a dreadful pause.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Daveyton’s mother asks, clutching at social ritual.
“No, thank you.” Jesus, she hates this part of the job. “Do you play?” She indicates the piano.
“Used to,” Mrs. Lafonte says, grateful for the question. “I performed with the Detroit Symphony Orchestra once. But that was before the arthritis. Always hoped Davey would pick it up. But he was more interested in those little fighting critters. What are they called?”
“Pokémon?” Gabi suggests. “My daughter liked those.” Layla was three or four, so they only caught the tail end of it, but she remembers hustling her past the toy aisle. There were so many things they tried to control, her and William. It was easier when Layla was little. When they could simply change the channel on Barney. They had long debates about whether to let her play with Barbie or toy guns, and why there wasn’t a police officer Barbie with a toy gun. But then Layla started developing her own tastes and opinions, and the whole world came rushing in at her, and there was nothing they could do to shield her from it.
“Battle Beasts,” her husband says, dully.
“Battle Beasts! That’s it. You get the toys, but you’re supposed to have a fancy phone that they can interact with, to fight other kids. Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”
“This is too much,” Mr. Lafonte says. “I can’t—”
“The first few days are critical. Why don’t you point Officer Jones to the kitchen,
They drive up to the house in Ewald Circle with the bad tidings. It’s her and Bob Boyd, who is surprisingly good with grief (he credits the suit), and Sparkles, who is getting a crash course in terrible conversations you never want to have, but will, over and over again.
Gabi has found that small talk works like stepping stones to bridge the shock of the gap between “I’m sorry to inform you that your son has been killed. May we come in?” and the brutality of “I need to ask you some questions.”
The hows that come in between. Skirting around the issue. Using technical terms. “Lateral bisection.” “Possible hunting accident.” “There was a dead animal on the scene.” Testing them to see what they know, how they react, because the parents are suspects too. The paralysis of disbelief that she has to penetrate. The official script only gets you so far.
“Do you have a recent picture of him?” Gabi asks the parents as gently as she can. On the piano, next to a goofy candid shot of the boy peering through the grill of an oversize hockey helmet, and a school portrait, three-quarter profile, looking hopefully to a future he’ll never see, there’s a photograph of Daveyton with the disgraced former mayor, who is now doing jail time.
She picks it up. The kid looks worried by the attention, or maybe by Kwame Kilpatrick’s expression, brow furrowed, mouth open, speechifying. Maybe his kid instincts told him the mayor was a rotten, corrupt thug.
“We were all real proud at the time,” Mrs. Lafonte says, taking the frame out of Gabi’s hands and putting it back on the piano. She readjusts it, angling it just so. “He shook us all by the hand. Didn’t mean so much to Davey, though. He wanted to meet Steve Yzerman. Always loved the Red Wings. Kwame promised he’d set it up. He wanted to play hockey, but all that equipment is expensive.”
“Mayor promised our boy wouldn’t get hurt again,” Mr. Lafonte says. He is sitting bolt upright on a black leather recliner that’s not designed for it.
Mrs. Lafonte makes a strangled bird sound in her chest. She doesn’t seem aware of it, as if her body is something detached from her. Marcus looks down at his shoes, stricken. There’s a dreadful pause.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Daveyton’s mother asks, clutching at social ritual.
“No, thank you.” Jesus, she hates this part of the job. “Do you play?” She indicates the piano.
“Used to,” Mrs. Lafonte says, grateful for the question. “I performed with the Detroit Symphony Orchestra once. But that was before the arthritis. Always hoped Davey would pick it up. But he was more interested in those little fighting critters. What are they called?”
“Pokémon?” Gabi suggests. “My daughter liked those.” Layla was three or four, so they only caught the tail end of it, but she remembers hustling her past the toy aisle. There were so many things they tried to control, her and William. It was easier when Layla was little. When they could simply change the channel on Barney. They had long debates about whether to let her play with Barbie or toy guns, and why there wasn’t a police officer Barbie with a toy gun. But then Layla started developing her own tastes and opinions, and the whole world came rushing in at her, and there was nothing they could do to shield her from it.
“Battle Beasts,” her husband says, dully.
“Battle Beasts! That’s it. You get the toys, but you’re supposed to have a fancy phone that they can interact with, to fight other kids. Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”
“This is too much,” Mr. Lafonte says. “I can’t—”
“The first few days are critical. Why don’t you point Officer Jones to the kitchen,
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