Dead Boyfriends by David Housewright

bedroom made up for a young child on the downstairs level. Just one photo had been taken of the room, Photo #96. The narrative said simply:
This bedroom is referred to as a child’s bedroom in my previous report.
    The room was well cared for. There was no dirt or stains of any kind, only surface dust. It contained one bed, made up with a bedspread featuring characters from a Disney film. The bed was in the corner. Above it, a net was strung from wall to wall, supporting dozens of stuffed animals of every shape and kind. Across from the bed was a white wood dresser. The drawers were empty. I found half a dozen dolls on top of the dresser, along with three photographs of a girl I judged tobe eight or nine years old. The girl was dressed all in white and standing next to a tree in one photograph, sitting in a chair holding a teddy bear in the second, and standing on a diving board, her arms stretched toward heaven, in the third. There were no names or dates written on the photographs. A fourth photograph framed in silver hung from the bedroom wall next to the door. It featured a truly beautiful young woman with chocolate-colored eyes and auburn hair, holding an infant. The young woman was about sixteen. Someone had written across the bottom left corner of the photograph:
    The two of us forever.
    Â 
    â€œYou wouldn’t think something like this could happen here,” the woman said.
    It seemed to be a recurring theme among the neighbors I had interviewed up and down the street where Merodie Davies lived.
    I had started my canvass shortly after Officer Baumbach, having satisfied himself that I hadn’t swiped Merodie’s silverware, drove away. The stay-at-home moms were still out in force. They all seemed a little bit frightened for their children and for themselves. Out in the far suburbs, they figured they were safe—isolated from “big-city” violent crime. I couldn’t imagine why they felt that way. After all, Anoka was a twenty-five-minute drive from downtown Minneapolis, and the bad guys have cars, too.
    I didn’t want to quote crime statistics, though. I wanted to talk about Merodie Davies. Unfortunately, most of the neighbors hadn’t even known her name until she was arrested. They saw her coming and going, and for a while it seemed the cops were camped on her doorstep every other night, but during the last year or so, they weren’t even sure Merodie still lived there. The mother of four across the street was convinced that Merodie had moved out. Only the neighbor living next doorto Merodie had a story to tell. She was home, nursing a broken ankle that kept her from her job.
    â€œI broke it yesterday falling off a curb, do you believe it? I fell off a curb.”
    â€œSorry to hear that,” I said.
    â€œNot as sorry as I am.”
    The woman ushered me into her overfurnished living room.
    â€œBeen living here long?” I asked.
    â€œTwo years. Moved in right before I divorced my husband, the prick. God, it’s warm.”
    â€œI think the word is hot.”
    â€œI think the word is sweltering. Would you like something to drink? Pepsi? Beer?”
    I declined.
    â€œYou sure? It’s cold.”
    In Minnesota, it’s considered impolite to accept food or beverage until it’s offered at least three times, but I was thirsty.
    â€œPepsi,” I said.
    The woman said, “I’m going to have a beer.”
    â€œWell, in that case . . . ”
    Her name was Mollie Pratt, and she served Grain Belt Premium, brewed in New Ulm. It went down smooth, and I had to keep myself from gulping it.
    â€œYeah,” said Mollie, “I moved in two years ago next week. Paid for the house out of my settlement. I had married poorly, but I divorced real well. Anyway, at first I wondered what I was getting into, all the cops and such.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThat first year, seemed like the Anoka cops practically lived next door.