want to help her more. “It really isn’t like on TV. They don’t just press a button marked Poison and the answer comes out. They have to test for all kinds of things.”
She protested, “I know that already.”
“And they get backed up. There are some larger jurisdictions that have literally thousands of DNA samples waiting for analysis. Even here in Tucson they prioritize. And the medical examiner felt one hundred percent this was an accident.”
“I can pay you,” she said. “I have my own account that Tim gives me.”
I said that wasn’t the point, but if she insisted on hiring me I charged one hundred and fifty dollars per hour with a five-hundred-dollar retainer. For that I would do some preliminaries, make sure that the investigation had been thorough, make a list of people who should have been interviewed, and let her know if I discovered anything. I asked her about whether she had found a support group, but she ignored me on that point, too.
Jacquie left the room and came back with a check for a thousand dollars and a more recent picture she had of the three of them, full size rather than portrait. Joe was slight, and in this picture dark like Jacquie, hair nearly the same length and color. No similarity to his stepfather, of course; Tim’s contrasting paleness made him look something like a ghost in the background. Joe was toasting the camera with a plastic water bottle, and one of those smiles that people call ironic. His eyes squinted in the bright sun. He stood between his parents with his arm around his mother, a line of light between himself and his stepfather. “A handsome young man,” I said.
“It was about five months before he died,” she said. “We had just dropped him off for a youth group hike in Sabino Canyon, when the weather was still nice. The pictures were posted on the St. Martin’s Facebook page. I printed it.”
“Is the lighting different? His hair looks so much darker here than in the younger pictures you showed me. I would have guessed he was a blond, but sometimes that happens as children age.”
Jacquie looked at it fondly. “No, he had just done his hair the same color as mine. It was a funny Mother’s Day present. So people could see he was proud we were mother and son.”
God forbid someone should mistake him for his stepfather’s child, I thought, but said, “Is his biological father fair?”
Jacquie nodded, looking a little sadder, but still staring at the photo.
I said, “You don’t mind parting with this one?”
She shook her head no.
We spent some more time talking about all the details she knew of Joe Neilsen’s life, whether he got good grades, whether he was the sort of kid to get into trouble, again whether he had any friends—male or female—part-time job, credit card accounts, a learner’s permit. The answer to everything was a listless no. “We tried to get him involved with different things, like with the youth group at St. Martin’s, but he was more of a solitary boy. Wasn’t very interested in things outside the house.”
“How comfortable were you and he with his sexual orientation?” I asked.
“The Manwarings told you,” Jacquie stated with a frown. “I could tell when you didn’t react to what I said to Tim. It could have just been a phase, you know? Experimental, right? He could have been wrong.”
Noting to myself that she hadn’t answered my question, I put an information form on the coffee table for her to fill out when she had a chance to look up some numbers and maybe remember other facts. I could spend a lot of time on this, but there were ways to prioritize the fact-finding, too. “Who did the death investigation?” I said. “Metro?”
“Do you mean the police? I have a card he gave me. But I only saw him once. He really didn’t do anything. There was no investigation.” Jacquie had it ready, having assumed I would want it. I looked at the card. Sam Humphries.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said. I would
She protested, “I know that already.”
“And they get backed up. There are some larger jurisdictions that have literally thousands of DNA samples waiting for analysis. Even here in Tucson they prioritize. And the medical examiner felt one hundred percent this was an accident.”
“I can pay you,” she said. “I have my own account that Tim gives me.”
I said that wasn’t the point, but if she insisted on hiring me I charged one hundred and fifty dollars per hour with a five-hundred-dollar retainer. For that I would do some preliminaries, make sure that the investigation had been thorough, make a list of people who should have been interviewed, and let her know if I discovered anything. I asked her about whether she had found a support group, but she ignored me on that point, too.
Jacquie left the room and came back with a check for a thousand dollars and a more recent picture she had of the three of them, full size rather than portrait. Joe was slight, and in this picture dark like Jacquie, hair nearly the same length and color. No similarity to his stepfather, of course; Tim’s contrasting paleness made him look something like a ghost in the background. Joe was toasting the camera with a plastic water bottle, and one of those smiles that people call ironic. His eyes squinted in the bright sun. He stood between his parents with his arm around his mother, a line of light between himself and his stepfather. “A handsome young man,” I said.
“It was about five months before he died,” she said. “We had just dropped him off for a youth group hike in Sabino Canyon, when the weather was still nice. The pictures were posted on the St. Martin’s Facebook page. I printed it.”
“Is the lighting different? His hair looks so much darker here than in the younger pictures you showed me. I would have guessed he was a blond, but sometimes that happens as children age.”
Jacquie looked at it fondly. “No, he had just done his hair the same color as mine. It was a funny Mother’s Day present. So people could see he was proud we were mother and son.”
God forbid someone should mistake him for his stepfather’s child, I thought, but said, “Is his biological father fair?”
Jacquie nodded, looking a little sadder, but still staring at the photo.
I said, “You don’t mind parting with this one?”
She shook her head no.
We spent some more time talking about all the details she knew of Joe Neilsen’s life, whether he got good grades, whether he was the sort of kid to get into trouble, again whether he had any friends—male or female—part-time job, credit card accounts, a learner’s permit. The answer to everything was a listless no. “We tried to get him involved with different things, like with the youth group at St. Martin’s, but he was more of a solitary boy. Wasn’t very interested in things outside the house.”
“How comfortable were you and he with his sexual orientation?” I asked.
“The Manwarings told you,” Jacquie stated with a frown. “I could tell when you didn’t react to what I said to Tim. It could have just been a phase, you know? Experimental, right? He could have been wrong.”
Noting to myself that she hadn’t answered my question, I put an information form on the coffee table for her to fill out when she had a chance to look up some numbers and maybe remember other facts. I could spend a lot of time on this, but there were ways to prioritize the fact-finding, too. “Who did the death investigation?” I said. “Metro?”
“Do you mean the police? I have a card he gave me. But I only saw him once. He really didn’t do anything. There was no investigation.” Jacquie had it ready, having assumed I would want it. I looked at the card. Sam Humphries.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said. I would
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