find out if George Manriquez was right about Humphries being thorough. “The ME said there was no autopsy performed.”
“Not … a whole one. Tim said it wasn’t necessary, and he said the medical examiner agreed.” Jacquie rubbed her face hard with both hands. “His body was removed, pronounced dead. Funeral at St. Martin’s. That was the last time I was there. It all went so fast it’s hard to remember what actually happened. It’s as if…”
“You haven’t yet been able to feel that Joe is actually gone,” I finished for her, going into my head where there were other times, other parents.
Jacquie opened her mouth and blew out all her air in one rush, my words punching her in the gut. I regretted them, but there was nothing I could do to soften the moment. She nodded. “He’s in his room,” she whispered, as if he could hear us talking.
“Would you be able to show me?”
Jacquie stood up, and I followed her for another walk, this time up a curving stairway that started in the living room, down a long hallway. It was one of those spaces littered with framed photographs, but I locked in on one of them. It was of all the Neilsens, costumed as the Marx Brothers. They had let Joe be Groucho, a diminutive boy with the glasses, nose, and mustache. He even had a cigar. Tim was Chico, an embarrassed smile, a brown wig under that funny coned cap. And Jacquie as Harpo, in a blond curly wig and openmouthed grin, pretending to blast a bicycle horn in Joey’s ear. That was all it took to see why Tim loved, or had once loved, her.
We kept on to a closed door. Jacquie forced herself to open it, revealing a typical boy’s bedroom done up in brown and forest green. Lots of electronics; I couldn’t tell whether Joe was particularly spoiled or this was just what young people’s rooms looked like these days.
From beneath the corduroy bedspread a sheet peeked that had cowboy boots with spurs on it. Either Jacquie was still buying sheets with cowboys for a fourteen-year-old, or she was thrifty and the sheets were so good they’d never worn out. At any rate, it was all nicely masculine. I stepped inside and looked around, trying to notice details that others might have missed. The only detail I could see was that there were none. Someone had cleaned well. I bet I wouldn’t even find a candy wrapper under the bed.
I turned around, but Jacquie hadn’t followed. She stood at the door of the bedroom and tentatively pointed with a limp index finger at the adjoining bathroom doorway.
“Did the investigator go through this area of the house? Look for missing towels that might have been used to clean up water?”
Jacquie shook her head. “He came up here. I don’t remember much. I was sitting on the couch downstairs.”
So whatever she told me just now was useless. I walked into the bathroom. It was done in that dark stone tiling that hides the dirt but not the calcium buildup from the hard water. No towels hung on the towel rods, and no half-used soap rested on the sink. The sturdy frame over the door to the shower would have made a fine place for a strangling. I opened the glass door, reached up overhead to grasp the frame with both hands, and let my body sag. That was the only thing I touched. Yes, a fine place for a strangling. If I was going to commit suicide I’d do it here, with some pills, not drown myself.
The quiet was so complete, the shower door closed with what felt like a bang. I came back out of the bathroom to find Jacquie still at the bedroom door, her eyes down and to the left, looking at the carpet.
I asked, “Did you see him? After?”
“In the pool, you mean? No, Tim got home first that night.” Jacquie paused, breathed. “I stayed late at my book club.”
“Did Tim call you there?”
“He said he thought I was at the movies and had my cell off. He said he was in shock and wasn’t thinking straight. By the time I got home Joey was already at the morgue. Tim is very efficient that way.
“Not … a whole one. Tim said it wasn’t necessary, and he said the medical examiner agreed.” Jacquie rubbed her face hard with both hands. “His body was removed, pronounced dead. Funeral at St. Martin’s. That was the last time I was there. It all went so fast it’s hard to remember what actually happened. It’s as if…”
“You haven’t yet been able to feel that Joe is actually gone,” I finished for her, going into my head where there were other times, other parents.
Jacquie opened her mouth and blew out all her air in one rush, my words punching her in the gut. I regretted them, but there was nothing I could do to soften the moment. She nodded. “He’s in his room,” she whispered, as if he could hear us talking.
“Would you be able to show me?”
Jacquie stood up, and I followed her for another walk, this time up a curving stairway that started in the living room, down a long hallway. It was one of those spaces littered with framed photographs, but I locked in on one of them. It was of all the Neilsens, costumed as the Marx Brothers. They had let Joe be Groucho, a diminutive boy with the glasses, nose, and mustache. He even had a cigar. Tim was Chico, an embarrassed smile, a brown wig under that funny coned cap. And Jacquie as Harpo, in a blond curly wig and openmouthed grin, pretending to blast a bicycle horn in Joey’s ear. That was all it took to see why Tim loved, or had once loved, her.
We kept on to a closed door. Jacquie forced herself to open it, revealing a typical boy’s bedroom done up in brown and forest green. Lots of electronics; I couldn’t tell whether Joe was particularly spoiled or this was just what young people’s rooms looked like these days.
From beneath the corduroy bedspread a sheet peeked that had cowboy boots with spurs on it. Either Jacquie was still buying sheets with cowboys for a fourteen-year-old, or she was thrifty and the sheets were so good they’d never worn out. At any rate, it was all nicely masculine. I stepped inside and looked around, trying to notice details that others might have missed. The only detail I could see was that there were none. Someone had cleaned well. I bet I wouldn’t even find a candy wrapper under the bed.
I turned around, but Jacquie hadn’t followed. She stood at the door of the bedroom and tentatively pointed with a limp index finger at the adjoining bathroom doorway.
“Did the investigator go through this area of the house? Look for missing towels that might have been used to clean up water?”
Jacquie shook her head. “He came up here. I don’t remember much. I was sitting on the couch downstairs.”
So whatever she told me just now was useless. I walked into the bathroom. It was done in that dark stone tiling that hides the dirt but not the calcium buildup from the hard water. No towels hung on the towel rods, and no half-used soap rested on the sink. The sturdy frame over the door to the shower would have made a fine place for a strangling. I opened the glass door, reached up overhead to grasp the frame with both hands, and let my body sag. That was the only thing I touched. Yes, a fine place for a strangling. If I was going to commit suicide I’d do it here, with some pills, not drown myself.
The quiet was so complete, the shower door closed with what felt like a bang. I came back out of the bathroom to find Jacquie still at the bedroom door, her eyes down and to the left, looking at the carpet.
I asked, “Did you see him? After?”
“In the pool, you mean? No, Tim got home first that night.” Jacquie paused, breathed. “I stayed late at my book club.”
“Did Tim call you there?”
“He said he thought I was at the movies and had my cell off. He said he was in shock and wasn’t thinking straight. By the time I got home Joey was already at the morgue. Tim is very efficient that way.
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