Byrne's gloves coming off. He pulled out his notebook, flipped a few
pages. 'What's your first name, ma'am?'
Pause.
'Sharon.'
'Is
your husband Kenneth Arnold Beckman?'
The
woman snorted. 'Husband? That's one way of putting it.'
'Are
you married to him, ma'am?'
The
woman took a long drag on her cigarette. Jessica noted that the nicotine stains
on her fingers reached down to her knuckles. She blew out the smoke, and with
it her answer. 'Barely.'
'When
was the last time you saw him?'
'Why?'
'Right
now I just need you to answer the question, ma'am. I'll explain why in a
moment.'
Another
drag. Jessica estimated that, if they were going to get through the basic
questions at this pace, Sharon Beckman would go through a pack and a half.
'Yesterday afternoon.'
'About
what time?'
Another
sigh. 'About three o'clock.'
'And
where was this?'
'It
was at the MGM Grand in Vegas. I'm a dancer there.'
Byrne
stared, the woman stared. She rolled her eyes.
'It
was right about where you're standing,' she said. 'I think he said something
like "Clean the kitchen, you lazy fucking bitch." Real Hallmark
moment.'
The
wind picked up again, blowing a thin cold rain across the porch. Byrne moved a
few feet to his right, making sure that Sharon Beckman caught the rain directly
in her face.
'Was
he alone at the time?'
'Yeah,'
Sharon Beckman said, stepping back a foot. 'For once.'
'And
he did not come home last night?'
The
woman snorted. 'Why break with tradition?'
Byrne
pressed on. 'Does anyone else live here?'
'Just
my son.'
My son, Jessica thought. Not our son.
'How
old is he?'
The
woman smiled. Her teeth were the same color as her tobacco- stained knuckles.
'Why, officer. That would be giving away my age.' When Byrne didn't respond,
didn't budge, didn't seem to be weak- kneed by the woman's coquettish charms,
she repositioned her scowl, hit her cigarette again, and said, 'He's nineteen.
I had him when I was six.'
Byrne
made the note. He then asked her what the kid's name was. She told him. Jason
Crandall.
'Where
does your husband work?'
'Hey .
You writing a fucking book here? My autobiography, maybe?'
'Ma'am,
we're just trying to—'
'No. What
you need to do is tell me what this is about or we're done here. I know my
rights.'
Jessica
knew the notification was coming, so she watched the woman's face as she took
in the news. You could tell a lot from the initial reaction to the news that a
loved one has been killed. Or even one not so loved.
'Mrs.
Beckman, your husband was murdered yesterday.'
The
woman drew a sharp intake of breath, but other than that betrayed nothing.
Except, perhaps, for a slight shake in her hands, which deposited a long
cigarette ash on the floor. She stared out at the street for a moment, turned
back. 'How did he get it?'
Get
it, Jessica thought. Most people said 'What?' or 'Oh my God' or 'No!' or
something like that. How did he get it ? No, not too many people ask how
the deceased became deceased. That usually came a bit later in the
conversation.
'May
we come in, ma'am?' Byrne said. 'It's getting a little nasty out here.'
The
news had undone the woman's resolve, as well as her animosity. Without saying a
word, she opened the door and stepped to the side.
They
entered the house, a standard porchfront-style row house, large by Philly
standards, probably measuring around 1500 square feet on three floors. It was
quickly degenerating, already long past its sell- by date.
The
living room was directly to the left, with a hallway leading to a kitchen and a
stairway at the back of the house. The walls were painted a cheerless, faded
baby blue. The furniture was worn, mismatched, spring-shocked. A
pages. 'What's your first name, ma'am?'
Pause.
'Sharon.'
'Is
your husband Kenneth Arnold Beckman?'
The
woman snorted. 'Husband? That's one way of putting it.'
'Are
you married to him, ma'am?'
The
woman took a long drag on her cigarette. Jessica noted that the nicotine stains
on her fingers reached down to her knuckles. She blew out the smoke, and with
it her answer. 'Barely.'
'When
was the last time you saw him?'
'Why?'
'Right
now I just need you to answer the question, ma'am. I'll explain why in a
moment.'
Another
drag. Jessica estimated that, if they were going to get through the basic
questions at this pace, Sharon Beckman would go through a pack and a half.
'Yesterday afternoon.'
'About
what time?'
Another
sigh. 'About three o'clock.'
'And
where was this?'
'It
was at the MGM Grand in Vegas. I'm a dancer there.'
Byrne
stared, the woman stared. She rolled her eyes.
'It
was right about where you're standing,' she said. 'I think he said something
like "Clean the kitchen, you lazy fucking bitch." Real Hallmark
moment.'
The
wind picked up again, blowing a thin cold rain across the porch. Byrne moved a
few feet to his right, making sure that Sharon Beckman caught the rain directly
in her face.
'Was
he alone at the time?'
'Yeah,'
Sharon Beckman said, stepping back a foot. 'For once.'
'And
he did not come home last night?'
The
woman snorted. 'Why break with tradition?'
Byrne
pressed on. 'Does anyone else live here?'
'Just
my son.'
My son, Jessica thought. Not our son.
'How
old is he?'
The
woman smiled. Her teeth were the same color as her tobacco- stained knuckles.
'Why, officer. That would be giving away my age.' When Byrne didn't respond,
didn't budge, didn't seem to be weak- kneed by the woman's coquettish charms,
she repositioned her scowl, hit her cigarette again, and said, 'He's nineteen.
I had him when I was six.'
Byrne
made the note. He then asked her what the kid's name was. She told him. Jason
Crandall.
'Where
does your husband work?'
'Hey .
You writing a fucking book here? My autobiography, maybe?'
'Ma'am,
we're just trying to—'
'No. What
you need to do is tell me what this is about or we're done here. I know my
rights.'
Jessica
knew the notification was coming, so she watched the woman's face as she took
in the news. You could tell a lot from the initial reaction to the news that a
loved one has been killed. Or even one not so loved.
'Mrs.
Beckman, your husband was murdered yesterday.'
The
woman drew a sharp intake of breath, but other than that betrayed nothing.
Except, perhaps, for a slight shake in her hands, which deposited a long
cigarette ash on the floor. She stared out at the street for a moment, turned
back. 'How did he get it?'
Get
it, Jessica thought. Most people said 'What?' or 'Oh my God' or 'No!' or
something like that. How did he get it ? No, not too many people ask how
the deceased became deceased. That usually came a bit later in the
conversation.
'May
we come in, ma'am?' Byrne said. 'It's getting a little nasty out here.'
The
news had undone the woman's resolve, as well as her animosity. Without saying a
word, she opened the door and stepped to the side.
They
entered the house, a standard porchfront-style row house, large by Philly
standards, probably measuring around 1500 square feet on three floors. It was
quickly degenerating, already long past its sell- by date.
The
living room was directly to the left, with a hallway leading to a kitchen and a
stairway at the back of the house. The walls were painted a cheerless, faded
baby blue. The furniture was worn, mismatched, spring-shocked. A
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