half-eaten
Weight Watchers dinner sat on a coffee table, next to an overflowing ashtray.
Cat hair covered nearly every surface. The place smelled like microwave
popcorn.
Sharon
Beckman did not offer them a seat. Jessica would have passed on that offer
anyway.
'Ma'am,'
Byrne said. 'We're here because your husband was a victim of homicide. We're
trying to find out who did this, and bring that person to justice.'
'Yeah?
Well, look in the fucking mirror,' the woman spat.
'I
understand your anger,' Byrne continued. 'But if there's anything you can think
of that might help us, we would really appreciate it.'
The
woman lit another Salem off the first cigarette, held them both for a few
moments, one in each hand.
'Can
you think of anyone who might have had a problem with your husband?' Byrne
asked. 'Someone he owed money to? Someone with whom he had a business problem?'
The
woman took a full five seconds to answer. Maybe she did have something to hide.
'Do I
need a lawyer?' Sharon Beckman asked. She butted out the short cigarette.
'Have
you done anything wrong, Mrs. Beckman?' Byrne asked. It was Cop Speak 101.
Standard across the world when police arrive at the lawyer moment.
'Plenty,'
she said.
Wrong
answer, Jessica thought. The woman was trying to be cute, but she didn't
realize that a picture was being painted, and every stroke mattered.
'Well,
then, I can't answer your question,' Byrne said. 'If you feel the need for
counsel at this time, by all means call your attorney. I can tell you
that you are not suspected of anything. You are a witness, and a very important
witness. All we need to do is ask you a few questions. The more you tell us,
the likelier it will be that we can find the person who did this to your
husband.'
Jessica
made another quick perusal of the room. There were no photographs of the
Beckmans on the mantel over the bricked-in fireplace, no soft-focus wedding day
portraits in tacky gold-painted frames.
'If
you'll just bear with us a little longer,' Byrne continued, 'we'll get the
information we need, and we'll leave you to your thoughts and your
arrangements.'
Sharon
Beckman just stared. Byrne led her through the rest of the standard questions,
giving her the standard assurances. He concluded by asking her if she had a
photograph of her husband.
While
Sharon Beckman was in the hallway, going through a legal- sized cardboard box,
looking for the photograph, the front door opened.
The
kid who entered looked younger than nineteen. Stringy blond hair, surfer cool,
hooded, stoned eyes. When he saw Byrne he must have figured him for a cop, and
he shoved his right hand deep into his baggy shorts. Dope pocket.
'How
ya doin?' the kid mumbled.
'Good,
thanks,' Byrne said. 'Are you Jason?'
The
kid looked up, shocked, like there was no way that Byrne could have possibly
gotten this information. 'Yeah.' Barely audible. The kid leaned back on his
heels, as if that might increase the distance between them. Jessica could smell
the marijuana on his clothes from ten feet away.
'Kenny's
dead,' Sharon Beckman said, walking back into the room, a pair of old snapshots
in her hand. She handed them to Jessica.
Jason
stared at his mother, blinking. It was as if the words hadn't yet reached his
brain. 'Dead?'
'Yeah.
Like in not alive anymore?'
Jessica
looked at the kid. No reaction.
Over
the next few minutes Byrne asked Jason the basic questions, got the expected answers.
Jason said he had not seen his stepfather in more than three days.
'Once
again, we're sorry for your loss,' Byrne said to them both, putting away his
notebook. He dropped a pair of business cards on the cluttered coffee table.
'If you think of anything that might help us, please call.'
They
walked the half-block to the car, adrift
Weight Watchers dinner sat on a coffee table, next to an overflowing ashtray.
Cat hair covered nearly every surface. The place smelled like microwave
popcorn.
Sharon
Beckman did not offer them a seat. Jessica would have passed on that offer
anyway.
'Ma'am,'
Byrne said. 'We're here because your husband was a victim of homicide. We're
trying to find out who did this, and bring that person to justice.'
'Yeah?
Well, look in the fucking mirror,' the woman spat.
'I
understand your anger,' Byrne continued. 'But if there's anything you can think
of that might help us, we would really appreciate it.'
The
woman lit another Salem off the first cigarette, held them both for a few
moments, one in each hand.
'Can
you think of anyone who might have had a problem with your husband?' Byrne
asked. 'Someone he owed money to? Someone with whom he had a business problem?'
The
woman took a full five seconds to answer. Maybe she did have something to hide.
'Do I
need a lawyer?' Sharon Beckman asked. She butted out the short cigarette.
'Have
you done anything wrong, Mrs. Beckman?' Byrne asked. It was Cop Speak 101.
Standard across the world when police arrive at the lawyer moment.
'Plenty,'
she said.
Wrong
answer, Jessica thought. The woman was trying to be cute, but she didn't
realize that a picture was being painted, and every stroke mattered.
'Well,
then, I can't answer your question,' Byrne said. 'If you feel the need for
counsel at this time, by all means call your attorney. I can tell you
that you are not suspected of anything. You are a witness, and a very important
witness. All we need to do is ask you a few questions. The more you tell us,
the likelier it will be that we can find the person who did this to your
husband.'
Jessica
made another quick perusal of the room. There were no photographs of the
Beckmans on the mantel over the bricked-in fireplace, no soft-focus wedding day
portraits in tacky gold-painted frames.
'If
you'll just bear with us a little longer,' Byrne continued, 'we'll get the
information we need, and we'll leave you to your thoughts and your
arrangements.'
Sharon
Beckman just stared. Byrne led her through the rest of the standard questions,
giving her the standard assurances. He concluded by asking her if she had a
photograph of her husband.
While
Sharon Beckman was in the hallway, going through a legal- sized cardboard box,
looking for the photograph, the front door opened.
The
kid who entered looked younger than nineteen. Stringy blond hair, surfer cool,
hooded, stoned eyes. When he saw Byrne he must have figured him for a cop, and
he shoved his right hand deep into his baggy shorts. Dope pocket.
'How
ya doin?' the kid mumbled.
'Good,
thanks,' Byrne said. 'Are you Jason?'
The
kid looked up, shocked, like there was no way that Byrne could have possibly
gotten this information. 'Yeah.' Barely audible. The kid leaned back on his
heels, as if that might increase the distance between them. Jessica could smell
the marijuana on his clothes from ten feet away.
'Kenny's
dead,' Sharon Beckman said, walking back into the room, a pair of old snapshots
in her hand. She handed them to Jessica.
Jason
stared at his mother, blinking. It was as if the words hadn't yet reached his
brain. 'Dead?'
'Yeah.
Like in not alive anymore?'
Jessica
looked at the kid. No reaction.
Over
the next few minutes Byrne asked Jason the basic questions, got the expected answers.
Jason said he had not seen his stepfather in more than three days.
'Once
again, we're sorry for your loss,' Byrne said to them both, putting away his
notebook. He dropped a pair of business cards on the cluttered coffee table.
'If you think of anything that might help us, please call.'
They
walked the half-block to the car, adrift
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