implicit rules of engagement with this man. "Great," he said, taking their host's elbow and pointing him toward the back hallway. "Lead the way."
They trooped toward the rear of the small house, passing two bedrooms and a bathroom, and entered a dingy, worn kitchen with rusting appliances, including a stacked washer/dryer. A small metal table with two chairs was shoved against one wall, a cluster of medications corralled in its middle. Joe pulled out a chair and positioned Friel to sit in it. He took the one opposite while Spinney leaned against the counter near a sink piled with dirty dishes.
"Is this your house or your mother's, William?" Joe asked first, following an instinct.
He had it right. "Hers," Friel answered.
"And you've lived here how long?"
Friel seemed a little confused by the question. "All my life," he eventually replied, adding, "Almost."
Joe nodded. His own brother could have made the same claim, the dynamics there being admittedly much different. Still, he had often wondered how Leo would fare once their mother died — just as he now wondered about this man, given the same inevitability. His bets were on Leo coming out of it far better than William.
Joe rubbed his forehead, as if chasing away such distractions. "Good to know," he said. "That probably means you knew Carolyn Barber. Is that correct?"
Friel's eyes widened a fraction as he stopped staring at the table's surface and looked at his questioner. "Aunt Carolyn?"
"Right. She and your mother were sisters, weren't they?"
"Yeah." He paused before asking, "Did she die?"
It was asked without affect, as if read from a script.
"No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put that in the past tense." Joe expanded his response by adding, "I've actually never met her. That's all I meant."
Friel nodded slightly. "Oh."
"Would that mean anything? If she had died?" Joe asked.
"Mean anything?" Friel replied questioningly, a furrow between his eyes.
"Yeah. You know. Inheritance, maybe? Or just the passing of the family's black sheep.
I don't know. Anything — like I said. I don't know the woman."
"Is that why you're here? Aunt Carolyn?"
Joe sidestepped answering. "You haven't seen her mentioned on the news, on TV? We just released a bulletin on her — should be all over."
He responded. "We don't watch the news. Too depressing. Why is she on TV, if she's okay?"
"I didn't say she was okay. When did you last see her?"
Friel was shaking his head. "When I was a kid. She's been in the nuthouse most of my life. What happened to her?"
"Why was she put there?"
Friel scowled. "I don't know. She was off her rocker."
Again, his voice was flat.
"Did your mom ever talk about that? Why it happened?"
"Not really. She had other things to worry about."
Joe didn't speak. The silence grew heavy in the small, battered room. Finally, as hoped, Friel sighed and added, "My dad was a drunk. Kicked us around pretty good. Aunt Carolyn was the least of our problems."
This was sadly familiar to the two detectives.
"I'm sorry to hear it," Joe said gently.
Friel sat back in his chair and gave Joe the most direct eye-to-eye contact he'd delivered so far. His half smile was rueful and heartbroken.
"I got married once," he volunteered. "Didn't last long. Lucky we didn't have kids. It was a mess." He glanced at the hallway door, toward the sound of the distant TV set, and murmured, "So I came back. Figured what the hell."
He straightened, ran his fingers through what was left of his hair, and addressed them in an artificially stronger tone. "Look, I know squat about Aunt Carolyn, but Mom kept some items in an album. Maybe they'll be useful."
His and Joe's chairs screeched on the scarred linoleum as they stood, and Friel led the way back toward the hallway and one of the bedrooms.
It was pitch black until he switched on the overhead light, revealing as in a flash photograph what looked like a crime scene, barring a body. The bed was large, old, unmade, and surrounded by several
They trooped toward the rear of the small house, passing two bedrooms and a bathroom, and entered a dingy, worn kitchen with rusting appliances, including a stacked washer/dryer. A small metal table with two chairs was shoved against one wall, a cluster of medications corralled in its middle. Joe pulled out a chair and positioned Friel to sit in it. He took the one opposite while Spinney leaned against the counter near a sink piled with dirty dishes.
"Is this your house or your mother's, William?" Joe asked first, following an instinct.
He had it right. "Hers," Friel answered.
"And you've lived here how long?"
Friel seemed a little confused by the question. "All my life," he eventually replied, adding, "Almost."
Joe nodded. His own brother could have made the same claim, the dynamics there being admittedly much different. Still, he had often wondered how Leo would fare once their mother died — just as he now wondered about this man, given the same inevitability. His bets were on Leo coming out of it far better than William.
Joe rubbed his forehead, as if chasing away such distractions. "Good to know," he said. "That probably means you knew Carolyn Barber. Is that correct?"
Friel's eyes widened a fraction as he stopped staring at the table's surface and looked at his questioner. "Aunt Carolyn?"
"Right. She and your mother were sisters, weren't they?"
"Yeah." He paused before asking, "Did she die?"
It was asked without affect, as if read from a script.
"No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put that in the past tense." Joe expanded his response by adding, "I've actually never met her. That's all I meant."
Friel nodded slightly. "Oh."
"Would that mean anything? If she had died?" Joe asked.
"Mean anything?" Friel replied questioningly, a furrow between his eyes.
"Yeah. You know. Inheritance, maybe? Or just the passing of the family's black sheep.
I don't know. Anything — like I said. I don't know the woman."
"Is that why you're here? Aunt Carolyn?"
Joe sidestepped answering. "You haven't seen her mentioned on the news, on TV? We just released a bulletin on her — should be all over."
He responded. "We don't watch the news. Too depressing. Why is she on TV, if she's okay?"
"I didn't say she was okay. When did you last see her?"
Friel was shaking his head. "When I was a kid. She's been in the nuthouse most of my life. What happened to her?"
"Why was she put there?"
Friel scowled. "I don't know. She was off her rocker."
Again, his voice was flat.
"Did your mom ever talk about that? Why it happened?"
"Not really. She had other things to worry about."
Joe didn't speak. The silence grew heavy in the small, battered room. Finally, as hoped, Friel sighed and added, "My dad was a drunk. Kicked us around pretty good. Aunt Carolyn was the least of our problems."
This was sadly familiar to the two detectives.
"I'm sorry to hear it," Joe said gently.
Friel sat back in his chair and gave Joe the most direct eye-to-eye contact he'd delivered so far. His half smile was rueful and heartbroken.
"I got married once," he volunteered. "Didn't last long. Lucky we didn't have kids. It was a mess." He glanced at the hallway door, toward the sound of the distant TV set, and murmured, "So I came back. Figured what the hell."
He straightened, ran his fingers through what was left of his hair, and addressed them in an artificially stronger tone. "Look, I know squat about Aunt Carolyn, but Mom kept some items in an album. Maybe they'll be useful."
His and Joe's chairs screeched on the scarred linoleum as they stood, and Friel led the way back toward the hallway and one of the bedrooms.
It was pitch black until he switched on the overhead light, revealing as in a flash photograph what looked like a crime scene, barring a body. The bed was large, old, unmade, and surrounded by several
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