Page 28 of Reading Between the Lines
The man backed down, and Delaney ushered us into the house.
Weston’s room was located on the second floor. It had the air of a teenager but one dedicated more to education than rebellion. A neatly arranged desk sat in the corner under a poster of the periodic table.
“He hates chemistry,” Delaney said when she noticed me studying it. “He was tired of constantly looking that chart up in a textbook, so he found a poster and hung it.”
“I was never a fan of chemistry either.”
A shelf with several resource books and various textbooks occupied a spot beside the double bed. The rest of the wall space was decorated with framed articles from popular magazines and newspaper clippings. Many seemed to feature a specific journalist I’d never heard of. An idol, perhaps? On closer inspection, I noticed one of the recurring names was Irvin Mandel, his father.
A stack of outdoor and travel magazines piled in the corner caught my attention, and I was about to open the closet when Diem asked, “Does he have a laptop?”
“Yes, it’s…” Delaney frowned at the desk, spun once as she scanned the room, and moved to the doorway, shouting, “Irvin? Where’s West’s laptop.”
“I put it away.”
“These gentlemen need it.”
“No. It’s bad enough they’re going through his room. Leave some of the poor boy’s dignity intact. The police already looked at it.”
“Irvin.” She excused herself and marched out of the room toward the stairs. Her stomping footsteps as she descended said exactly how she felt about his indignant attitude.
Another argument between the couple drifted toward us a moment later, and Diem and I shared a look. Eventually, Delaney returned with a battered Dell decorated with peeling band stickers.
“So sorry. Here.” She handed the computer to Diem. “I believe the police disabled the passwords already.”
“No phone, right?”
“No. It wasn’t recovered. The police figure it was lost in the river.”
Diem set the laptop on the desk and pulled out a chair. “Did you bring that notebook and the short story home from the hospital?”
“Yes. They’re downstairs. I’ll get them.”
The instant Delaney was gone, I turned to Diem. “Her husband is a dick.”
Diem chewed on a thought before shrugging. “It’s somewhat justified. She’s the one inventing wild theories and hoarding her son’s organs until she gets answers. Even the police dismissed her. She can’t seem to accept her son’s death was an accident.”
“He’s not dead.”
“He’s not alive either.”
“True, but you’re being insensitive, especially when you call it organ hoarding.”
Diem didn’t respond.
“What’s the game plan, Guns?”
“We look at shit and try to get an idea of who this kid was.”
“Is.”
Diem didn’t correct himself, and I chose not to argue the point. Even Weston’s mother vacillated between past and present tense when discussing her son. For all intents and purposes, the kid had died in the river, and we’d been hired to prove it was murder and not an accident.
Delaney returned with the notebook and short story.
Diem accepted them with grumbled thanks.
“Is there anything else I can get you? Coffee? Tea? A soft drink?”
