Page 7 of Death in the Family
“If you remember any more details, you’ll let us know?”
Norton said he would. I expected him to make a move toward the house, but while his hooded head pivoted in that direction, he didn’t budge. To my horror, I realized he was tearing up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just... he’s a kid, really. Still so young.”
“Don’t apologize. Shock affects people in different ways,” I said, thinking,I should know. “You and the family must be close.”
“I’ve worked here a long time. The others don’t come out to Tern often, but Mrs. Sinclair stays all summer, every year. She’s a wonderful lady. She doesn’t deserve this. You’ll find him, won’t you?”
“We’ll do our best.”
“When you see her, please tell her that. She needs to hear it. Okay,” Norton said, breathing deep. “All right, then. Follow me.”
We stepped out of the boathouse into the rain. Tim’s eyes swept the landscape, lingering on every brush pile and fallen tree, and we started up the long set of stairs. The climb to the house was brutal, and I was winded inside of three minutes. Those beautiful stone steps were even steeper than they’d looked from the water, and impossibly slick. All three of us wore rain boots with minimal tread. Tim’s a gym rat, and I stay in pretty good shape. But when we got to the top and crossed a wraparound porch to the house’s double entry doors, only Philip Norton wasn’t panting.
“Cam— Mrs. Sinclair is still upstairs. The rest are through there.”
“How’s she holding up?” I asked. “It’s a terrible thing, not knowing what happened to your son.” I kept my go-to line at the ready:No parent should have to outlive a child. I know how to make it sound unrehearsed, like I’m delivering it for the first time.
“Oh no,” Norton said. “Camilla Sinclair is Jasper’s grandmother.” My gaze flicked to Tim—how did you miss that?—but he was stoic, taking it all in. “Jasper’s parents,” Norton said, “passed on.”
“When was that?” I said.
“Almost two years ago.”
“Is she the owner of the house? Camilla Sinclair?”
“Yes, ma’am. Has an apartment in the city, too. Please, this way.”
Norton pushed open the door to reveal a wide entry with impeccable wood floors framed by a geometric border. The scent of the pine cleaner he’d used to make them shine like glass hung in the air. Somewhere on the main floor, a woman was crying. Her rhythmic sobs echoed down the hall.
The moment I’m about to start investigating a homicide, even a nebulous one like Jasper Sinclair’s, is a moment like no other. I can’t explain how it makes me feel, and believe me, I’ve tried—for Carson especially. It’s somewhere between the sick feeling of waking up to find a day you’ve been dreading for months is here, and a slap you don’t see coming. It’s physical, visceral, gutting.
For me, the moment doesn’t come when we get the call, but when I’m about to step into the crime scene and see the horror du jour. It’s my last chance to feel like an ordinary human being, sometimes for a long time, because I know the crime’s going to seep into my pores and cling to me like a nerve agent, slowly eating away at my body, mind, and resolve. It always does.
And the thing is, I can’t shake it unless I get a solve. The cases that get away from me, that I nearly get killed trying to crack and fail to get a conviction on anyway? The biological effects of those don’t go away. They’re an eye twitch I can’t contain. Seeping blisters on my lungs that burn with every breath. By the time I told Carson about Bram, on that bright fall day in Queens, my cuticles itched inexplicably and every morning my pillow was soaked with cold sweat. I didn’t want to believe this would hinder my ability to do my job, but it sure as hell made me uneasy.
Before I followed Norton over the threshold, I turned and tookone last look at the river. From that height I should have been able to see for miles, but the storm erased the view. It felt like the island wasn’t one of thousands, but the only one, all alone on the wide, wild river. The family I was about to meet might as well have been the last people on earth. For the next twenty-four hours, they would become my everything.
THREE
It wasn’t how things were supposed to be done. If Jasper Sinclair went missing on the mainland, and that bed looked the way it did, the crime scene would have been hopping by the time I walked in. An EMT known for his gentle touch would be wrapping a heat-conducting blanket around Mrs. Sinclair’s shoulders and steering her away from the distressing sight. Folks from CSI would pull disposable booties over their shoes and pinch evidence bags between their gloved fingers as they walked the room. Tim’s job would be to neutralize lingering threats while I zeroed in on the witnesses. In other words, we’d have support.
We had none of that today. The minute I set foot in Jasper’s bedroom I was no longer a plainclothes detective with the Bureau of Criminal Investigation but captain, crime-scene manager, and evidence tech. Until we got some help, it was all on us to securethe scene and interview everyone in the house. All I had to work with was Tim, and a bed that made clear why the Sinclairs called this murder.
A bed that would haunt my dreams.
It was made of reclaimed wood, a rustic yet modern look that must have cost thousands. Silky linens were bunched by the footboard, like someone kicked them off in a hurry. My God, but the blood. There was more than I’d expected—a lot more. On the side closest to the bedroom door, the fitted sheet was saturated with a dark stain that, to my revulsion, assumed the vague shape of a heart. If Jasper was average height for a guy, the stain would map with his abdomen. This was no nick; he’d been the victim of a calculated bloodletting. It looked to me as if someone eviscerated the man while his girlfriend dozed peacefully at his side.
Camilla Sinclair, Jasper’s grandmother, watched from the doorway as I made my way around the room. She had to be in her nineties but she had great hair, white and glossy, cut in a bob. I could tell she’d been tall once, but now Camilla leaned on a cane in a way that made the vertebrae of her spine tepee the back of her shirt. Her free hand trembled as it gripped a framed photograph of her grandson, but her expression was stoic, her eyes watchful and dry.
I’d already asked her about Jasper and how he’d spent the previous night, and while she’d been forthcoming with her answers, her story, like Norton’s, was conspicuously uneventful. Cocktails. Dinner. Bed. When the interview was done, I invited her to join her family on the main floor. Yet here she stood.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” I ventured for the third time. “Ma’am? I need you to go downstairs. Sit down, let Mr. Norton get you a cup of tea.” If I’m being honest, I was worried about her health. Her skin was like old newspaper, flaky and gray. “I have to insist,” I said.
I’d expected her to leave the room when we got to the island. I could understand why she’d stayed before that, but most people perceive the police’s arrival as a transfer of responsibility. We take the situation out of their hands, along with a heaping portion of the proximate horror, and they’re happy to let us. Not Jasper’s grandmother. She stayed put.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have preconceptions about what these people in their floating ivory tower would be like. I thought I knew what I was dealing with, assumed they’d be collectively cold, or so shattered they couldn’t get a word out through the sobs. People with that kind of wealth often feel untouchable, and it’s a shock when they discover they’re not. So far, Camilla Sinclair had maintained an unflappable demeanor, but I found it odd she’d made an effort to look presentable. Her crisp white shirt and pink-checkered slacks were tailored to complement her thin frame, and she’d dabbed on pink lipstick to match. Maybe it was habit for women of her generation to put themselves together no matter what. Either she’d roused herself very early, before the screaming started, or she’d left Jasper’s room after all and, despite her grief, took the time to do herself up.
