Blood Games

He closed his notebook. “What would you like me to do for your son, Wendy?”

“Find out what really happened to my boy.” There were tears in her eyes.

Decker said, “The coroner has ruled your son’s death a suicide.”

Wendy was resolute. “I don’t care what the coroner says, my son didn’t commit suicide.”

“Could it have been an accidental shooting?”

“No,” Wendy insisted. “Gregory hated guns.”

Marge asked, “So how do you think he died?”

Wendy glanced at the detectives while kneading her hands. She didn’t answer the question.

Decker said, “If it wasn’t accidental death by his own hand and if it wasn’t intentional suicide, that leaves homicide—either accidental or intentional.”

Wendy bit her lip and nodded.

“You think someone murdered your boy?”

It took a few moments before Wendy could speak. “Yes.”

Decker tried to be as gentle as possible. “Why?”

“’Cause I know he didn’t shoot himself.”

“So you think the coroner missed something or …” Wendy was silent. Decker said, “I have no problem going to the school and talking to some of Gregory’s friends and classmates. But the coroner is not going to change her determination unless we find something extraordinary. Something that would directly contradict a suicide. Usually, it’s the coroner who comes to us because he or she suspects foul play.”

“Even if it was … what you say.” Wendy wiped her eyes with her fingers. “I don’t have … a clue … to what happened.” More tears. “If he did do it … I don’t know why. No idea whatsoever! I couldn’t be that dumb.”

“It has nothing to do with brains—”

“Do you have children, sir?”

“I do.”

“What about you, Detective?” She had turned to Marge.

“A daughter.”

“So what would either of you do if you suddenly came home one day … and found your child … had committed suicide?”

“I don’t know,” Decker answered.

Marge’s eyes watered. “I can’t imagine.”

“So tell me,” Wendy continued. “How would you feel if you knew there was absolutely no reason for your child to do this? He wasn’t depressed, he wasn’t moody, he didn’t take drugs, he didn’t drink, he wasn’t a loner, he had friends, and he never ever handled a gun. I don’t even know where he got the gun!” She burst into sobs. “And no one … will … tell me … anything!”

Decker let her cry it out, handing her the box of tissues.

Marge said, “What do you want us to do, Mrs. Hesse?”

“Wen … dy.” She answered between sobs. “Find out what happened.” Her eyes were imploring. “I realize this is probably not a police matter, but I don’t know where to turn.”

Silence.

“Should I hire a private investigator? I mean, at least maybe he can find out where Gregory got the gun.”

“Where is the gun?” Decker asked.

“The police took it,” Wendy told him.

“Then it should be in the evidence locker,” Marge said. “It’s also in the files.”

“Let’s pull it out and find out where it came from.” He turned to Wendy. “Let me start with the gun, and we’ll work it from there.”

“Thank you!” A new fresh round of tears poured out of Wendy’s eyes. “Thank you for believing me … or at least thinking about what I said!”

“We’re here to help,” Marge said.

Decker nodded in agreement. The woman was probably in massive denial. But sometimes, even in these situations, parents really did know their children better than anyone else.

CHAPTER THREE

SITTING ON THE living room sofa, Decker pop-topped a can of Dad’s and basked in the warmth of his wife’s presence and the aftertaste of cured meat. “Thanks for picking up my dinner.”

“If I knew you were that close to coming home, we would have waited for you at the deli.”

“It’s better this way.” He took Rina’s hand. He had showered before he ate, changing from his suit to a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “Where’s the kid?”

“Practicing.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Seems to be okay. Did you know that Terry contacted him?”

“No, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. When was this?”

“About a week ago.” Rina recapped the conversation. “It obviously upset him. He wasn’t himself over dinner tonight. Whenever he gets uncomfortable, he talks about his upcoming competitions. Paradoxically, competition seems to calm him down. Renting him a piano is a lot cheaper than therapy.”

The baby grand was in the garage—the only place where they had enough room. Gabe shared his music studio with Decker’s Porsche, workbench, and power tools and Rina’s planting and potting station. They had soundproofed the space because the kid practiced at the oddest hours. But since he was homeschooled and was basically done with high school, they let him march to his own drummer. He wasn’t even sixteen and had already gotten into Juilliard and early action at Harvard. Even if they were his legal guardians—which they weren’t—there was really no guidance left to give him. At this point, they were just providing him with food, a safe shelter, and a little company.

“Tell me about your day,” Rina said.

“Pretty routine except for the last half hour.” Decker recapped his puzzling conversation with Wendy Hesse.

“That poor woman.”