“Yes you have to.”
Although she’d never seen a dead body before- well, except at a few funerals she’d been to- she just wanted to get to sleep and didn’t really care one way or the other.
She went with Clements out to the foyer. The body was still at the bottom of the staircase, splayed the way it had been before, except now Marissa could see all of it. There were technicians working near the body, maybe collecting DNA evidence or looking for fingerprints or whatever, and there was blood- it looked purple- on the bottom stairs and on the floor in front of the staircase. There was much more blood than Marissa had expected to see, which made her queasy enough, but then as she got closer, she looked at the dead guy’s face. His eyes were half open, and there was blood leaking out of his nose. Something looked weird about his mouth, and then she realized that most of his jaw was missing.
“Oh my God,” she said.
Misunderstanding her response, Clements said, “You recognize him?”
Starting to back away, she said, “No, I have no idea who is. Can I go now? Can I just go?”
When she returned to the living room, Clements wanted to talk to her mom, so she and her dad were left alone.
First he hugged her and assured her things would return to normal soon- yeah, right- then he asked, “So how’d it go in there?”
She didn’t answer right away, then said, “He made me look at the body.”
“What?” She could tell he was seriously upset. “Why the hell did he do that?”
She didn’t feel like talking to him about it. Things had been tense and awkward between them, well, for years, but since she’d graduated from college their relationship had become even more strained, what with him constantly on her case about getting a job and moving out on her own. Her plan had been to live at home temporarily, until she could support herself, so she’d gotten a part- time job at the Metropolitan Museum of Art through a contact from an art history professor. But she didn’t like her boss, and the job had had practically nothing to do with art- her main duty had been renting out tour head – phones- and after about a month she couldn’t take it anymore and quit. She’d been sending out rйsumйs and going on interviews, but her father wouldn’t let up about the “big opportunity” she’d blown, and it was hard to even be in the same room with him sometimes.
“He wanted to see if I recognized him,” she said. “Whatever.” She was exhausted and really didn’t feel like talking anymore.
But her dad couldn’t let it go and said, “This is getting ridiculous now. There’s no way he should’ve made you do that, I mean what’s the point of that?” He shook his head, brooding, then asked, “Did he ask you about your bong too?”
God, Marissa didn’t want to be having this conversation right now, especially not in the middle of the night when she was so exhausted.
“Yeah,” she said, “but it was no big deal.”
“How many times have I told you to get rid of that thing?”
“You’ve never told me to get rid of it.”
“I told you I don’t want you smoking in the house.”
“I think I’ve smoked in the house twice since graduation, but if it bothers you so much I’ll stop.”
“And I don’t want you drinking in the house anymore either.”
“When do I drink in the house?”
“The other night- when you had Hillary and that guy over.”
“That guy was Hillary’s friend Jared, who’s in med school, and we were drinking wine. I think we had one glass each.”
“Well, I don’t want any drinking in the house anymore. Is that understood?”
“This is ridiculous,” Marissa said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just taking everything out on me.”
“Excuse me?” he said, raising his voice slightly.
“Like this has anything to do with my bong or drinking wine. This has to do with you and your gun.”
Her father looked at her the way he had so many times lately, like he hated her.
“Just go to bed,” he said.
“See?” she said. “I didn’t do anything wrong and you treat me like I’m ten years old.”
“When you act out like you’re ten I’ll treat you like you’re ten. Just go to bed.”
Realizing there was no point in arguing with her father when he got like this, she left the room. There were still a lot of cops near the front of the house, though it looked like they’d finally removed the body. Avoiding the commotion and, worse, another confrontation with that asshole Clements, she took the back staircase up to her room.
Lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, she suddenly remembered she’d given Detective Clements Darren’s contact info. She called Darren, leaving a frantic message, telling him that the cops had found pot in her room and he had to get all the drugs out of his apartment ASAP.
Back in bed, she put in her iPod earbuds and listened to tracks by Tone Def, this new alternative/punk/postgrunge band she was into. She was still angry at her father for laying into her, and she just prayed that somehow all of this would blow over quickly. Living at home had been difficult enough lately; she couldn’t handle it if things got any worse.
four
When Adam woke up he felt much better. He’d gotten several hours of solid sleep, and it was a bright, sunny day; bars of sunlight were coming through the venetian blinds, spreading into the room. He glanced at the clock - 9:27. He’d decided to cancel his patient appointments for today, but he felt well enough to work and planned to have a few phone sessions.
He didn’t think about the shooting at all until he went downstairs, passing the spot on the staircase where the body had fallen. He didn’t look very closely, but it seemed like the police technicians or ambulance workers or whoever had done an excellent job cleaning up all the blood and even repairing some of the wall damage. It was almost like it hadn’t even happened.
Dana wasn’t in the kitchen, but there was evidence that she’d been there: a coffee mug in the sink; some crumbs- probably from a bagel- on the countertop; the Times, folded open to the crossword puzzle, on the kitchen table. There was no sign that Marissa had been downstairs yet, not that he expected there to be. On most days she slept until at least eleven o’clock, sometimes past noon. Today she’d probably sleep till one or two.
He poured his own cup of coffee, then opened the newspaper. Although he’d spoken to a Times reporter at some point last night, as well as to reporters from the News and the Post, he knew the story about the robbery and shooting couldn’t have made it into today’s papers. But it would be in all of the major papers tomorrow for sure.
He skimmed the front page, reading about the latest bombings in Israel and Iraq, then went right to the sports section. The Jets were playing the Patriots on Sunday and he read about the game. After finishing his coffee and skimming an article in the Times on a promising new drug to treat schizophrenia, he went online with his BlackBerry and e-mailed a patient, Jane Heller, asking her if she wanted to have a phone session this afternoon at four. He also e-mailed Carol, his colleague, to see if she had time for a session sometime this week.
He didn’t hear any fuss outside and wondered if there were still neighbors in front of the house. He went into the living room and parted the shades. A Fox News truck was parked across the street, but that was it.
As he headed upstairs to shower and get dressed, once again he had to pass the spot where the body had been. What had Clements said his name was, Sanchez? Yeah, Sanchez, Carlos Sanchez. Adam stared at the spot for a while, feeling remorseful until he reminded himself that it was Sanchez who’d made the decision that had led to his death, not Adam. If he’d killed someone for no reason, murdered someone, or even if he’d killed someone accidentally, by a mistake he’d made, he’d have something to feel guilty about. For example, if he’d killed someone in a traffic accident, he would’ve had to accept responsibility. But this situation had been completely different. This hadn’t been an accident; this had been self- defense.
