Gray Matter

the waiting car.

“Officer Zakarian, I’m taking my daughter home where we’ll try to relax as best as the medication will allow. At nine o’clock tomorrow morning we are out of here. So if you have any questions I’ll take them now.”

This was not how Greg wanted it—standing just feet away from his wife’s and son’s caskets.

“And, please, be brief and to the point.”

Greg nodded. “According to the autopsy report on Julian, clusters of scars were found on his skull. You’re no doubt aware of them.”

Watts’s eye twitched ever so slightly. But he did not respond.

“You do know what I’m talking about?”

Watts’s expression seemed to stiffen. “I’m listening.”

“Can you tell me how they got there?”

“Why are you asking me this, Officer?”

Briefly Greg mentioned the two other cases. He would have preferred to do this in the man’s house or office, but he pulled out the schematic of the skull with holes.

The man glanced at the drawing then looked at Greg. “Julian was treated for epilepsy as a child. He had a severe case.”

“So you’re saying he had some medical procedure.”

“Yes,” Watts said. He gave Greg a saucer-eyed look that seemed to blot out any suspicions that what he said was not the absolute truth.

“Was Julian right-handed or left-handed?”

Watts hesitated for a second, no doubt wondering about the odd question. “Left.”

“Can you tell me the name of his doctor?”

“Daaad?” It was his daughter calling him from the limousine.

“Good day, Officer,” Watts said, and he walked away to the car and got in.

Epilepsy.

Greg looked around. The place was emptying out. People were walking to their cars, and cars were moving in a slow caravan toward the exit. Nearby he spotted a big kid with a black ponytail showing something to an attractive tall blonde behind a monument.

Greg watched the limo pull out of its spot by the edge of the grass. Lisa was sitting at a rear window. He gave a little wave and watched the car pull down the lane.

Nova Children’s Center. The words spread through his mind like a crack.

45

The Whitman home was located in an upper-middle-class neighborhood of Hawthorne where stately Colonials and Tudors reminded Greg that he was an outsider.

On Friday afternoon around two, he pulled in front of a handsome brick garrison with a slate roof, two stately chimneys, and black shutters with white trim. A gold Maxima was parked in the driveway. Because it was next to an open lot, he could spot an elaborate wooden play structure in the backyard. He had a mental flash of the Dixon place with its redbrick box, front yard of scrub and dirt, the tire swing. It was this place, but a couple decimal points to the left.

A bed of daylilies and groundcover neatly lined the flagstone walk to the front door. He rang it and a woman who looked to be in her thirties answered. She was very attractive with shoulder-length shiny black hair, and jagged bangs, and large amber eyes. He had seen her and her husband yesterday at the Wattses’ funeral.

“Mrs. Whitman?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Greg Zakarian. I’m a detective from the Sagamore Police Department.” He handed the woman his card. She looked instantly concerned. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Vanessa and Julian Watts case.”

“But I’ve already spoken to the police.”

“I understand, but there are some elements in the case that may have bearing on another case.” Understandably she looked puzzled but let him inside.

He followed her through the living room, attractively decorated in bright colors and oriental rugs. On the coffee table sat copies of The New Yorker and The Quarterly Review of Wine.

She led him to a screened-in porch that was furnished in white wicker and floral cushions. Large pots of red geraniums sat on the floor. Some children’s books were piled neatly on a chair. From the porch he could see that the backyard climbing structure was an elaborate redwood system with ropes, hang rails, and a large yellow sliding tube. Not your basic tire swing. A little boy sat digging in a nearby sandbox.

Mrs. Whitman offered him some coffee or a soft drink, but Greg declined. She glanced at his card as she sat down. “Eench bess ess?” she said.

“Shad lav em,” he replied in Armenian to say he was fine. “I’m impressed. You’re the first person in two weeks who hasn’t take me for a space alien.”

The woman smiled. “My roommate in college was Armenian—Sue Ekezian. Lovely people and wonderful food. I still on occasion go to Watertown for the rolled grape leaves, the lamejuns and pastries.”

“Eastern Bakery has wonderful paklevah.”

“Yes, and my son just loves that,” she said, smiling. And she glanced toward the little boy.

“Handsome boy. What’s his name?”

“Dylan.”

“Am I hearing things, or is he really singing ‘There is Nothing Like a Dame’?”

Rachel laughed. “Yes. His father has a collection of Broadway shows. I’m afraid the lyrics aren’t very liberated.”

“Gee, why would you think that?”

She laughed as the boy reached the finale, which he belted out with amazing gusto and dramatics:

There ain’t a thing that’s wrong with any man here

That can’t be cured by puttin’ him near

A girly, womanly, female, feminine dame!

Greg quietly applauded. “Bravo, bravo,” he called out to the boy.

Dylan, who was wearing huge sunglasses and a crooked Red Sox cap, looked toward the porch, then, grinning widely, he rose to his feet and took a dramatic bow, still standing in the sandbox. Then he went back to his digging.

“A spirited little guy.”

“Thanks … and a born ham,” said Mrs. Whitman, beaming.

His instinct was to look away, to get to business, but he couldn’t help staring at her. The feathery black eyebrows, the jagged spikes of hair on her brow, the warm spark of light in her eyes, the high cheekbones, the fullness of her mouth. She was very attractive.

“How old is he?”

“He just turned six. Do you have children, Officer?”

“No. My wife died before we could have kids.” As soon as his words hit air, Greg wished he could have edited them out. A simple no would have done it. In fact, he did not know why he had said that.