The street is tree-lined. Every yard has beds of blooming flowers. None of the cars are rusted out, and the windows aren’t busted. The houses look like they have all been freshly painted the day before, and the cars washed each day to remove any trace that they have been used. This is the kind of neighborhood my girlfriend Tracy wants to live in, once I propose and we get married, something she has no problem telling me is about a year overdue. Nag, nag, nag. That’s all she does.
“These are the kind of houses that hold secrets,” Kate says, putting on her blazer.
I follow suit and put on my jacket. “So, because they live in this perfect-looking neighborhood, now you suddenly think this isn’t a suicide.”
“I didn’t say that, but you never know.”
We walk to the door and ring the bell.
A woman answers. “Mrs. Moore?” Kate asks in a comforting voice.
“Yes, that’s me,” she answers.
Margaret Moore is an attractive woman. Her hair’s pulled back, but some of it is hanging in her face. I’m not sure if she’s wearing makeup or not, another sign of her natural beauty.
I was expecting her to be more upset. Don’t get me wrong; I understand that after someone dies, you can’t spend the rest of your life in mourning, crying into your pillow, wishing life would end. I thought maybe it would take a week or two for that phase to pass. When my dad was killed, I didn’t want to go on. Didn’t even leave the house for a week. Then my friend Casey came to my house, dragged me out of bed, and played video games with me for a whole day. The next day he took me to a baseball game, even if it was just his little brother’s. And then he told me to get back to life. I didn’t forget; I think about my dad every day, but I healed.
This woman seemed like she’s healing really fast.
“I’m Detective Hutchinson and this is my partner, Detective Kirkpatrick. Would you have a few moments to chat with us about your daughter Lana’s death?”
She gives us a blank stare for a split second, then suddenly her face drops, as though the mere mention of her daughter changed her entire mood.
“Sure,” she says, though she doesn’t sound sure at all. She opens the door all the way and allows us to come in. We follow her to the kitchen, where she gestures for us to sit down.
“What can I help you with, detectives?”
“First, let me offer condolences on behalf of the department.”
Mrs. Moore smiles politely.
“We have a few questions about your daughter’s death,” Kate says.
“She killed herself. What more is there to say?” Margaret Moore coldly replies.
“We received a call on the tip line about your daughter’s death; it’s just routine to follow up.”
Mrs. Moore’s facial expression takes me by surprise. I can’t really identify it with one emotion; instead, it was a combination of confusion and shock, with maybe some anger mixed in. She doesn’t say anything for a good minute or so of awkward silence, during which I nervously loosen my tie, a habit Tracy constantly nags me about. She says it makes me look like a loser who’s uncomfortable in my own skin, and in social situations. That’s not too far from the truth a good portion of the time, including this moment.
“I’m confused,” Mrs. Moore says. “What do you think happened? What kind of tip did you receive?” she asks, that same mix of emotions in her voice.
“We received information that this may be something other than a suicide, but like my partner said, following up is just routine,” Kate says.
“So you think it’s a homicide? Who do you think killed her? Who gave you this ludicrous tip?” Margaret Moore asks frantically.
“We aren’t able to identify tipsters,” I say.
“Do you have any ideas who could have killed her?” Kate asks. “Did Lana have any enemies?”
“No, my daughter did not have any enemies. What do you think—she was in the mob?”
Margaret Moore is talking a little too fast, as though she’s going to change our minds and make us turn around and leave. “Her funeral was packed,” she continued. “There’s no one who wanted her dead.”
“We just have to cover our bases, ma’am,” Kate says. “Did she mention wanting to kill herself?”
“Yes, she did. Regularly. We sent her to therapy, talked to her, bought her things—we did everything we could. I thought it was working.”
“Did you consider in-patient treatment?”
“She wouldn’t have stood for that.”
“Most people don’t want it,” Kate presses her.
“There are only so many things you can make a grown woman do.”
“That’s not always the case.”
“Is there something you want to accuse me of, Detective?”
“I’m just sorry for your loss,” Kate says.
I watch the back-and-forth, like a tennis match. I don’t even think about whether or not I believe Margaret Moore; I just want to watch the show.
“So are we. Whether you believe it or not, we did the best we could for her. I guess it wasn’t enough.”
Mrs. Moore looks away from us like she’s going to cry, but I never see any tears fall on her face. I don’t even think her eyes glisten. I know I’m not supposed to say this as a detective, but I don’t like this woman. Something is off here.
“May we speak to your husband?” Kate asks, while I look suspiciously around the kitchen, totally unreasonably, expecting to find some evidence that things aren’t as they seem.
“Of course,” Margaret Moore answers, in a somber tone. “You know,” she continues, “Dave’s having a very difficult time dealing with Lana’s death.”
You seem to be doing just fine, I want to say, but refrain as Margaret describes her husband’s sorry state.
“He spends most of the day crying. He practically drinks himself sick every night. He won’t eat,
