the metal table. «Is that your signature, Brenda?»
«Yes.»
Myron took the sheet and began to skim it.
«Does that accurately describe your last meeting with your father?»
Brenda’s eyes were hard now. «Yes.»
«So on this occasion at your father’s apartment – the last time you saw him – your father assaulted you both physically and verbally. Is that correct?»
Myron kept still.
«He shoved me,» Brenda said.
«Hard enough for you to want a restraining order, isn’t that correct?»
Myron tried to keep pace, but he was starting to feel like a buoy in rough waters. Horace had assaulted his own daughter and was now dead. Myron had to get a handle on this, get back into the fray.
«Stop badgering,» he said, his voice sounding weak and forced. «You have the documentation, so let’s get on with it.»
«Brenda, please tell me about your father’s assault.»
«He pushed me,» she said.
«Can you tell me why?»
«No.»
«No, you won’t tell me. Or no, you don’t know.»
«No, I don’t know.»
«He just shoved you?»
«Yes.»
«You walked into his apartment. You said, 'Hi, Dad.' Then he cursed at you and assaulted you. Is that what you’re telling us?»
Brenda was trying to keep her face steady, but there was shaking near the fault lines. The facade was about to crack.
«That’s enough,» Myron said.
But McLaughlin moved in. «Is that what you’re trying to tell us, Brenda? Your father’s attack was completely unprovoked?»
«She’s not telling you anything, McLaughlin. Back off.»
«Brenda-»
«We’re out of here.» Myron took hold of Brenda’s arm and half dragged her to a standing position. Tiles moved to block the door.
McLaughlin kept talking. «We can help you, Brenda. But this is your last chance. You walk out of here, you’re talking a murder indictment.»
Brenda seemed to snap out of whatever trance she’d been in. «What are you talking about?»
«They’re bluffing,» Myron said.
«You know how this looks, don’t you?» McLaughlin continued. «Your father has been dead awhile. We haven’t done an autopsy yet, but I’d bet he’s been dead for close to a week. You’re a smart girl, Brenda. You put it together. The two of you had problems. We have your own list of serious grievances right here. Nine days ago he assaulted you. You went to court to get him to keep away from you. Our theory is that your father did not obey that order. He was clearly a violent man, probably angered beyond control by what he perceived as your disloyalty. Is that what happened, Brenda?»
Myron said, «Don’t answer.»
«Let me help you, Brenda. Your father didn’t listen to the court order, right? He came after you, didn’t he?»
Brenda said nothing.
«You were his daughter. You disobeyed him. You publicly humiliated him, so much so that he decided to teach you a lesson. And when he came after you – when that big, scary man was going to attack you again – you had no choice. You shot him. It was self-defense, Brenda. I understand that. I would have done the same thing. But if you walk out that door, Brenda, I can’t help you. It moves from something justifiable to coldblooded murder. Plain and simple.»
McLaughlin took her hand. «Let me help you, Brenda.»
The room went still. McLaughlin’s freckled face was totally earnest, the perfect mask of concern and trust and openness. Myron glanced over at Tiles. Tiles quickly diverted his gaze.
Myron didn’t like that.
McLaughlin had laid out a neat little theory. It made sense. Myron could see why they would believe it. There was bad blood between father and daughter. A well-documented history of abuse. A court order…
Hold the phone.
Myron looked back over at Tiles. Tiles would still not meet his eyes.
Then Myron remembered the blood on the shirt in the locker. The cops didn’t know about that, couldn’t know about it…
«She wants to see her father,» Myron blurted out.
Everybody looked at him. «Excuse me?»
«His body. We want to see Horace Slaughter’s body.»
«That won’t be necessary,» McLaughlin said. «We’ve positively identified him through fingerprints. There’s no reason to put-»
«Are you denying Miss Slaughter the opportunity to view her father’s body?»
McLaughlin backpedaled a bit. «Of course not. If that’s what you really want, Brenda-»
«That’s what we want.»
«I’m speaking to Brenda-»
«I’m her attorney, Detective. You speak to me.»
McLaughlin stopped. Then she shook her head and turned to Tiles. Tiles shrugged.
«Okay then,» McLaughlin said. «We’ll drive you over.»
16
The Bergen County Medical Examiner’s Office looked like a small elementary school. It was one level, red brick, right angles, and as unassuming a building as one could construct, but then again, what did you want in a morgue? The waiting room chairs were molded plastic and about as comfortable as a pinched nerve. Myron had been here once before, not long after Jessica’s father had been murdered. The memory was not a pleasant one.
«We can go in now,» McLaughlin said.
Brenda stayed close to Myron as they all walked down a short corridor. He put his arm around her waist. She moved in a touch. He was comforting her. He knew that. He also knew that it shouldn’t have felt so right.
They entered a room of gleaming metal and tile. No big storage drawers or anything like that. Clothes – a security guard’s uniform – were in a plastic bag in one corner. All the instruments and utensils and what-have- you’s were in another corner, covered by a sheet. So was the table in the center. Myron could see right away that the body underneath it belonged to a big man.
They paused at the door before gathering around the gurney. With minimum fanfare, a man – Myron assumed he was the medical examiner – pulled the sheet back. For the briefest of moments, Myron thought that maybe the cops had screwed up the ID. It was a whimsical hope, he realized, not anything based on fact.
He was sure it ran through every person’s mind who came here to identify someone, even when he knew the truth, a last gasp, a fantasy that a wonderful, beautiful mistake had been made. It was only natural.
But there was no mistake here.
Brenda’s eyes filled. She tilted her head and screwed up her mouth. Her hand reached out and brushed the still cheek.
