“I don’t think anybody’s home.”
Then the door swung open. As skinny as Robbie had been, his half-brother Jeff was substantially bulkier. His pants hung loosely below the waistline. Matted brown hair was plastered to his forehead and a whisper of a tattoo peeked from under his tee-shirt at the shoulder. Was that a flying pig? Scottie towered over him by almost a foot. The contrast in their heights emphasized the man’s stocky build.
“Jeff Stewart?” Scottie questioned, a little gruffly.
“Yes. What do you want?” Jeff asked with exasperated impatience.
“It’s about Robbie,” Scottie said, toning it down. “May we come in?”
“What about him? I’m kind of busy.”
“He’s dead,” Gibson butt in.
“What?”
“Murdered.”
“That’s bullshit.” Jeff stepped back. His mouth opened and closed like he was gasping for breath. The sickly smell of instant sweat assailed their nostrils. His eyes flickered, and he turned into the house. Without an invitation, they followed him down a narrow hallway to a miserable living room. The mixture of stale cigarettes and musty air stopped their breath short. The lighting was mute and made dimmer by the smoky atmosphere. Only a single ray of sunlight found its way past the drab curtains, possibly drawn closed to block out prying eyes. The stark furnishings called attention to the dinginess of the space. There was an overstuffed couch with frayed armrests and burn holes in the cushions. A tattered blanket was draped down to the floor—doubtless where Jeff had been napping. Rickety second-hand chairs and a coffee table covered with greasy plates and overflowing ashtrays completed the scene. The drape jammed on its warped wooden pole as Jeff pushed on it with some difficulty. Finally a glimmer of light forced its way through the dirt-laden windows.
Jeff waved them to sit. Walking across the carpet sent clouds of dust flying. Scottie clamped her mouth tight and pulled her palm over her nose, barely inhaling—fearful of foreign debris floating into her lungs. Jeff flung himself back onto the couch, snatching a cigarette and drumming it on his thigh. The detectives sat squatted on the edge of their chairs, hoping not to stain their clothes or worst—find bugs crawling up their pant legs. Scottie opened her notebook and produced a pen from an inside jacket pocket.
Gibson started by saying he was sorry for his loss. He rapped off the traditional rhetoric begrudgingly. There was an unpleasant quality about Jeff.
“We didn’t get along particularly well,” Jeff snorted.
The detectives remained silent. Not only to stop themselves from saying something regrettable but to see if Jeff would continue talking. Bingo!
“But it’s shocking. We talked sometimes. What happened anyway?” Jeff flogged his cigarette on his leg more forcibly.
Gibson gave him a lowdown of the crime leaving out details that only the killer would know. Jeff pulled away from the onslaught of ghastly facts, his ruddy complexion paling quickly. His feet jiggled on the worn-out rug. He plucked up a lighter off the coffee table, and then tossed it back without any thought.
“Do you play baseball, Jeff?” Gibson asked. The tone of his voice revealed his dislike of the brother—half-brother.
“Sure.”
“Robbie was struck with a bat.”
“It wasn’t mine!” The pitch in his voice had gone from bass to alto.
“Were you at the party with Robbie?”
“Yeah,” Jeff answered, uncertain how one question had led to another.
“So you hung out occasionally as well it seems,” Gibson said. “Tell me.”
Jeff leaned forward, twirling the cigarette in his fingers. The slightest curve at the corner of his mouth appeared, a coldness crept into his eyes.
“Ellen invited me. She’s always trying to get us to mend bridges.” He paused and peered at them. A smirk playing on his face showed yellowed teeth. “So I showed up at the party in my Sunday best. Cause you never know. I hooked up with this nice young woman.” He showed a voluptuous shape with his hands, gave a wink and settled back in his chair with an exaggerated casualness.
Gibson set his steel-grey eyes into a stony stare.
“What’s her name?” he barked.
“I don’t know. The lady was in a costume,” Jeff said. “But then she split all of a sudden. I don’t know why. Anyway, I went home.” The grin had vanished. He tossed the unlit cigarette onto the table and played with the silver earring hanging from his pierced ear.
“And the next morning?”
“I was here. Sleeping. The girl split like I said.” He dropped his gaze, rubbing his forehead to mask his chagrin.
Just then Gibson’s phone buzzed.
“Gibson.” He escaped from the stifling room and stood in the hallway.
“Jocko. Here at the lab.”
Gibson closed his eyes and waited for the news.
“The blood on the bat is from Robbie Spencer. I got a good set of prints from the handle. There was also a sticker on it with initials. JS.” Gibson heard him shuffle paper. “Oh yeah. Nothing interesting with the backpack. Only Robbie’s blood.”
“The condom wrapping?”
“No prints.”
“What. Isn’t that kind of weird?” Gibson groaned.
“Somebody wiped it.”
“Oh, really.” He thanked Jocko, hung up and stepped back into the gloomy room. He looked at Scottie and said, “Get his prints?”
“What? You can’t do that,” Jeff protested.
“I think the bat is yours. There’s a label on it with your initials. So yeah, we have good reason to take your prints.”
“It’s not mine.”
But they got his prints nevertheless. Now with some physical evidence, they went hunting for prints from everybody possible.
* * *
Katherine was in the greenhouse with Heather, steaming mugs of chamomile tea warming their palms. Wispy bangs tickled the side of Heather’s left cheek. She leaned forward with interest as Katherine spoke, unfolding her legs and adjusting the folds of her red dress.
“Chamomile is an excellent herb for combating anxiety and depression,” Katherine said. She had spent a sleepless night tossing and turning—many sleepless nights. She was trying to get the business diploma she had deserted a long time ago. As the exam date got closer, the knot in her gut got
bigger.
“You know a lot about herbs,” Heather said. “I love cooking and should use them more.”
Katherine sensed that her friend wanted to draw the conversation away from her despondent spirits. But she was in a melancholy mood and could not be swayed to alter her gloomy state of mind.
“I’ve been thinking about my ex.” A crease was forming between her eyebrows as she talked. She rubbed at it to release the tension, but it wouldn’t go away.
“Oh, Katherine,” Heather exclaimed. She had been strumming her nails on the side of her mug. This remark caused her to stop midway to the next tap and look intently at her friend.
Katherine waved a hand backward to ward off the sympathy. She rubbed at her forehead again, trying to erase the subsequent thought.
“And my miscarriage. It was awful.”
A blush fluttered up Heather’s face. She pressed her lips together and picked at her nail polish nervously. Katherine ignored her friend’s weird reaction and carried on with her story.
“Just living with Arthur and his bullying started my panic attacks. Then the…” she floundered, stopping her thoughts midflight. Her mouth went dry. She felt a shiver run up her back and a clammy sheen break out on her cheeks. But she was beyond crying at this point so she squeezed her eyes shut and blurted out the ending.
“I lost the baby.”
Heather reached over and stroked her friend’s trembling hands with tender caresses. Her touch was warm against the dampness of her friend’s skin. Before Katherine could speak, she raised a finger to her mouth and shook her head. There were no words for this moment. Heather remained still as her friend fidgeted on her stool. Katherine scrunched up her face and then released the tension, struggling to regain composure. As her apprehension eased, the wrinkles that had appeared around her lips smoothed. She gave Heather a timid grin, breathed in deeply and pulled her hands away.
“I’m okay. Let’s talk about the gourmet cook.”
“Yes, this gourmet cook needs lessons on infusing herbs into her creations.” Heather blew out a giant exhalation of pent-up breath and took a sip of her cold tea.