Technicolor Grey

Detective Leo Percival peered into the sample bags, manipulating the pitted bone fragments to get a better view. My attention fixed on the Petoskey pendent that we drilled up with the bones. Beautiful, now that it was clean, gold filigree traced a meandering path across the polished surface of the teardrop stone. The longing to run my finger along the golden trail was intense. A memory loomed at the edges of my consciousness like a ghost, too infirm to be grasped, only visible enough to be almost understood.

“Where did you say you got these, Ms. Quin?” I jumped at the sound of the Detective’s voice, and the phantom memory dissipated in the fluorescent light of the conference room at Lawton Waste Management, LWM for short.

“About thirty feet below the cap of that lagoon.” I jutted my chin to where the lagoon walls rose forty feet above us – a man-made pool of mucky waste with a cap of flyash and soil. As LWM’s environmental management consultant, it had fallen to me, Alison Quin, to be up there in the sub-zero wind-chill of February in northeast Ohio.

“You were drilling to collect environmental samples and when you reached 30 feet, you started pulling up bones?”

I couldn’t blame Percival for being skeptical. Hell, I was there and I had trouble believing it. The driller and I had been sampling on that lagoon for several days already. Today started out the same as every other day, until we started the third sampling interval. “Well, maybe more like 31 feet, but yeah.”

“Can you explain to me what’s in that . . . lagoon, did you call it?”

I glanced up at Sally Lewis, the lab tech/environmental liaison/waste manager and all-around girl Friday at LWM. Sally and I became good friends when I was an employee here, and the friendship lasted even though my employment did not. Sally was the go-to person of the operation, but she would never get the title due to the physical limitations of having breasts and a vagina. The operations manager, Jeff Lawton, always made sure Sally knew her place – and stayed there. He was a big part of the reason I was no longer an employee at LWM. Unfortunately, as an independent consultant I was unwilling to turn down work, even if it was for someone I hated. Hence my current position.

Sally nodded and began a narrative that we both knew by heart. “The waste in that unit came from an old primary neutralization process located at the north end of the property. Waste acid was trucked in and dumped into the holding pond -”

“Pond A,” I interjected.

“From there it was pumped into a tank of lime slurry for treatment. Metals drop out of solution as metal hydroxides. The neutralized slurry was pumped into the lagoons where we were sampling today. The metal hydroxide sludge and un-reacted lime would settle out and remain in the lagoons and the salt water would run off into the lower holding pond.”

Percival scribbled in his little notebook. “How long ago did the process operate?”

“Old Site 1 was closed and dismantled over 30 years ago, when this ‘new’ system was constructed.” I waved a hand in the general direction of the treatment process adjacent to the office area where we were sitting. “LWM still used the lagoons until the filter presses were installed, but they’ve been idle for years.”

“Detective . . .” I paused, shifted. “Are you sure those are . . . human?”

“I’d almost guarantee it, Ms. Quin. Though we’ll have to wait for the ME to know for certain. Based on what you’ve told me, it’s an old death. I imagine it could have been accidental . . .”

“Back then, there was no fence around this facility.” Sally latched onto the rationalization. “Any idiot could have walked onto the property and fallen into those lagoons accidentally. If they couldn’t swim . . .”

“But wouldn’t the gasses from the decaying body have floated it to the surface, eventually?” I drew upon knowledge gleaned from obsessive viewing of various crime scene investigation programs on television. I was a true prime time crime junky.

“You have a point.” Detective Percival rewarded me with a grudging nod, though his eyes never strayed from his note pad.

I took it as praise, anyway. I always wanted to be a CSI. At least since George Eads demonstrated just how sexy the profession was. Sure beat the hell out of environmental management consulting – especially this time of year.

Percival finally raised his eyes to mine. “And if it wasn’t an accident?”

Sally and I often discussed how easy it would be to dispose of a body in this place. Jeff Lawton was often the star of our murderous fantasies. I stole a glance at Sally, and her horrified expression quenched the burst of laughter that flashed up my throat. I coughed. I guess it is eerie to think that someone put one of the macabre methods we joked about into practice.

I ventured one of my favorite scenarios. ”If the body was in the lime, most of the flesh would rot away, but the skeleton would stick around. Once in the slurry, the acid would eat away at the bones. But if they were caked in lime, they could have made it through the treatment cycle at least partially intact – could explain the pitting.”

“Could someone accidentally fall into the lime?”

Sally shook her head. “Even then the lime was stored in a silo. You don’t accidentally fall into a silo.”

“So we’d be looking at foul play under that scenario.” Percival starred the option in his notes.

“But if you wanted to get rid of somebody, why not just push ‘em into Pond A?” Sally continued an on-going argument we waged when bored, or pissed at Jeff, which was most of the time.

“And have a body floating in the pond?” I countered.

“Not necessarily. It had a really low pH back then. Would have eaten up the body pretty quickly.”

“Including the bones.” I slapped the table. “The only way the bones could have survived is if the body started in the silo.”

“Sounds like you ladies have discussed this before,” Percival said. “I’m not going to find another body out here, am I?”

“You haven’t found one whole body yet. A little early to start looking for another, isn’t it?” My energy was sapped from hours of being out in the cold. Now that I was warming up, I wanted nothing more than to go home, kiss my husband and kids, and curl up in front of the fire with a stiff drink.

“You have a point.” He nodded, but his focus was on his notebook, again.

I grimaced, certain that the only point he saw was the tip of his pencil. “Can I go home, now?”

Percival held up the bag with the necklace and examined it. The sight sparked another flash of memory. Comprehension had almost coalesced, when his fist closed around the pendent; his voice scattering the image to the ether, again. “I have all your contact information, Ms. Quin. If I have any further questions, I know how to reach you.” He looked at me directly. “Now remember . . .”

“Don’t leave town?” The smart ass comment slipped out. I was still trying to grasp the vapor that had dissipated in the Detective’s grasp.

“No.” He snorted. “Don’t forget to buckle up on your way home and take it slow. The roads really suck.”

They aren’t the only thing.



* * *



Aside from thanking the poor stranger for delaying sampling while the authorities decided what to do about the unlikely grave, I tried to put the bones out of my mind. I was less successful with the necklace. It refused to be ignored. Every morning, and sometimes in the middle of the night, I would awake with a memory of a dream on the edge of awareness; my only clear recollection: the Petoskey pendent with gold filigree.

Four weeks later, I was working at home when the phone rang. It was Sally.

“Al, you’ll never guess what I found out today.”

“Probably not.”

“I went in for my annual physical with Paganini.” The mention of the medical examiner, who sidelined as an occupational physician in our little backwater county peaked my curiosity, and I pushed the report I was working on aside as Sally continued. “I asked about the bones that you found, and he told me that they determined that they belonged to a woman. They can’t ID her, obviously, but they do know that she died about 40 years ago. Detective Percival is digging into any missing persons cases from that general time period.”

The dream memory became technicolor– as clear and crisp in my mind as if the past 38 years melted away.

Sally startled me out of my stupor. “Alison, did you hear me? Didn’t your mom disappear around then?”

“Yeah.” My mother, Alyssa Joy Haddock, who wore a Petoskey pendent identical to the one I discovered just four weeks ago; the same woman who vanished from my life when I was only four years old.

“Well, I bet that the good Detective will be calling you,” Sally said. “You better let me know what you find out.”

I managed to gather my wits and respond casually, “Will do, Sal. See ya later.”

I hung up and grabbed my coat. I hadn’t talked to my dad in several weeks. It was that way between us. My father was all I had after Mom disappeared. Steadfast, but stoic, his favorite activity with me was trap shooting. Though it allowed us to forge a close relationship, it definitely wasn’t verbose. Shooting didn’t lend itself to deep discussion. We really didn’t have much to say to each other, anyway.

Until now.



* * *



I don’t even recall the drive to my childhood home. As I approached the two-story farmhouse, I admired the decked-out Cadillac in the drive out of curiosity; notable because my dad’s friends drove beaters.

In the house, I stopped short in the entryway, confronted by four brawny men. That might not have fazed me if my father wasn’t hanging between two of them.

“Dad?!?”

“What?” He raised his head. “Alison, go home!”

I was shocked immobile, as the shortest of the men sidled toward me.

He was about my age, mid-forties, with colorless hair and ice-blue eyes set in a square, lined face. I could tell by the deference with which the forth goon stepped aside that this was the man in charge.

“Ah, Mr. Haddock’s lovely daughter.” His voice was low and seductive, with a hint of an accent. I had to stop myself from laughing. For one thing, I’ve had five kids, and my body shows it. For another, I was nervous as hell, and I giggle when I’m nervous.

His full lips twitched up at the corners. He ran a finger along my jaw, and I shuddered at the touch. “Oh, yes, donna bella. I like my women soft and curvaceous.”

“Please leave her alone, Cappy,” Dad pleaded. “I told you I’d do it.”

Cappy made a show of dragging his eyes away from my face. “You know, Jason, I find myself hoping you do not behave yourself.”

“I’ll do it, whatever you want. Just, please, leave her out of this.”

“I want to believe you . . .” I gasped when Cappy grabbed me by the hair. He dragged me close to my father so he could get in his face. “I truly want to believe you, Jason. So let me remind you once more. I know everything that goes on in this town, and Youngstown is only an hour away. Tomorrow you will go to the police and confess that you murdered your wife and disposed of her body without help. If I learn that you are reneging on our deal, your daughter and I will get to know each other very well. Do you understand?”

“Yes! Now, please, let her go.”

Cappy released me and I threw out a hand to keep from falling. He took my elbow in a gentle grip and helped me up. “My sincerest apologies, donna bella.” He was all charm again. “I just want to ensure that Jason understands what is at stake. I trust you do as well. I would hate to see anything happen to your delightful children.”

I wanted to tell him that if he touched one of my kids I was going to kill him, but my mouth felt like it was full of cotton.

He nodded his head and his three sidekicks filed out ahead of him. He placed a feather-light kiss on my palm before following.

It took a minute for me to recover. That’s when I rounded on my father.

“What the hell was that all about?”

He struggled to stand, hinting at the beating that he took before my arrival. I could tell by the lack of visible injury, Cappy knew what he was doing.

“It’s a long story.”

“I don’t care!” I was sorry for the harsh tone, and took a deep, calming breath. “Please explain to me why a complete stranger just threatened me and my family?”

“I just have to do what they want.” Dad lowered himself into his favorite easy chair.

“What’s that?”

“Tell the truth.”

“The truth . . . about what?”

“About murdering your mother.”

“You . . . murdered Mom?”

Dad’s look was so self-incriminating that he did not have to answer.

He believed it.



* *



I spent the next half hour ministering to my father’s injuries, allowing my mind time to process what I had heard. I couldn’t accept my father’s confession of murder. He loved my mother. Even at the tender age of four, I recognized the adoration with which he looked at her.

But more telling were the actions of the gruesome foursome. Cappy and his cronies were not heroes fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. They were mob thugs, straight out of The Godfather. I had lived around the type all my life. The Mob enjoyed our tiny corner of Ohio as a vacation spot for decades. If they were coercing a confession, I was certain that it had little to do with the truth. So why was Dad so convinced he was guilty? And who did kill my mother?

I put a cup of hot tea on the end table by him, and leaned down to check the ice pack he held to the worst of the bruises. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. You should head home.”

“Not gonna happen, Dad.” I sat, unyielding, on the couch. “I think I deserve some answers.”

“You have trouble understanding that I killed your mother?”

“I have trouble believing that you killed her. You loved mom – I know you did.”

“Yeah, I loved her.” He sipped his tea and grimaced. “Couldn’t you find anything stronger in the cupboard?”

I launched off the couch to retrieve a bottle of cinnamon schnapps from the liquor cabinet, ripped off the cap, and dumped a strong shot into his tea cup.

“There!” I slammed the bottle on the table. “Now tell me what the hell happened.”

“It was so long ago. Not sure I remember the details . . .” He took a long drink of the doctored tea, avoiding my direct gaze.

“Then tell me what you do remember.”

“Did you know your mom went to college? She was one smart cookie . . . and beautiful.” He gave me a goofy smile. “I always thanked the good Lord that you got her looks, baby.”

I’d seen pictures of my mom, and I really didn’t look that much like her. Didn’t look like Dad either. I sighed.

“Dad . . .”

“Well, I did.” He took another long drink and sighed in resignation. “Anyway, it wasn’t until she came home the summer after her first year of college that we really got serious. I thought I was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to have a woman as pretty and smart as Alyssa want me. I remember when she told me she was pregnant. I asked her to marry me right then and there. I couldn’t believe it when she said ‘yes.’ I was handed everything I ever wanted with that ‘yes.’“

He drained his tea and dumped more schnapps into the cup. “I guess in my head I always knew ‘Lyssa was meant for somethin’ more than the small-town, blue-collar life I could give ‘er. But I always been one to go with my heart.” His grin was boyish as he knocked on his head. “Never had a whole lot goin’ for me up here, anyway.”

“Dad, what does this have to do with Mom’s death?”

Another gulp of schnapps. “You mean her murder. I know this is hard for you, baby. I didn’t turn myself in ‘cause you needed me. It was easier to live with my own guilt than to know my li’l girl was growin’ up in foster homes like I did. I jus’ couldn’t let that happen.”

“But why would you murder Mom?”

Dad slopped some more schnapps into his cup as he spoke. “I was workin’ third shift at LWM. Back then, it was a pretty lonely shift. Only guys I saw was the truck drivers, and they usually dumped their load and got right back on the road. I always took a thermos to help get me through the night. Management looked the other way, long as things went smooth.”

He took another long drink. “I ‘member, Jeff Lawton come in to see how things was goin’. We tossed back a couple, talkin’ ‘bout ‘Lyssa.” Dad drained the schnapps into his cup. “Jeff weren’t shy ‘bout tellin’ me what a lucky son-of-a-bitch he thought I was. He always had a thing for her – e’en back in high school.”

Dad drained his cup. “Anyways, I musta had a li’l too much to drink while he was there. After he left, I ‘member feelin’ kinda . . . woozy. I musta passed out. I come to with Jeff shakin’ me, askin’ what I done.”

“I ‘member, I tripped over somethin’ nex’ to my chair when I lef’ the control room. I followed him outside . . .” He tipped his cup, but it was empty. I wasn’t sure if the horrified expression on his face was a result of what he remembered, or because he was out of booze. “That was when I saw ‘er, near the neut tank, lyin’ on the ground next to her little VW bug. Her skull bashed in.”

“You don’t remember doing it?”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. The memory seemed to have sobered him instantly. “Had to be me. There was a trail of blood leading back to the control room. And right next to my chair was a pipe wrench with . . .” He swallowed. “. . . Alyssa’s hair and blood all over it. Who else could it’ve been?”

“Jeff Lawton?” I could hear the unspoken ‘duh’ in my tone. “You said he was jealous.”

“Of me. He wouldn’t have killed Alyssa. He wanted her all to himself.”

“Why would you kill her, Dad?”

“Maybe because . . . she came to tell me she was leavin’ me . . . leavin’ us.” Dad’s chin quivered. “I can’t remember . . .”

* * *

It didn’t matter that Dad couldn’t remember Mom telling him she was leaving. It didn’t matter how much I argued with him. I could not convince him that there was any possibility that he didn’t murder Mom. Despite my objections, he turned himself in the following day. He refused to let me go with him. When I went to visit, he wouldn’t see me.

I was furious, but I didn’t know who to be furious with; my father for being bullheaded; the real killer, for the obvious reason; or Cappy and his goons, for forcing the issue. How was I supposed to explain something to my children that I didn’t understand myself?

That was when I remembered the box of Mom’s things Dad gave me on my wedding day. It was doubtful, but maybe I would find some answers there. As soon as I arrived home, I hurried back to my bedroom, and rummaged in the recesses of the closet until I found it. The first item I pulled out was a photo of Mom, laughing into the camera, the Petoskey pendant at her throat. I remember fingering it like a worry stone whenever Mom held me. I set the photo aside reluctantly and began sifting through the rest of the contents.

Amongst all the year books and photos, I found a stack of letters tied together with a blue ribbon. Blue was Mom’s favorite color. Every room in our house was painted in a different shade. Even the border gardens were in coordinated hues of the color. Mom painted her entire little world blue, and Dad never changed it.

All the letters in that stack were from Dad. He wrote them to her during her first year of college. Every letter, written in his stilted print, was full of hometown news. And each closed with an expression of his loneliness because she was away.

My dad never even wrote my school absence notes. So the presence of the letters, written every single week while Mom was at school, was a testament to his devotion. More significant to me was the care with which she saved the letters. No way was she going to leave Dad and me. I read them all again, my certainty about Dad’s innocence solidifying with each word. I could not allow him to take responsibility for a murder I was convinced he didn’t commit.

I would not.

* * *

I started with Dad’s public defender, Calvin Pepperidge. He was a transplant from Cleveland, totally out of his element in our hick county.

“Mr. Pepperidge, don’t you see that it’s likely my father is innocent?” I had just finished explaining the situation in detail.

He stood up and began gathering things into his briefcase. “I’m truly sorry, Ms. Quin.” He sounded anything but. “My job has nothing to do with ascertaining his innocence or guilt – that was established with his signed confession. The hearing is solely to determine his sentence for the crime.”

He snapped his briefcase shut and moved to the door. “Now, I really must be going. I have a meeting in Chagrin Falls, and if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.”

“But you’re his lawyer. If he’s innocent, isn’t it your . . . your duty or something to make sure he’s cleared?”

“My job is to represent your father during his sentencing hearing. That’s it.”

I crossed my arms and fumed. Mr. Pepperidge held the door open, but I ignored him. He shrugged. “Good day, Ms. Quin.”

What was good about it?

***

“May I speak to Detective Leo Percival, please?” I glanced around uneasily. I had lived in this town all my life, aside from my time at college, and never been inside the police station until this mess.

Percival came out fifteen minutes later. “Ms. Quin, you’re the last person I expected.”

“Uh, hi, Detective.” Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure where to start.

“What is it you need to see me about?”

“Is there someplace private we could talk?”

“Sure.” He opened the door and led me through a small open room with several desks, some occupied, some not, all piled with paperwork. At the far side, he motioned me into a nondescript room with a table and two chairs. He spread his arms. “OK, We’re in private.”

“I assume you know . . . well of course you do . . .”

“About your father’s arrest. Yes, I’m aware of his confession to the murder of your mother.”

I stood up and paced the room. My thoughts were a jumble, and that’s just how they came out. “When we found those bones that day I had no idea. I mean, what kind of sick joke is it that I drilled up my own mother’s bones? The chances are what, a million to one? And then, my father, well, I never saw that coming -” I took a deep breath and attempted coherence. “The day I learned that the bones belonged to a woman who died about when my mother disappeared, I went to talk to Dad. When I arrived, there were four men in his home. They told him if he didn’t confess to the murder that they would harm me and my family. They coerced my father into admitting that he killed my mother.”

Percival’s eyebrows formed a hedgerow over his eyes. “Did he?”

“Huh?”

“Did your father kill your mother?”

“He believes he did, but he doesn’t remember doing it. He . . . he had too much to drink that night, and all he recalls is being awakened by Jeff Lawton.”

Percival’s pencil was poised over his notebook. “Who is Jeff Lawton?”

I paused, perplexed. Who was Jeff Lawton? An asshole. I knew the only reason Jeff was still the head of the local LWM facility was that his family owned it. His older brother, Jon was the smart one, and now ran the bourgeoning business from its new headquarters in Youngstown. Youngstown. The mob connection. Shit.

I broke out in a cold sweat as Cappy’s words that day came back to me with remarkable clarity: ‘You will go to the police and confess that you murdered your wife and disposed of her body, by yourself.’ That was why Cappy and his goons showed up: to make sure Dad took the fall and did not implicate Jeff Lawton. How would Cappy feel about me implicating him instead? My stomach did a flip and it took every ounce of control I had not to puke on Percival’s shoes.

“Uh, you know what, Detective, I think I was mistaken.” I hurried towards the door. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll show myself out.”

I was still shaking when I got to my car, but if I thought that Percival was going to let it go, I was mistaken. “Ms. Quin?” He was tapping on my window. “Ms. Quin, if this Jeff Lawton was involved in helping conceal the murder, then he should be charged . . .”

I rolled the window down about an inch. “I was mistaken, Detective. Jeff Lawton visited my father earlier in the evening. He wasn’t there when Dad found the body.”

“What about the men at your father’s -”

“Friends, actually. I have to go, Detective. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

I rolled up the window and hit the gas hard enough that the tires spun as I pulled away from the curb. I hoped that Percival was almost as lazy as that S.O.B. of a public defender. I had no doubt about Cappy’s ability to make good on his threats.

No doubt whatsoever.

* * *

I traveled the back roads of town for the next hour. I ended up at the covered bridge near my childhood home. Down a narrow trail beside the wide creek spanned by the bridge, I brushed the snow off an old fallen tree and sat down. The sound of the water running under the ice was soothing, and I needed soothing.

This was my childhood stomping grounds. My best friend and I used to pretend to be detectives. I would play Nancy Drew and she would play Nancy’s tomboy sidekick, George Fayne. We spent hours chasing imaginary villains through the woods and swamps on either side of the creek. Everything in those juvenile mysteries was black and white, good or bad. I ached for that simplicity.

I was intensely angry and profoundly afraid. It was a dichotomy of emotion that endangered what little rationality remained. I did not want to see my father go to jail, being certain that he was innocent. However, if I could convince the authorities of that fact, they were bound to dig into Jeff Lawton’s involvement, and that would bring down the wrath of the Youngstown mob. I couldn’t see any way out of the mess my father had gotten himself, and by association me, into. My frustration threatened to overwhelm me.

I don’t know how long I sat there. It was dusk when my husband, Randy, found me. He didn’t say anything, just sat down next to me and put an arm around my shoulders. Randy is the kind of husband every woman dreams of; considerate, helpful, good father, sensitive lover. He was a farm boy from southern county, but we had to go to Columbus to meet. He always joked that he gave me a ride home, and I never left. Why would I want to?

I looked at him. “The kids OK?”

“Yeah. Fiona’s watching them while I look for you.”

“Dad’s going to jail, Randy.”

“I know, sweetheart. If I could snap my fingers and make it all go away, you know I would. Trust me, it’s hard now, but it’ll get easier. It’s just gonna take time.”

He pulled me to my feet, keeping his strong arm around me as he guided me along the path. “Let’s go home and get some pizza. Then we’ll stick in a chick flick and snuggle with the kids on the couch. That always cheers you up.”

I came to a decision as he settled me into the car. “Randy, I’ll meet you at home. I have an errand I need to run.”

“Honey, it’s late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“It won’t take long.”

I pulled away without listening to any further protest. I knew if I didn’t do it now, I would lose my nerve.

What little nerve I had.

* * *

I drove the short distance to my father’s house. Dad always kept a wide array of guns. Most were for hunting, registered and legal. But I knew he had a small hand gun in the drawer of his night stand. A friend gave it to him under the table after a series of nearby break-ins and Dad made me learn how to shoot it.

I pulled on my black, knit gloves and picked up the gun. I checked the clip to see that it was loaded and placed it into my pocket with a few spare rounds.

I headed to the next borough, where Jeff Lawton lived. If Jon Lawton was the brains of LWM, Jeff was its dick, only useful for pissing in the wind or screwing people. I always counted myself lucky that while I worked at LWM, he avoided speaking to me, preferring scathing memos to direct confrontation. I figured it was because he knew he’d never win in a face-to-face.

I parked across the street from Jeff’s home. The estate was expansive and secluded, which was good. I knew he was home because his BMW was sitting in the drive. I just hoped he was alone. If he wasn’t I was screwed, because there was no way I would work up the nerve to try this again.

I walked down the long driveway and onto the pillared entryway. I raised a shaking hand and pushed the door bell. It took a minute, but Jeff answered the door himself, which was encouraging.

“Alison?” He opened the door wider. “What do you want?”

“Jeff, are you alone?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Can we talk? It’s about my dad.” Tears were not hard to conjure, given my emotional state, and he had to let me in or look like a real jerk, which wasn’t beyond him.

He let me in.

“I was real sorry to hear about your dad.” His eyes shifted down, guilty. “Who woulda thought he had it in him?”

I pulled the gun out of my pocket and pointed it at him. “He doesn’t. But you know that, don’t you?” All of the anger that had built over the last forty-eight hours erupted.

Jeff’s eyes widened. “Alison, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I want to know the truth, Jeff. I want to know who really killed my mother that night.”

He took a step forward, but stopped when I jerked my head. “Keep your distance. Open your mouth. I want the truth, now!”

“Alison, put the gun down.” Jeff took another step forward. I aimed to his left, and plaster showered him from the bullet ricochet off the wall.

He froze, and put his hands up in the air. “OK, OK, just . . . put the damn gun down before you kill me.”

“Now there’s an idea.”

That stymied him. After a moment of rapid, shallow breathing, he managed, “What do you want to know?”

“You were there, that night. You got Dad drunk. Then you bashed my mom’s head in. I wanna know why.”

“What makes you so sure I killed her?” He edged toward the door. This time, he felt the breeze from the bullet as it skimmed over his head.

“Just start talking, or the next one isn’t going to miss.” I was amazed at how steady my voice was. Nothing like my nerves.

“OK, I was there, and I slipped your dad a mickey. I knew Alyssa was coming. It was their anniversary, and she wanted to surprise him. So I went early and made sure he was out of commission before she got there.”

“But why?”

“Why?” Jeff laughed, but the sound was hollow. “Because, she was going to tell him the truth. It would have ruined me.”

“The truth about what?”

“About you. That she had a fling with me and got pregnant. She wanted to come clean and tell him everything. She didn’t want to lie to him anymore, and couldn’t ask him to continue to pay for my mistake.” His tone was disparaging, mocking.

I felt ill. “You’re lying.”

“Look in the mirror, sweetheart,” Jeff sneered. “You couldn’t deny me if you wanted. That’s why I avoided you. I was terrified someone would notice.”

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the coat rack. Similarities previously unnoticed were now obvious. “Go sit at your desk!”

He did as he was told. “Get a pen and a piece of paper. You’re gonna write a confession.”

He crossed his arms. “Why should I?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”

He seemed to consider that for a minute, but must have decided I wasn’t bluffing. He picked up a pen and pulled a pad of paper out of the desk. I read as he wrote. When he finished, I barked, “Now sign it.”

He did, then turned a spiteful look on me. “You know I wrote that under duress. No judge will convict me on it.”

I knew that. “Explain one thing to me. How could having a child ruin you?”

“There was a clause in my old man’s will. If we had any children out of wedlock we would forfeit our trust fund. I was only a couple years from the money. I couldn’t let a floozy with a snot-nosed brat ruin it for me.”

Jeff slumped to the desk, and I lowered the smoking gun. Now that I knew the truth. Now that I had done what I came here to do. I was left to wonder.

Could murder be genetic?

* * *

I replaced the two bullets I discharged earlier. I wrapped Jeff’s dead fingers around the gun and lay it on the desk. I made sure to wipe my gloves on his hand and transfer the gun shot residue. I didn’t know if our local constabulary was as sophisticated as the CSIs on television, but Percival seemed pretty sharp, and I wanted to make sure they found what they expected during a suicide investigation.

Jeff’s hand slid off the desk, and the gun clattered to floor. I studied the scene, and decided it looked right. I found a broom in the kitchen and did my best to clean up all visual evidence of the two non-lethal shots I fired. I even spent some time and found each of the bullets. The ricochet from the first looked like normal wear, but I wiped the area around it, just in case. There was a hole in the wall from the second, but it was near a bookshelf. I moved a philodendron from a nearby table to the top shelf so its trailing vines obscured the hole. It was the best I could do. Next time I planned something like this I would bring spackle.

Once I assured myself that there was no further trace of my presence, I left through the front door and locked it. I retraced my steps down the drive to my car. Randy leaned against it. “What were you doing?”

“I wanted to talk to Jeff, that’s all.” I was surprised how easily the half-truth came out. “How long have you been here?”

“You slipped me at Amboy, so I didn’t find you until just a few minutes ago.”

“Well, my errands are done now. Let’s go home and get some of that pizza.”

Randy gave me a kiss on the cheek. “It’s gonna be OK, honey.”

“I think you’re right.”

* * *

Jeff’s body was found three days later when Sally finally went looking for him because he hadn’t shown up for work. His confession resulted in the release of my father from jail. Randy and Dad felt compelled to comfort me. They assured me that Jeff’s suicide had nothing to do with my visit. If only they knew.

A week passed, and I was working at home. Someone knocked, and I opened the door before seeing who it was.

“We meet again, donna bella.” Cappy swaggered into my living room. “It appears you and your father escaped from your ordeal with no lasting scars.”

I snorted. During the day I could pretend everything was back to normal, but the shadows under my eyes darkened with each sleepless night. Every time I closed my eyes my biological father jeered at the baby girl he rejected.

“Perhaps no visible scars?”

He held out a photograph, and I took it. There I was, pointing a gun at Jeff. The photo was grainy, but clear enough to make an identification.

I crumpled it in a clammy fist.

“I have more. Perhaps you would like a full set – to share with Detective Percival?” He bared his teeth in a predatory smile.

I barely resisted an immediate flight response. I knew there was no escaping, anyway. “What do you want?”

“Your cooperation.”

“With what?”

“You have demonstrated skills that we find useful from time to time.”

I stared at him stonily. His smile widened.

“We will be in touch, donna bella.” He bowed and was gone.

But I know he’ll be back.

The End