I've Got My Eyes on You(4)
Mike walked over, bent down and studied it carefully. As the cop had told him, there were several long, bloodstained hairs sticking to the putter head and drops of blood spattered on the shaft.
“Bag it,” Mike said, “and we’ll send it out for analysis.”
As Mike was talking to the officer, the investigator from the Medical Examiner’s Office arrived. Sharon Reynolds had worked several homicide cases with Mike. He introduced her to Officer Weld, who briefly summarized what they had found at the scene.
Reynolds knelt next to the body and began taking photographs. She slid the dress Kerry was wearing up to her neck to check for stab or other wounds and then examined her legs. Finding no injuries, she rolled the body over and continued to snap pictures. Moving Kerry’s hair to the side, she photographed the deep gash at the base of her skull.
7
When Steve and Aline came back downstairs after changing their clothes, they joined Fran in the family room, which was still littered with plastic glasses and soiled paper plates. Officer Weld had instructed them not to clean up anything until the Prosecutor’s Office arrived and had had an opportunity to examine both the outside property and the inside of the home.
Steve’s arm was around Fran. They were sitting together motionless on the couch. Then Fran’s voice began to shake and she exploded into high-pitched sobs.
They huddled together in mutual shock and overwhelming grief. “How could she have fallen into the pool fully dressed?” Fran wailed.
Steve said, “We know she was out on the patio cleaning up. Maybe she leaned over to get something that had fallen in the pool and then she fell. It was probably late and she may have been tired.” He did not share with Fran or Aline his private fear that Kerry might have had way too much to drink.
Quietly tearful, Aline was thinking. Poor Kerry, poor baby. She had been in frequent contact with Kerry in the three years she had been away. She could not fathom that she would never see or hear from her again. She couldn’t believe that yet again she was forced to deal with the sudden death of someone she loved.
Fran was quietly sobbing now.
There was a chiming from the doorbell, then the unlocked front door was pushed open. It was Monsignor Del Prete, “Father Frank” as he preferred to be called. The sixty-six-year-old pastor of St. Gabriel’s, their local parish, came in. Obviously someone had phoned him, because he said at once, “Fran, Steve, Aline, I am so terribly sorry.” As they stood up, he clasped each of their hands in his and then pulled up a chair close to them. He said quietly, “I would like to say a prayer for Kerry.” He began, “Dear Lord, in this time of great sorrow . . .”
When he’d finished it, Fran burst out, “How could God do this to us?”
Father Frank took off his glasses, removed a smooth cloth from his pocket and began to clean them as he spoke. “Fran, that is a question everyone asks after a tragedy. How can our all-loving and merciful God fail to protect us and those we love at the time when we most need him? I’ll be honest with you. It’s a question I struggle with myself.
“The best answer I’ve heard came in a sermon given by an elderly priest many years ago. He was traveling in the Middle East and was overwhelmed by the majesty of the Persian rugs he saw. Those gorgeous creations so skillfully woven into such beautiful designs. One day he was in a shop where those rugs were on display. He walked behind one that was hanging on hooks from the ceiling. Looking at it from behind, he was shocked to behold a confusing array of threads that led nowhere. Such beauty on one side, total disharmony on the other, but both part of the same plan. It was then that the message became clear to him. In this life we see only the back side of the rug. We don’t know how or why our unspeakable hardships are part of a beautiful design. That is why having faith is so important.”
The silence that followed was broken by a knock on the back door. As Steve got up, there was the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. A man in his early thirties, with sandy hair and piercing brown eyes stood before them. He introduced himself by saying, “My name is Detective Mike Wilson from the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office. I am so sorry for your loss. Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions? We need basic background information.”
Father Frank got up and offered to stop back later.
Fran and Steve, speaking almost in unison, asked him to stay. He nodded and sat down again.
“What is your daughter’s age?” the detective asked.
It was Aline who answered. “She was eighteen in January. She just graduated from high school.”
The questions were gentle and easy to answer. Steve and Fran confirmed they were Kerry’s parents and that Aline was her older sister.
“When was the last time you were in touch with your daughter in any way—phone, text, email?”
They agreed it was about five o’clock the previous evening. Steve explained that they had stayed overnight with friends in Massachusetts and gotten up early this morning to pick up Aline at Kennedy Airport. She was coming back from London.
“Are you aware that a party was being held in your home last evening?”
Of course, the answer was no.
“There is evidence that liquor was served at the party. Did your daughter drink alcohol or use drugs?”
Fran’s no was indignant. “She certainly did not use drugs,” Steve said. “I’m sure she had an occasional beer or glass of wine with her friends.”