The Ex(32)

He paused before answering. “At one time, you were right: I thought that bond between me and Owen sort of tied me to Jack, too. But when Owen died, Jack totally blew me off. I got that he was hurting, but so was I. Owen was about as close to a brother to me as I was ever going to get, and I needed Jack after he died. Like, really needed him. I had to extend my leave from the job. I was drinking too much. My wife was starting to lose her patience. And Jack couldn’t even return my calls.”

I started to explain that Jack had gone through a difficult time, but Ross interrupted. “The psych ward. I know. Not because he told me, mind you, but I found out all the same. Tried to visit him. Tried calling when he got out. He eventually got back to me, but was always too busy to get together—book deadlines, child care, some excuse. I only saw him twice over the next few years, and it felt forced both times. I finally stopped trying.”

“So he shut down, and shut everyone out. He probably just didn’t want to be reminded about Owen’s accident. But there’s no way he did this. We have to help him.”

“Did he tell you I was the one who delivered the news about Penn Station?”

The fact took me by surprise. I shook my head.

“When you lose a partner—even if it’s not on the job—it sticks with you in the department. Your fellow officers are respectful about it, you know? So when Molly was killed, one of the officers on the scene happened to be at the 44th with me and Owen back in the day and made the connection when she saw the name of Molly’s next of kin. I got the call, asking whether I wanted to be the one to notify Jack. I hadn’t seen him for fifteen years, but I thought he’d still rather hear it from me than a stranger, you know? When I showed up at his place, the whole situation was kind of weird—him pretending like he meant to call me, or that we’d only been sort of out of touch. He was just, I don’t know how to explain it—like I’d never known him. I was really starting to regret saying I’d deliver the news. Then when I did—I just pulled off the bandage, you know? There’s been a shooting, Molly was there, she’s gone. Done.”

“That can’t have been easy.”

“No, it wasn’t, but you learn how to do it when you’re a cop. And I’ve seen a lot of responses over the years. Jack’s was ice cold. I actually wondered for a second if he’d heard me.”

I pictured Jack repeating I can’t believe this is happening over and over again after his father died. Who knew what coping skills he had learned during his hospitalization. “Maybe that flat response was his way of handling the shock.”

“It wasn’t just that one moment,” Ross said. “I left my card and told him I was there for him if I could help in terms of providing information about the case or facilitating anything else with the department. It’s not like I expected him to be my best buddy, but, man, he never even thanked me for coming. I called his house a few months later to see if he wanted to go out for beers. Left a message on his answering machine. But, just like before, he never called back.”

“He was grieving, Ross. Molly was the love of his life.” Or at least one of them, I thought. “I understand that your feelings were hurt because he didn’t return your attempts at friendship, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. Can you really picture Jack executing someone in cold blood?”

His expression was almost a wince, followed by silence. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded distant.

“Look, there’s one more thing. I wasn’t going to mention it, but you’re obviously not getting my point. When I broke the news, he dropped the book bag he was carrying—he hadn’t even set it down yet. A couple of condoms came falling out.”

“Awkward.”

“Very, but it didn’t need to be a big deal. If anything, it kind of provided some dark comedy. But Jack got all freaked out, stuffing them back into the bag, offering all kinds of reasons. I was like—hey, man, it’s nothing. And then basically he couldn’t get me out of the apartment fast enough.”

“You know Jack. He was probably just embarrassed.”

“That’s what I told myself, too. But not long after that, he started giving interviews to the press. You remember?”

I did. Molly was the heroic teacher who tried to stop the shooting; the loving and devoted mother; the wife who worked full-time and supported him while he wrote his first book. Jack was the adoring husband—a successful novelist who volunteered his time teaching writing workshops for the kinds of students his wife was so devoted to.

The Jack and Molly love story.

Ross continued. “So one of the guys at the house—who doesn’t know my connection to Jack, obviously—says something snarky about Jack milking the press, to sell books or something.”

I made a disgusted sound, but Ross cut me off.

“Hey, you got to understand—we see it all the time. Some thug gets hit by a stray bullet in a drive-by. What picture do the papers run? Not the one where he’s in colors, posing with a forty-ouncer and a Glock while throwing signs. No, they run the high school graduation shot, all shiny blue robes and proud smile.”

“Or maybe,” I said, “all the gangsta bravado was a pose, and the real kid was the one in that graduation picture.”

“Spoken like a true defense lawyer,” Ross said.