Jack is on the line. Benny is ready to be viewed. “And Marino’s in here looking for you. Says he’s got important information.”
“Tell him where I am.” I hang up.
“Benny did ask me if those men had those awful things done to them because they’re… He used the word queer,” Mrs. White is saying. “I said that very well may have been God’s punishment.”
“How did he react to that?” I ask her.
“I don’t remember him saying anything.”
“When was this?”
“Maybe three weeks ago. Right after they found that second body and all the news came out about them being hate crimes.”
I wonder if Stanfield has any idea how much damage he has caused by leaking investigative details to his goddamn brother-in-law. Mrs. White is chattering nervously as dread builds with her every step down the hallway. I escort her to the front of the office and through a door that takes us into the small viewing room. Inside are a couch and table. There is a painting of a peaceful English countryside on the wall. Opposite the sitting area is a wall of glass. It is covered with a curtain. On the other side is the walk-in refrigerator.
“Why don’t you just sit and make yourself comfortable,” I tell Mrs. White and touch her shoulder.
She is tense, frightened, her eyes riveted to the drawn blue curtain. She perches on the edge of the couch, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. I open the curtain and Benny is swathed in blue, a blue sheet tucked under his chin to hide the ligature mark. His wet hair is combed back, eyes shut. His mother is frozen on the edge of the couch. She doesn’t seem to breathe. She stares blankly, without comprehension. She frowns. “How come his face is all red like that?” she asks almost accusingly.
“The rope prevented the blood from flowing back to his heart,” I explain. “So his face is congested.”
She gets up and moves closer to the window. “Oh my baby,” she whispers. “My sweet child. You’re in heaven now. In Jesus’ arms in paradise. Look, his hair’s all wet like he’s just been baptized. You must have given him a bath. I just need to know he didn’t suffer.”
I can’t tell her that. I imagine when he first tightened the noose around his neck, the roaring pressure in his head was very frightening. He had begun the process of terminating his own life, and he was awake and alert long enough to feel it coming. Yes, he suffered. “Not long,” is what I say. “He didn’t suffer long, Mrs. White.”
She covers her face with her hands and weeps. I draw the curtain and lead her out.
“What will you do to him now?” she asks as she woodenly follows me out.
“We’ll finish looking at him and do some tests, just to see if there’s anything else we need to know.”
She nods.
“Would you like to sit for a while? Can we get you anything?”
“No, no. I’ll just go on.”
“I’m very sorry about your son, Mrs. White. I can’t tell you how sorry. If you have any questions, just call. If I’m not available, someone here will help you. It’s going to be hard, and you’ll go through a lot of things. So please call if we can help.”
She stops in the hallway and grabs my hand. She looks intensely into my eyes. “You’re sure someone didn’t do this to him? How do we know for a fact he did it to himself?”
“Right now, there’s nothing to make us think someone else did this,” I assure her. “But we’ll investigate every possibility. We’re not finished yet. Some of these tests take weeks.”
“You won’t keep him here for weeks!”
“No, he’ll be ready to go in a few hours. The funeral home can come for him.”
We are in the front office and I escort her through a glass door, back into the lobby. She hesitates, as if not quite sure what to do next. “Thank you,” she says. “You’ve been very kind.”
It isn’t often I am thanked. My thoughts are so heavy as I return to my office that I almost run into Marino before I notice him. He is waiting for me just inside my doorway and has paperwork in hand, his face radiating excitement. “You aren’t going to fucking believe this,” he says.