Hometown Favorite: A Novel (33 page)

John Hathaway and Rosella walked together down the long hall
in the lower floor of the hospital. Hathaway had worked as a
uniform for four years and in homicide for the Houston Police
Department for the last twenty-three. He had been successful
at cracking many difficult cases for which he was honored with
awards and citations and mayoral handshakes, none of which
he cared about. What he did care about was the case, and what
he did not like was people telling him how to do his job, people
who talked too much and knew even less. He walked with a
limp courtesy of a fleeing suspect who did not like the fact of
Hathaway's pursuit and so fired at him. In turn, Hathaway did
not like the suspect's reaction, especially after he had taken a
bullet, so he returned fire and stopped the suspect's escape.
That was when he got the handshake from the mayor.

In twenty-seven years, Hathaway had gone through three
marriages, all of them childless, and a couple of girlfriends
between each divorce. The job needed him to be sharp, and
he feared the comforts of domestic life would make him soft,
so a pair of twins, null and void, occupied his current love life.
When it came to keeping a steady partner, he was no more
successful with his fellow detectives. His leaving-no-stone unturned method of case building and a zero tolerance for
sloppy work meant he was in constant conflict with anyone
who labored beside him, but in spite of his sour personality
few would say that time spent with Hathaway had not made
them better detectives.

"Is my husband here?" Rosella asked.

"Yes, ma'am, but he's unconscious at the moment. They'll
let us know as soon as he wakes up."

"Unconscious? Why is he unconscious?"

"Carbon monoxide poisoning,' he said.

Rosella stared at him in complete disbelief.

"That's exhaust from a car."

"I know what that is;' she said as they walked into a small
seating area.

"Yes, ma'am. Why don't we take a seat here and I can walk
you through this. Would you like some coffee ... something
to drink?"

"I just want to see my husband. I want to know what happened."

When Rosella sat down in the red fake-leather chair with metal
armrests, she did not notice where she was. She did not notice the
other detective and the coroner talking in low voices off to the
side in the seating area, an attorney from the DAs office speaking
with a uniformed policeman, or a coroner's aide chatting it up
with a custodial worker. She did not notice the sign above the
double doors that read "Hospital Morgue" or the large viewing
window with its drawn curtain concealing two covered bodies
on stainless steel tables on the other side. She could not see the
two assistants ready to unveil the corpses when instructed.

What she did see was John Hathaway sliding the wooden
coffee table in front of her and taking a seat on the edge. He had her complete attention. Her eyes were fixed on the man
whose skin hung from his face in a perpetual 3:00 a.m. sag.
He would unlock this mystery.

"When was the last time you spoke with your husband, Mrs.
Jobe?"

"Last night ... yes. He called from New York."

"What was he doing in New York?"

"Filming a football video game. Why can't I see my husband?"

"What I'm about to tell you is going to be very painful, Mrs.
Jobe"

Hathaway was not devoid of compassion. He never found
this task of delivering bad news an easy thing. Policemen and
doctors were always telling people bad news, it was part of the
territory, and long ago he had lost count of how many times
he had to be the message bearer for the Angel of Death. He
thought it best to keep direct eye contact while communicating
dreadful news. It made the listeners feel as though they were
getting the complete truth. If he looked away, they would feel
he was hiding something.

If they ever looked away, which they normally did-as did
Rosella, covering her newly cleansed face with her hands and
bathing her skin in a cascade of tears-he still kept his eyes
in direct contact with the listeners. And once he delivered the
words, he was prepared to answer any questions to the best of
his ability and offer comfort with a hand to the shoulder and
a word of sympathy.

Hathaway never faked his words or his gestures. It was his way
of building trust and relationship. He had grown accustomed to
raw distress in times of extreme trauma, but he had not grown
calloused to the experience. Each human emotional wreck was different, as was each crime scene, and he treated each with
respect and compassion. He offered Rosella tissue after tissue
throughout his monologue-sanitizing the gruesome parts
and not offering his interpretation of all the evidence he had
observed at the scene-and when she could hear no more, he
stopped and laid his hand on her bent, convulsing back. Touch
in the midst of anguish was a sublime form of empathy.

But it was not over. He had just opened the doors to torment. Hathaway was a prophet, and there was no turning from
his story. He helped Rosella to her feet and guided her to the
window. The policeman and the attorney followed and, like
muted ghosts, took their stations behind them, alert to every
possible reaction from Rosella. It was best to get as much done
in the early stages of shock as possible, and so it was critical
for Rosella to identify the bodies of Bruce and Sabrina-and
if she was able, Robert Jobe III.

Hathaway knocked on the glass, and the curtain flew back.
Rosella refused to look, and Hathaway placed his arm over her
shoulders and held her in his firm, supportive grasp until she
raised her head. He cocked his head toward the assistants, and
they pulled back the sheets covering her niece and nephew.
Hathaway squeezed her shoulder as a fresh wave of grief consumed Rosella when she confirmed these children were her
kin, but she had not buckled. Hathaway decided to gamble
and show her the baby.

With her head buried in Hathaway's chest, he nodded again,
and an assistant rolled a small table into view. He gripped Rosella's arm with his other hand, but it was not enough to support
this final wretchedness. In a paroxysm of misery, she jerked
back from the vision of her son and almost out of Hathaway's
arms. The policewoman came to Hathaway's aid and wrenched
her out of his arms. She motioned for the custodian to help, and together they carried Rosella back to her seat and held on
to her while her screams echoed down the hallway. Hathaway
signaled to an assistant to close the curtain and then looked
straight into the attorney's face.

"She is innocent and she knows nothing," he said, a pronouncement he had never made about a potential suspect this
early in the investigative process when a thousand questions
still needed to be asked and all the details analyzed.

The attorney only nodded and kept his opinions to himself.
The coroner suggested getting a prescription for Rosella from
the hospital pharmacy before departing the hospital and offered to facilitate that course of action.

As they stood in front of the doors of the doctor's private elevator waiting for it to arrive, Hathaway signaled for the other detective to step forward and hand him the ziplock plastic bag.

"Do you recognize this handwriting, Mrs. Jobe?" Hathaway
asked while he held up the corners of the bag in his fingertips
for Rosella to read.

Rosella leaned forward and stared at the words made slightly
out of focus by the plastic. She blinked to see through her
watery eyes. Regardless, the handwriting was immediately
recognizable.

"My niece ... my niece wrote that?" It was a question and
a statement. "When did she write this?"

"It appears it was written today;" Hathaway said. "Further
tests will make it conclusive.'

"My niece was in love with my.. .' She violently shook her
head as if to sling away that horrible thought. "And she was
pregnant?"

The elevator doors opened, and Hathaway handed the bag
back to the detective and waved for him to wait for him there
until he returned. He watched Rosella step into the elevator and slowly turn to face the doors. Her motions were rigid,
her expression, stoic. He stepped in and punched the button,
wondering how much more this woman could take.

On their ride up to the floor where Dewayne waited, Hathaway explained to Rosella she would not be able to return to her
house for several days while they were going over the evidence
and making their reports. He suggested that she make a list of
personal items she might need during that period and a female
officer would collect them and bring them to wherever she
would be staying. Did she have any friends she could stay with,
any other family who would take her in? Or would she prefer a
hotel? They would be happy to make any arrangements. Rosella
made no indication she heard anything Hathaway said.

The doors of the elevator opened, and they stepped into
white light and a cadre of reporters. The two uniformed officers
went into defensive action, pushing the reporters and camera
operators back against the wall, clearing a path for Hathaway
and Rosella.

"Was your husband having an affair with your niece?" a reporter shouted as Hathaway hurried Rosella down the hall to Dewayne's room. "She was pregnant at the time of her death."

Hathaway swore under his breath and vowed that if he found
the officer who had leaked the information, he would have
his badge-probably some rookie at the scene who could not
resist the temptation of payola from a tabloid. But he couldn't
lie to Rosella when she asked for an explanation. He was going
to need her to build this case. He needed her trust, and the
truth was the only way to get and maintain it, no matter how
painful the news.

"There was a pregnancy test found in the trash, Mrs. Jobe;"
he said. "It was inconclusive and partially destroyed, but we're
running tests"

It took a second for Hathaway to realize their forward progress had ceased.

Rosella stopped in the middle of the hall and jerked her
elbow out of the detective's grasp, wondering what other devastating news would come to her today. She felt as if she was
devoid of choices, her decision-making capabilities stripped
from her. The ability, the will, to put one foot in front of the
other had departed.

"She was pregnant ... ;" Rosella whispered-a question, a
statement, a bewildering confirmation of a truth that devastated her.

Hathaway reclaimed the tender hold on her elbow. His reassuring touch felt as if he had been a friend for life and not
a stranger she had known for half an hour who had spent the
time force-feeding her with nothing but horror. He led her to
the door of Dewayne's room.

Rosella stood at the doorway and looked at a husband she no
longer knew. When had he changed? What kind of a monster
had he become right before her very eyes? An oxygen mask
strapped across his face, an IV stuck in his arm, and the other
arm handcuffed to the bed. A nurse told Hathaway that Dewayne had been conscious earlier and spoken to the doctor,
but he was still not sure what had happened. She would call
the doctor and tell him the patient's wife was here.

In his semi-dream state, Dewayne must have sensed the
presence of people, and his eyes flickered open. When he saw
Rosella, he reached out his hand to her, but the handcuffs kept
him from stretching the full extent of his arm. She started
to turn away, but something kept her from moving from the
door and it was not Hathaway's body blocking her exit. It was
a raging impulse to wreak havoc, to destroy the source of all her pain, to bring down swift justice, and she spun around and
rushed toward the bed.

Hathaway was so surprised, he was unable to move for several
seconds, and he stood in awe at this woman pummeling her husband with her fists and cursing him to the lowest points of hell.

Jake had banged on the door for several minutes and called
her name, but Cherie did not answer. He could not see anything through the window because of the closed curtains. He
could hear the television, but it did not sound loud enough to
mute his pounding. Her car sat in the drive. He went over to a
neighbor's house; they had not seen her, but told him she kept
a spare key under a flowerpot on the top front step.

He told them to call the police, dashed back to the house,
found the key, and went inside. The phone was still off the
hook and the remote was in pieces. Cherie lay crumpled on
the floor. The cable channel was carrying the news of the Jobe
family tragedy and announced that soon the district attorney
would be making a public statement live on the air.

He knelt beside Cherie's body and touched her. He felt no
warmth. There was no reflexive response. He whispered her
name, raising the volume level each time he spoke it, but there
was no reply. He laid two fingers on her moist, cool neck and
whispered her name again. There was no sign of life. He stood
and studied the room. He wanted to be sure he could remember
to tell Dewayne exactly the way he found it and exactly the way
he had found his mother, as if she had decided to take a nap on
the floor and never woke up. He knelt back down to wait, to pray,
to regret, to ponder, to plan, and as all these thoughts tumbled
through his mind, he heard the sirens in the distance.