Blood Games. Faye Kellerman

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      Decker said, “Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

      “My son …” Her eyes watered. “They say he … that he committed suicide. But I don’t … I don’t believe it.”

      Decker regarded her in a different context. “You’re Gregory Hesse’s mother.”

      She nodded as tears flowed down her cheeks.

      “I am so sorry, Mrs. Hesse.” He handed her a tissue. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now.” When she started sobbing openly, Decker stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. “Let me get you some water.”

      She nodded. “Maybe that’s a good … idea.”

      Decker caught Marge at the coffeepot. “The woman is Gregory Hesse’s mom—the teen in the paper who committed suicide.” Marge went wide-eyed. “Anyone from Homicide at the scene yesterday?”

      “I was in court.” She paused. “Oliver was there.”

      “Did he talk to you about it?”

      “Not really. It got him down. You could read it in his face. But he didn’t say anything about the death being suspicious.”

      Decker filled up a wax paper cup with water. “Mrs. Hesse has her doubts about suicide. Would you mind sticking around? I’d like another ear.”

      “Of course.”

      Both of them went back to his office. To Mrs. Hesse, Decker said, “I’ve asked Sergeant Dunn here. She partners with Scott Oliver who was at your house yesterday afternoon.”

      “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hesse,” Marge said.

      Tears ran down her cheeks. Mrs. Hesse said, “There were … lots of police at the house.”

      “Detective Oliver was in civilian dress. I don’t remember what he was wearing yesterday. He’s in his fifties—”

      “That one,” she said, drying her eyes. “I remember him. Amazing … it’s still a blur … a nightmare.”

      Decker nodded.

      “I keep expecting to … wake up.” She bit her lip. “It’s killing me.” The tears were falling again faster than she could dry them. “What you can do for me is find out what really happened.”

      “Okay.” Decker paused. “Tell me, what don’t you believe about your son’s death?”

      Wet droplets fell onto her folded hands. “Gregory did not shoot himself. He’s never used a gun in his life! He hated guns. Our entire family abhors violence of any kind!”

      Decker took out a notepad. “Tell me about your boy.”

      “He wasn’t suicidal. He wasn’t even depressed. Gregory had friends, he was a good student. He had lots of interests. He never even remotely hinted at suicide.”

      “Anything about him change over the last few months?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Maybe a little more moody?” Marge suggested.

      “No!” She was resolute.

      Decker asked, “Did he sleep more? Did he eat more? Did he eat less?”

      Wendy’s sigh signaled exasperation. “He was the same boy—thoughtful … he could be quiet. But quiet doesn’t mean depressed, you know.”

      “Of course not,” Decker told her. “I hate to ask you this, Mrs. Hesse, but how about past drug use?”

      “Nothing!”

      “Tell me a little about Gregory’s interests. What about extracurricular activities?”

      She was taken aback. “Uh … I know he tried out for the debate team.” Silence. “He did very well. They told him to come back next year when there’s more room.”

      Meaning he didn’t make it. “What else?” Decker said.

      “He was in math club. He excelled in math.”

      “What did he do on the weekends?”

      “He was with his friends; he went to the movies. He studied. He was taking a full load including an AP course.”

      “Tell me about his friends.”

      She crossed her arms in front of her ample bosoms. “Gregory may have not been one of the popular kids.” She made air quotes over the word popular. “But he certainly wasn’t an outcast.”

      “I’m sure he wasn’t. What about his friends?”

      “His friends were … he got along with everyone … Gregory did.”

      “Can you be more specific? Did he have a best friend?”

      “Joey Reinhart. He’s been friends with him since grade school.”

      “Any others?” Marge asked.

      “He had friends,” Mrs. Hesse kept repeating.

      Decker tried a different approach. “If Gregory had to fit into a high school category, what would it be?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “You mentioned the popular kids. There are other cliques: jocks, skaters, stoners, nerds, rebels, brainiacs, philosophers, hipsters, Goths, vampires, outcasts, artistes …” Decker shrugged.

      The woman’s mouth was set in a thin line. Finally, she said, “Gregory had all sorts of friends. Some of them had some problems.”

      “What kind of problems?”

      “You know.”

      “Problems to us usually mean, sex, drugs, or alcohol,” Marge said.

      “No, not that.” Wendy kneaded her hands. “Some of his friends were a little slower to mature. One boy, Kevin Stanger … they picked on him so bad that he transferred to a private school over the hill.”

      “He was bullied?” Decker asked. “And by bullied, I mean physical contact.”

      “All I know is he was transferred.”

      “When was this?” Marge asked.

      “About six months ago.” The woman looked down. “But that wasn’t Gregory. No sirree. If Gregory were being picked on, I would have known about it. I would have done something. I’ll tell you that much.”

      Precisely the reason why Gregory might not have told her. Decker said, “He never came home with unexplained bumps or bruises?”

      “No! Why don’t you believe me?”

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