by Alex Marcoux
“Hi, Jessie. It’s me,” Steve said. “If you’re there, pick up…I guess you’re out. I’m on my way back from DC. It’s a little after two, my time. I’m driving. Call me on my cell, If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call you tomorrow. There’s something I need to run by you. It’s about your project, Among Us, Let’s talk soon. Love you.”
Jessie remembered calling Steve after she received the message. His phone was out of the service area. She anguished over the fact that she hadn’t kept calling back.
That afternoon, Jessie made flight arrangements to head for New York the following morning. Then she called Taylor’s cell phone.
“The customer you have called has traveled outside the service area.”
“Shit!” Jessie’s frustration surfaced. Taylor’s cell service hadn’t been fixed yet, and she didn’t know where Taylor was.
* * *
It was close to six o’clock that evening when the taxi arrived at the Scarsdale house, Jessie paid the fare and made her way to the front door. A yellow and black warning tape, stating CRIME SCENE—DO NOT ENTER, was wrapped around a planter on the front stoop. She dropped her bags, picked up the tape, and angrily crumbled it in her hand. From a pocket, she retrieved a key. She paused momentarily, hoping that she was ready, then opened the door.
Jessie picked up her luggage and moved through the grand foyer. The house was quiet. She had an odd feeling that she was invading her brother’s privacy as she walked toward the kitchen.
The ring of a telephone startled her. She set her belongings down, and headed toward her brother’s study where she picked up the handset. “Hello.” But as she said it, she saw the blood on the wall behind the desk.
“Hello. Is this Jessie?” a man’s voice asked.
Jessie couldn’t respond. She stood motionless, across from the chair where her brother had pulled the trigger. Blood had splattered over the wall and carpeting. The hair on the back of her neck stood. She closed her eyes to calm herself.
“Hello, is anyone there?” he interrupted.
Jessie opened her eyes. “This is Jessie,” she whispered.
“This is Detective Hopkins. I take it you had a key to the house. I was hoping I could meet with you tomorrow morning. Are you staying there tonight?”
“I was planning on it,” she whispered, but wondered if she could.
“The criminologists are finished there. We found your brother in the study. I’d hire someone to clean it up and just avoid it until then.”
“What time do you want to meet?”
“How’s nine o’clock? I can swing by then.”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you in the morning, detective.”
As Jessie rested the handset she surveyed the area. Then, as quickly as she had entered, she fled. She grabbed her baggage and climbed the stairwell. On the second level she faltered a bit as nausea hit, then she staggered into the guestroom. She set her laptop on the desk, and threw her suitcase on the bed. She opened the sliding glass door and walked unsteadily onto the private deck. As she gaped over the landscaped backyard, she took deep breaths and tried to rid herself of the sick feeling.
When the nausea subsided, she headed for the bathroom. At the sink she applied a wet facecloth to her face and neck, and studied herself in the mirror. She looked exhausted. Her normally bright brown eyes were dull from fatigue. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a ponytail, revealing a small scar on her cheek. Jessie removed the hair tie and her long brown hair fell loosely past her shoulders.
Jessie called Taylor once again but got the same message. She avoided the study that evening and went to bed early since she’d had a sleepless night the evening before. But, between the creaking of the house and disturbing thoughts of her brother’s suicide, she had another sleepless night.
In the morning, with coffee mug in hand, Jessie wandered through the sizeable house. She studied the photographs that were hung from the walls and displayed on the furniture. Most of them were connected with Steve’s work at Over the Edge. Jessie knew that Steve had worked there going on ten years and that he aspired to replace a retiring anchor person in the year to come. She shifted to a photo of the two field reporters, Rachel Addison and Steve. Jessie knew from her conversations with Steve that the attractive brunette was being considered for the anchor opening also.
The doorbell rang, announcing Detective Hopkins’s arrival, and they spoke at the kitchen table.
“Ms. Mercer, when was the last time you saw your brother?”
“Last month, at Easter time.”
“Were you close to him?”
“Yes. Our parents died when I was a teenager, and Steve was ten years older than me, so he cared for me after they were gone. We always spent holidays together.”
“When was the last time you spoke with him on the phone?”
“He called me last Saturday. He also left a voice mail three days ago.”
“That was the day he killed himself. How did he sound?”
“Fine. He said it was about two and he was leaving Washington, DC. He called from his cell phone. I called him back, but his phone was either off or out of range.” Jessie was overwhelmed with guilt that she hadn’t kept trying. “I left him a message…but he never called back.”
“Considering your brother’s depression, how has he been over the past year?”
“Steve didn’t suffer from depression.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Mercer. I assumed you knew. Mr. Mercer had been seeing a psychiatrist for about a year, now. He was being treated for clinical depression.”
Jessie ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it away from her face. “I’m sorry, detective. I’m having a difficult time believing that my brother would ever kill himself.”
“He obviously was hiding things from you. You missed signs of his depression.” The detective removed a paper from his attaché case. “This, of course, is a copy. We found it on the desk near his body.”
He laid the handwritten note on the table. There were dark discolorations over it from blood. Jessie: Forgive me.—Steve
She recognized her brother’s handwriting and the tears came. Up until this point, she had not believed he was gone. Now, she knew otherwise. She removed a tissue from her pocket and dried her eyes.
“Our handwriting expert has verified that your brother wrote the note.”
Jessie tried to pull herself together. “Where did he get the gun? He hated guns.”
“He purchased it about three weeks ago. There was a cash receipt in his desk.”
“But why? Why would he kill himself?”
“We believe his death was attributed to complications of depression, with the final blow being job related. Apparently, your brother was up for a promotion and he learned last Friday that he didn’t get it.”
“And you think he killed himself because he didn’t get a promotion?” Jessie struggled to control her disbelief and anger. “Does anybody know why he was in DC earlier in the week?”
“We didn’t know he was out of town. Perhaps his employer may know.”
“Who found his body?”
“Apparently the cleaning lady.” Hopkins retrieved his notepad. “Marie Heron cleaned the house every Thursday. From what I understand, she came in around eight o’clock, and we received the call at nine ten.
“Detective Hopkins, would you mind showing me the study and demonstrate what you think happened?”
His eyes met Jessie’s. “Ms. Mercer, your brother put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” His voice was devoid of emotion.
“Is my request that unreasonable?”
Hopkins briskly moved into the study where he dispassionately mimicked Steve sitting in his chair, writing a letter, and then putting a finger to his skull. After pretending to pull a trigger the detective’s head slumped backward and his arms dangled lifelessly to both sides of the chair.
His head perked up and he pointed to the floor beside his right arm. “Here is where we found the gun.”
Jessie saw the stained carpeting where the blood had pooled.
“My brother was left-handed,” Jessie said.
“Unfortunately, his less dominant hand worked just as well,” he said tactlessly.
Before Hopkins left, he gave Jessie the phone number to the medical examiner’s office, so Jessie could make arrangements for the body. He also handed her the numbers for Neil Samson, the executive producer of Over the Edge, and Marie Heron.
Later that afternoon, Jessie called the network and left a message for Neil Samson. Within minutes he returned the call. “Jessie, this is Neil Samson. I just got your message. I’m terribly sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Samson. I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday.”
“Don’t worry about that, and please, call me Neil. I was expecting a call from someone this weekend about services. Is that why you called?”
“Partly. I was hoping that you knew why Steve was in DC earlier this week. Was he there on business?”
“Is that where he went? No, Steve was out on vacation.”
“I understand that he didn’t get the anchor position.”
“Yes. I’m terribly sorry if that announcement could have contributed to his condition. I had a lot of respect for your brother, he was a good man.”
“Thank you. May I ask…who got the anchor spot on the show?”
Neil thought Jessie’s question was a bit unusual. But the circumstances were certainly unusual. “Rachel Addison.”
She thanked Neil and gave him the particulars on Steve’s memorial service, which was scheduled for Monday morning.
It was close to four o’clock that Saturday afternoon when the doorbell rang. Jessie opened the door and greeted a heavyset man holding a homemade pie.
“Hello, can I help you?” Jessie asked.
“I’m Gary Stonewall. I’m terribly sorry to hear about your loss.” He extended the pie to her with his large hands, and Jessie took it.
“Thank you. I’m Jessie Mercer, Steve’s sister. I take it you knew him?”
“Oh, very well. He was a good man. We’ll miss him down at the Lodge.”
“The Lodge?”
“A men’s social club. Your brother was an officer. I only hope that his duties didn’t contribute to his illness.”
“Illness?” Guilt haunted Jessie. Did everyone know about Steve’s condition, except her? “I’m sure they didn’t. Thank you for the pie.”
“I hate to ask this at such a bad time, but there were things that Steve was responsible for that have slipped. I’m taking over his position and I was hoping I could pick up some Lodge files.”
“Well…the study hasn’t been cleaned up since that night. I’m having a cleaning company take care of it tomorrow. Then the service is Monday. If you come back Tuesday afternoon, I’ll try to have the files ready. What’s the name of the Lodge?”
“It probably would be best if I could just go through the files myself. I could pick them out in no time. To be honest, I was in Vietnam and blood doesn’t bother me at all. Would you mind if I take a shot at it now?”
Jessie gazed back at the man. “Yes. I would mind, very much. You can call me Tuesday morning and let me know what I should be looking for and I’ll have the files to you by the end of that day. Have a good day, Mr. Stonewall.”
Jessie didn’t give Gary Stonewall a chance to object. Fuming, she slammed the door in his face. “The nerve of him! He can’t even wait for me to bury Steve—for some lousy files.”
Jessie picked up the telephone and pressed some numbers. When she heard the ring she smiled, Taylor’s cell service had been restored. After the second ring, the voice mail answered.
“Hi sweetheart, it’s me. Could you call me on my cell phone when you get the message? It’s important…I love you.” Jessie ended the connection.
Early that Sunday morning Jessie was making coffee when she heard the faint chime from her cell phone. “That must be Taylor.” She bolted for the stairwell. The cell phone was on the nightstand beside the bed. She counted the rings as she took the steps two at a time. One. Two. She knew the call would go into voice mail if it reached four. Three. Jessie dived across the bed and pressed the answer button, just in time.
“Hello!” Jessie breathed heavily.
“Jessie?”
“Taylor! I’m so glad to hear your voice,” she gasped. “Where are you?”
“In Beijing.”
“China?” Jessie’s heart sank knowing that Taylor couldn’t be much farther away.
“I arrived yesterday, before that…the Philippines, Taiwan, and Hong Kong. It’s all just running together.”
“Your phone hasn’t been working.”
“I know. I noticed it when I was in Taiwan. It finally cleared up yesterday. I just got your message. Is everything okay? Where are you?”
Jessie sighed. “I’m in New York. Taylor…Steve is dead.”
“Oh, God! Honey, I’m so sorry. How?” Taylor was shocked.
“I don’t believe it, but they claim suicide.”
“Jess, I’m on my way to a concert now. I go on in two hours. By the time I get back to the hotel, pack…I probably won’t be able to get out until the morning. Where should I fly into? Kennedy?”
“No. I don’t want to screw up your tour. Besides, the funeral is first thing tomorrow. Even if you got out tonight, you’d miss the service. Continue on your tour…I just needed to hear your voice.”
“I hate the thought that you’re alone through this, Jess.”
“I won’t be alone. I know you’ll be with me in your thoughts.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay. I don’t think it’s really hit me yet that he’s gone. I’ll make whatever arrangements I need to make, and then I’ll join you on your tour for a little. Okay?”
Taylor hesitated. “Jessie, I could be with you in a couple of days.”
“And I could rendezvous with you in perhaps a week. I’ll be fine.” Jessie tried to sound convincing. “Really.”
“Are you sure about this, Jess?”
“Yes, and I feel better just hearing your voice.”
“I love you, Jessie.”
“I love you, too. Break a leg tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow after the service.”
Taylor hesitated. “Okay. Good-bye sweetheart.”
Jessie’s heart ached as the phone disconnected her from Taylor. It hadn’t been two weeks since Taylor had left, but she missed her so much. She wondered how she thought she could ever last eight months without seeing her.
Later that morning, Jessie stood motionless at the entry of her brother’s office. From where she was, everything appeared normal, but she knew that if she moved any closer she would see blood. Since her arrival, she had the feeling that something wasn’t right. But then again, what would be right? After all, Steve was gone.
Jessie took a deep breath and approached the desk. She hesitated as she sat in her brother’s chair. With eyes fixed straight ahead, her mouth watered, and she tasted the unpleasant saltiness. The nausea hit and she closed her eyes, bringing her into darkness. The overwhelming feeling of loss approached like a freight train, and she sobbed.
“Why would you do this Steve?” she cried.
Jessie took a deep breath. Control yourself. She tried to collect herself.
She opened the top desk drawer. Steve had always been a neat person, and everything seemed in order. Calendar, paper clips, flash drives, CDs, pens, pencils. She picked up a CD from a stand and smiled. The computer-generated label was so neat and orderly compared to the Post-it method she used on her own CDs. The label simply said “#46.” She returned the CD to the stand.
Jessie turned her attention to the filing cabinet. She quickly skimmed through the files. “I don’t see files for a social club,” she mumbled.
The desktop was also orderly, unlike her desk. She picked up the stone paperweight with an engraving of a V-shaped compass, the kind used for drawing circles, along
with a square. A trace of blood was on the object, so she set it down. She leaned backward in the chair and her eyes caught sight of a framed certificate on the wall, stating, STEVE MERCER, WORSHIPFUL MASTER OF BLUE LODGE #46. The certificate displayed the same compass and square logo. Blue Lodge #46…That must be the club Stonewall referred to. She picked up the CD labeled “#46.” This must be for the lodge, but where are the files?
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. At the door Jessie recognized the woman standing on the front stoop, since she had met her during her recent visit.
“Hi, Marie. Thank you for coming over on a Sunday.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I just wish I could do more. Steve was such a good man, and he was always good to me.”
“Could you do me a favor, and let me know if anything strikes you as odd?”
“Odd?”
“Yes. You know—different than usual.”
It took Marie a couple hours to clean the study. The bookshelf near the desk was time-consuming as she had to scrub the book spines to remove traces of spattered blood.
Before Marie left, she found Jessie outside on the main-level deck reading the Sunday paper. “There you are. I couldn’t remove all the stains. I would just replace the carpet, and paint the walls.” She handed Jessie an envelope. “I found this wedged in one of the books.”
“What is it?” Jessie opened the envelope and found two tickets for a Caribbean cruise. “Steve must have been going on vacation. My God, the trip is next week. Marie, did you know he was going out of town?”
“No. But that’s not unusual. I’ve gone a month without seeing your brother because of his traveling. I just know to show up every Thursday. Sometimes, it’s obvious that he hadn’t been around since my previous cleaning.”
“The other ticket is for Julie Harris. Do you know who she is?”
Marie shook her head. “No.”
“I should go through his organizer. I wonder if she knows that he’s…” Jessie had difficulty saying the words, “passed on.” Then she changed the subject. “What do I owe you for today?”