Gun Games

by Faye Kellerman

  Marge said, “Lieutenant Decker, this is Mrs. Hesse.”

  He put the coffee cup on his desk. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  The woman looked at her lap, shook her head, and mumbled something.

  “Pardon me?” Decker said.

  She snapped her head up. “No . . . thank you.”

  “So how can I help you?”

  Wendy Hesse looked at Marge, who said, “Maybe I’ll get some coffee. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some water, Mrs. Hesse?”

  The woman refused a second offer. After Marge left, Decker said, “How can I help you, Mrs. Hesse?”

  “I need to talk to the police.” She folded her hands and looked at her lap. “I don’t know how to start.”

  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?”

  “I do believe you,” Decker said. “But I have to ask certain questions, Mrs. Hesse. You want a competent investigation, right?”

  The woman was quiet. Then she said, “You can call me Wendy.”

  “Whatever you’d prefer,” Decker said.

  Marge said, “Any girlfriends in his life?”

  “I didn’t know of any.”

  “Did he go out on the weekends?”

  “Mostly, he and his friends go to each other’s houses. Joey’s the only one old enough to drive.” Wendy’s eyes welled up with tears. “Mine never will.” Instant sobs. Decker and Marge waited until the hapless woman could find her voice again. “A couple of times”—she wiped her eyes—“when I went to pick him up . . . I saw a few girls.” She dabbed her eyes again. “I asked Gregory about them. He said they were Tina’s friends.”

  “Who’s Tina?” Marge asked.

  “Oh . . . sorry. Tina is Joey’s little sister. She and Frank, my younger son . . . they’re in the same grade.”

  “Did Joey and Gregory go to the same school?”

  “Bell and Wakefield. In Lauffner Ranch.”

  “I know it,” Decker said.

  Bell and Wakefield was the North Valley’s exclusive prep school on twenty acres with a state-of-the-art football field and indoor basketball arena, a movie studio, and a computer lab worthy of NASA. It prized sports, dramatics, and academics in that order. Lots of pro athletes and actors lived in the area an
d B and W was a natural repository for their children. “About fifteen hundred students?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but it’s a big school,” Wendy said. “A lot of breathing room to find your special place.”

  And if you don’t find your place, it’s a lot of room to get lost, Decker thought.

  Wendy said, “Joey’s a goofy kind of kid. About five eight and weighs about a hundred pounds. He wears big glasses and his ears stick out. I’m not saying this just to be mean, just to tell you that there were lots of other kids that would have been bullied before Gregory.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?” Decker said.

  Wendy rummaged through her purse and pulled out his grade-school graduation picture. It showed a baby-faced boy with blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks. Puberty was years away, and high school never treated those boys kindly.

  “May I keep this?” Decker asked.

  Wendy nodded.

  He closed his notebook. “What would you like me to do for your son, Wendy?”

  “Find out what really happened to my boy.” There were tears in her eyes.

  Decker said, “The coroner has ruled your son’s death a suicide.”

  Wendy was resolute. “I don’t care what the coroner says, my son didn’t commit suicide.”

  “Could it have been an accidental shooting?”

  “No,” Wendy insisted. “Gregory hated guns.”

  Marge asked, “So how do you think he died?”

  Wendy glanced at the detectives while kneading her hands. She didn’t answer the question.

  Decker said, “If it wasn’t accidental death by his own hand and if it wasn’t intentional suicide, that leaves homicide—either accidental or intentional.”

  Wendy bit her lip and nodded.

  “You think someone murdered your boy?”

  It took a few moments before Wendy could speak. “Yes.”

  Decker tried to be as gentle as possible. “Why?”

  “ ’Cause I know he didn’t shoot himself.”

  “So you think the coroner missed something or . . .” Wendy was silent. Decker said, “I have no problem going to the school and talking to some of Gregory’s friends and classmates. But the coroner is not going to change her determination unless we find something extraordinary. Something that would directly contradict a suicide. Usually, it’s the coroner who comes to us because he or she suspects foul play.”

  “Even if it was . . . what you say.” Wendy wiped her eyes with her fingers. “I don’t have . . . a clue . . . to what happened.” More tears. “If he did do it . . . I don’t know why. No idea whatsoever! I couldn’t be that dumb.”

  “It has nothing to do with brains—”

  “Do you have children, sir?”

  “I do.”

  “What about you, Detective?” She had turned to Marge.

  “A daughter.”

  “So what would either of you do if you suddenly came home one day . . . and found your child . . . had committed suicide?”

  “I don’t know,” Decker answered.

  Marge’s eyes watered. “I can’t imagine.”

  “So tell me,” Wendy continued. “How would you feel if you knew there was absolutely no reason for your child to do this? He wasn’t depressed, he wasn’t moody, he didn’t take drugs, he didn’t drink, he wasn’t a loner, he had friends, and he never ever handled a gun. I don’t even know where he got the gun!” She burst into sobs. “And no one . . . will . . . tell me . . . anything!”

  Decker let her cry it out, handing her the box of tissues.

  Marge said, “What do you want us to do, Mrs. Hesse?”

  “Wen . . . dy.” She answered between sobs. “Find out what happened.” Her eyes were imploring. “I realize this is probably not a police matter, but I don’t know where to turn.”

  Silence.

  “Should I hire a private investigator? I mean, at least maybe he can find out where Gregory got the gun.”

  “Where is the gun?” Decker asked.

  “The police took it,” Wendy told him.

  “Then it should be in the evidence locker,” Marge said. “It’s also in the files.”

  “Let’s pull it out and find out where it came from.” He turned to Wendy. “Let me start with the gun, and we’ll work it from there.”

  “Thank you!” A new fresh round of tears poured out of Wendy’s eyes. “Thank you for believing me . . . or at least thinking about what I said!”

  “We’re here to help,” Marge said.

  Decker nodded in agreement. The woman was probably in massive denial. But sometimes, even in these situations, parents really did know their children better than anyone else.

  Chapter Three

  Sitting on the living room sofa, Decker pop-topped a can of Dad’s and basked in the warmth of his wife’s presence and the aftertaste of cured meat. “Thanks for picking up my dinner.”

  “If I knew you were that close to coming home, we would have waited for you at the deli.”

  “It’s better this way.” He took Rina’s hand. He had showered before he ate, changing from his suit to a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “Where’s the kid?”

  “Practicing.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Seems to be okay. Did you know that Terry contacted him?”

  “No, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. When was this?”

  “About a week ago.” Rina recapped the conversation. “It obviously upset him. He wasn’t himself over dinner tonight. Whenever he gets uncomfortable, he talks about his upcoming competitions. Paradoxically, competition seems to calm him down. Renting him a piano is a lot cheaper than therapy.”

  The baby grand was in the garage—the only place where they had enough room. Gabe shared his music studio with Decker’s Porsche, workbench, and power tools and Rina’s planting and potting station. They had soundproofed the space because the kid practiced at the oddest hours. But since he was homeschooled and was basically done with high school, they let him march to his own drummer. He wasn’t even sixteen and had already gotten into Juilliard and early action at Harvard. Even if they were his legal guardians—which they weren’t—there was really no guidance left to give him. At this point, they were just providing him with food, a safe shelter, and a little company.

  “Tell me about your day,” Rina said.

  “Pretty routine except for the last half hour.” Decker recapped his puzzling conversation with Wendy Hesse.

  “That poor woman.”

  “She must be really hurting if she wants a homicide over suicide.”

  “Is that what the coroner ruled? Suicide?”

  Decker nodded.

  “So then . . . she just doesn’t want to believe it.”

  “True. Usually the ominous signs are there but parents look the other way. I honestly believe that Wendy is dumbfounded.” He smoothed his mustache. “You know when we first met and you were adamant about sending the boys to Jewish day school, I thought you were nuts. For what we were paying in tuition, we could have sent the boys to Lawrence or Bell and Wakefield, not a school housed in a one-story dilapidated building that doesn’t even have a library and a computer lab.”

  Rina smiled. “Many people would have agreed.”

  “But I’ve gotta say, most of the kids we’ve met are nice. Granted, I’m seeing the worst of the prep school teens, but I don’t think those places breed healthy attitudes. On balance, you did the right thing.”

  “The school, although disorganized and sorely lacking in resources, is a very kind place. Thank you for saying that.”

  Decker leaned back. “You talk to any of the kids today?”

  “Of course, the boys are busy as usual. I did Skype with Hannah this morning. She was just going to bed. She’ll probably be up in a couple of hours.”

  “I miss her.” Decker looked sad. “Maybe I’ll give Cindy a call. Find out what she’s up to.”

  Rina smiled. “Grandchildren are always the antidote to what a
ils you.”

  “You want to take a ride over and see them?”

  “You should ask Cindy first.”

  “Yeah, I guess I have to do that.” Decker made a phone call and hung up grinning. “She said, come on over.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “What about Gabe?”

  “I’ll tell him we’re going,” Rina said. “He likes Cindy and Koby, but I have a feeling he’ll decline. He wasn’t himself today. Maybe it has to do with his mother. Anyway, when he gets like that, he retreats inward.”

  Decker took in her words. “Should I talk to him?”

  “He’ll just tell you everything’s okay.”

  “I don’t want him to feel like a stranger,” Decker said. “But I don’t do much to make him feel like a member of the family. I’d feel really guilty if I came home one day and found him in the same condition as Gregory Hesse.”

  Rina nodded. “I think his music is and always was his salvation.”

  “Is it enough?”

  “I don’t know. All I can tell you is he’s functioning well. He takes the bus twice a week to USC for his lessons, he did all his own college applications even though I offered to help, he went for his own interviews and auditions even though I offered to come with him, and he booked his own flights and hotel rooms even though I offered to do it. He’s already guaranteed admission into Harvard and Juilliard. It seems to me like he wouldn’t be planning his future if he didn’t think he had one.” Rina paused. “If you want to do something nice for him, take him out driving. That excites him.”

  “Okay, I’ll take him out on Sunday.”

  “He really admires your Porsche.”

  “Uh, let’s not carry this niceness thing too far. Being emotionally sensitive is one thing. The Porsche is quite another.”

  The Coffee Bean was about two miles from the Starbucks where Gabe had encountered Dylan and posse, hopefully out of their range of operation. Not that he expected to meet up with anyone else at six in the morning. The place was empty and that was just fine. He had chosen a padded leather seat in the back, after he bought a bagel and a large coffee as well as the New York Times. When he lived back east, he read the Post. It felt strange reading the intellectual paper when all he wanted to do was read “Weird but True” or “Page Six” to find out who was banging whom.