by Tim O'Mara
“All boy,” he said, a sad smile crossing his face. “Lots of life in that one. It was all his mom could do to keep the lad in his stroller. He was walking at about nine months.”
“What about lately?” I asked. “Anything out of the normal?”
“Geez. The kid was a teenager. What the hell’s normal about that?”
I laughed. “You know what I mean. Normal for Paulie.”
The doorman—his name tag said AL—thought about that. After a while, something came to him.
“He’d leave here all cranky some days,” Al said. “Got his skateboard under his arm, but a real scowl on his face. Wouldn’t even say hi. Be back an hour later, and he’s back to being the happy kid. Moody, I guess you’d say. Even for a teenager.”
“Were you working the night he was killed?”
“Nah. I’m the day guy. I’ll pull some doubles now that the holidays are here, but I’m mostly seven to four.” He got quiet for a few seconds. “Came in the next morning, though, and felt something was wrong as soon as I walked through those doors.” He shook his head. “Maybe it was coming off Bobby, the night guy, but I felt it. Something bad happened. You ever get that feeling?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes.”
Allison looked at her watch and said, “I don’t want to keep them waiting. Thank you for speaking with us, Al.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t put none of what I said in the paper, okay? Don’t want the residents to think they got themselves a Chatty Cathy for a doorman.”
“I won’t.”
We both thanked him and took the elevator up to the tenth floor. Somehow, Allison was able to keep her hands off me for the entire ride. We walked down the long hallway toward the apartment, and I heard a door open ahead of us. Into the hallway stepped a rather tall man. He had on a blue shirt and well-pressed khakis. He was holding a glass of something in his right hand.
“Ms. Rogers?” he asked.
When we were a few steps away, Allison offered her hand.
“Mr. Sherman,” she said. “Thank you again for agreeing to the interview.”
“We’ll give you thirty minutes, Ms. Rogers.”
“Allison,” she said and then turned to me. “This is my photographer.”
Who, I surmised, was to remain nameless. I stuck out my hand. “Mr. Sherman, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
He stepped aside and motioned for us to go inside the apartment. As I passed by him, I didn’t smell any alcohol. I wouldn’t have blamed him if I had, but it seemed he was just drinking water. We walked through a small hallway and entered the living room area. The far wall was almost completely windows, which opened up to an amazing view of the Hudson River and New Jersey.
“Is that all the equipment you have?”
It took me a moment to realize he was speaking to me.
“Yes,” I said, just as an attractive woman walked into the room. I guessed her to be in her early forties, but an Upper West Side early forties. I could easily picture her drinking gin and tonics at the club after a tough game of tennis. She wore a sleeveless blouse that showed off her toned and tanned arms and almost enough makeup to cover the dark puffiness under her eyes. She confidently stepped over to Allison and introduced herself as Natalie Sherman.
“Please,” Mrs. Sherman said, “have a seat.” She gestured to the couch.
“Actually,” Allison said, “if you don’t mind, I’d like you and Mr. Sherman to sit on the couch for a photograph.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised at the request. “I suppose that’s fine. Matthew?”
“Fine,” Mr. Sherman said. “Is a photograph really necessary?”
“It’s a way to put a face—two faces—on the story,” Allison explained.
The Shermans walked over and sat on the couch as if they were not used to being next to each other. They looked at me with awkward smiles. Allison took the seat to the left of the couch.
“Don’t worry about the camera,” she said. “We’ll just talk, and my photographer will take a few shots as we do so.”
Mrs. Sherman squirmed a bit, uncomfortable on her own couch. “You’re not going to ask us to hold a picture of Paulie, are you?”
“No,” Allison said with a slight grimace. “I don’t like those shots. We’ll just get a few with the two of you on the couch having a natural conversation.”
“There’s nothing ‘natural’ about this conversation, Ms. Rogers,” Mr. Sherman said. “Our son is dead.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sherman. I just meant I don’t want the picture to seem posed.”
“If you ask any questions I deem are out of line, this interview’s over. Are we clear about this, Ms. Rogers?”
“Completely, Mr. Sherman.” Allison cleared her throat in an attempt to gather herself and gain some control.
I remembered from my days as a cop, nothing made me more uncomfortable than trying to do my job around people who had just lost a loved one. And when it was a parent losing a child, the grief just covered everything like a thick layer of ash.
“Would you mind,” Allison said, “beginning by telling me what you both do?”
Mr. Sherman sighed, bored by the question. “I’m a personal financial adviser and money manager,” he said. “Natalie manages the household.”
“I used to be in advertising,” Mrs. Sherman said. “I left when we decided to have kids, and I never went back. I volunteer at the kids’ schools once a week.” She added the last part as if we were due an explanation.
“How many children do—?” Allison stopped herself, not sure how to phrase the question. To her credit, Mrs. Sherman sensed the awkwardness.
“Paulie has a little sister,” she said. “Chelsea. She’s at school right now.”
“We didn’t want her around during this,” Mr. Sherman said.
“I completely understand.” Allison wrote something in her notebook. “Did you know Douglas Lee?”
“Douglas was a guest in our home many times,” Mrs. Sherman said. “He was a delightful young man with impeccable manners.”
I hid a small smile behind my hands and camera. Dougie had obviously charmed the hell out of this woman. Judging by the look on his face, not so much the father.
“Did Douglas give you any indication he was in any sort of trouble?” Allison asked.
“Not the kind of trouble that would get him killed,” Mr. Sherman said.
“Any kind of trouble?”
“Well”—Mrs. Sherman now—“both boys were concerned about their grades slipping. During the past couple of months, they both complained about not sleeping a lot. That was new for Paulie. He never seemed to stress over grades before.”
“That was part of the problem,” Mr. Sherman said.
“What was?” Allison asked.
“Paulie needed to focus more on his grades and his future. He fought us tooth and nail when we placed him at Upper West and decided to put him on medication.”
“Medication for what?” Allison asked.
More squirming from Mrs. Sherman. Her skittishness reminded me of Paulie, the night I had met him outside Dougie’s wake. Mr. Sherman rubbed his eyes.
“Paulie,” he said, “had a mild case of attention deficit disorder. We figured a private school, smaller classes, and a low dose of medication would get him back on track. Help him get ready for college.”
“Did it work?”
“It did at first,” Mr. Sherman said. “Paulie had a good year academically last year and was on his way to another good one this year. But then he started losing the focus again, not caring as much about his work. Late for curfews. We were about to come down real hard on him when…” He shut his eyes. He’d said enough.
Allison turned to Mrs. Sherman. “When did you notice the change?”
Mrs. Sherman put her hand on her husband’s thigh. Neither one of them seemed comforted by the gesture.
“A few months ago,” she said.
“He began to fall back into his old habits. Late with assignments. Forgetting about homework. That’s when we noticed he wasn’t sleeping well. He had always been a good sleeper.” She took a deep breath, and something resembling a smile crossed her face. “We used to joke that it took a lot of energy to be Paulie.” She paused. “He was always … so full of energy.”
Allison jotted down some more notes. This allowed some time for Mr. and Mrs. Sherman to compose themselves, and for me to take a couple of quick photos of the grieving parents on the couch. Mr. Sherman took his wife’s hand off his leg and held it. I glanced at my watch and was happy to see our thirty minutes were almost half over.
“And,” Allison said, “Douglas also complained about not sleeping?”
“He didn’t have to,” Mrs. Sherman said. “I could see it in his eyes. One time he actually dozed off on our couch.”
“What about Jack Quinn?” Allison asked.
“What about him?”
“Did you know him well?”
“He didn’t come by as much as Douglas. Hardly ever. The two of them—Paulie and Douglas—always seemed to be meeting Jack outside his apartment. On the east side of Central Park.”
This last comment brought a barely audible snort from Mr. Sherman, whose eyes were still shut. Allison heard it, too, and leaned forward a few inches.
“What is it, Mr. Sherman?”
Mr. Sherman picked his head up and opened his eyes. They were wet and red, fighting back tears.
“We didn’t care much for Jack Quinn,” he said. “He struck us—me—as a trust-fund kid who felt he didn’t have to work to get what he wanted. He was not a good influence on Paulie.” He noticed Allison writing that down. “Please don’t put that in your story, Ms. Rogers. I don’t want to come off as … just don’t write that.”
Allison nodded. “I understand.” She drew two lines through what she had just written. “But the three boys were close?”
“Very much so,” Mrs. Sherman said. “They even went away together at times. Just this past Columbus Day they went up to the Quinns’ home in Rhinebeck for the weekend. I have some pictures around here somewhere. Would you like to see them?”
“I would, if it’s not any trouble,” Allison said.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Mrs. Sherman said as she stood. The perfect hostess. She seemed glad to get off the couch. “They’re in Paulie’s room. I’ll be right back.”
As she exited the living room, Mr. Sherman leaned back into the couch.
“Paulie came home from that trip,” he said, “asking us why we didn’t have a second home like the Quinns.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him if he really wanted a second home, he’d better come up with another way to pay for college. Paulie didn’t understand. Christ, what teenager does? One of the drawbacks of private school is that you hang around with people who have more than you do, and you start to question why. It was a constant conversation with Paulie. I know it may not seem like it, with this apartment and two kids in private school, but we struggle financially to give the kids what they need.”
Allison nodded. I took a picture of the two talking. Mrs. Sherman returned, holding an envelope. She remained standing as she handed the envelope to Allison.
“I don’t think,” she said, hesitating to let go of the envelope, “I’ll ever get used to going into his room.”
“I can’t imagine,” Allison said as she waited for Mrs. Sherman to release her grip. When she did, Allison opened the envelope and slipped out the photos. I stepped over to get a better look.
There were only six pictures—all of them with two of the three boys in them, the third boy apparently serving as the photographer. It occurred to me there seemed to be no grown-ups around to take pictures or to supervise. The trio was all smiles back then. Not even two months ago. The backgrounds showed the Hudson River, the red and orange leaves of fall, an old Victorian home. Upstate New York in early October. It must seem like years ago to Paulie’s parents.
“Very nice,” Allison said as she put the pictures back in the envelope. She handed them to Mrs. Sherman.
“Yes,” Mrs. Sherman said, holding the envelope with both hands as if hoping the life and energy of the photographs would course through her. “They had a good time.”
“And we,” Mr. Sherman said as he got up off the couch, “are just about out of time, Ms. Rogers.” He looked at his watch. “I have a conference call in ten minutes.”
“Just one or two more questions,” Allison said, “and we’ll be on our way.” She looked at her notebook. “Did Paulie often go out at night with his skateboard?”
Mr. and Mrs. Sherman exchanged glances, not happy with the question.
“No,” Mr. Sherman said, his eyes still on his wife. “It was not something he did often. Every once in a while…” He stopped mid-sentence.
“Every once in a while,” his wife picked up, “if it was a nice night and Paulie had completed all his homework, we’d let him take his board out for a quick ride before getting ready for bed.” She paused, thinking about what she’d just said. “I know it may not sound like the best parenting idea. But it was an incentive for him to finish his work, and it’s always well-lit outside. And that was the night of Dougie’s wake. So we felt he needed some release. He was never out for more than half an hour.”
“And that Thursday night?” Allison asked.
“We were running a bit hectic that night. Matthew”—she looked at her husband—“was on the phone with a client in Singapore. I was putting Chelsea to bed. She was up later than usual, and she was quite a handful.” She paused. This was painful for her to remember. “By the time things got settled down, I realized Paulie had been out for almost an hour.”
“What did you do?”
“I called his cell phone,” Mrs. Sherman explained. “He always had it with him, and we wouldn’t let him out at night without it.” She closed her eyes. “It went right to his voice mail. That wasn’t like him to not have it on.”
Allison wrote that down and waited for Mrs. Sherman to continue. It was Mr. Sherman who spoke next.
“Natalie came into my office. I had just finished my call and was placing my client’s order. She told me Paulie had not come back up yet.” He thought about that as he chose his next words. “I admit it, my first reaction was anger. We give him a special privilege, and he’s taking advantage of it, you know? I put my jacket on and went outside to find him. I know he likes to skate in Riverside Park.”
Mrs. Sherman took a few tentative steps toward her husband and then stopped. She turned to face Allison instead.
“Don’t imply that we’re neglectful parents, Ms. Rogers,” she said. “We know it wasn’t the best idea to allow him out at that time, but…”
“I won’t imply anything, Mrs. Sherman,” Allison said.
“I went over to the park,” Mr. Sherman continued. “I was about to go down the hill leading to the basketball courts, where he liked to skate sometimes. That’s when I noticed the flashing lights up the block.” He slowly sat back down on the couch. “I knew right away it was Paulie. He never stays out more than half an hour. That was the rule.” He balled his hands into fists and pounded on his thighs. “That was the rule.”
Mrs. Sherman took a few more steps toward her husband. She stopped again, and this time turned to look out the window. I wondered what she saw out there.
Allison closed her notebook and looked at me.
“I think we have enough, Mr. and Mrs. Sherman,” she said. “I know this was hard for you, and I truly appreciate your time. We are very sorry for your loss.”
Her eyes still looking out at the Hudson, Mrs. Sherman said, “Thank you.”
Mr. Sherman said nothing. He just sat on the couch, his fists resting on his knees.
“We’ll see ourselves out,” Allison said, moving toward the front door. “Thank you again.”
I followed Allison into the hallway. She turned around and s
hut the door quietly, as if trying not to wake a sleeping baby. When she looked at me, I saw her eyes were filled with tears. She leaned with her back against the wall.
“That,” she said, “fucking sucked.”
“You got that right,” I said. I reached out and touched her hand. “You okay?”
“I will be,” she said, standing on her own now. “You get some good shots?”
“A few, yeah.” We started walking toward the elevator. “I don’t know if they’re good enough for your paper, but…”
“Please,” she said. “I’m sure they’re better than the ones I would have taken.” She laughed a little as she pressed the DOWN button for the elevator. “That would have been a little awkward, huh? ‘Excuse me, Mr. Sherman, but would you mind pounding your fists again? I missed it the first time. And this time, show more grief.’”
“I’m glad I could help.”
The elevator arrived, and we stepped inside. We rode down to the lobby in silence. After thanking Al the doorman, we walked outside to Riverside Drive. A cold breeze was coming off the Hudson, and Allison and I both zipped our jackets. We slipped our hands into our pockets and exchanged awkward looks. It felt kind of like not knowing if a date was over.
“Too early for a drink?” I suggested.
“God knows I could use one after that,” she said.
“What if I offered you a late lunch as well?”
“I might have to take you up on that.”
“I know a good sushi place over on Amsterdam.”
“You know a sushi place?”
“Yes, Allison. I know a sushi place.” I smiled as she slipped her arm through mine. “I’ve never eaten there before,” I admitted. “But they have good Japanese beer and a decent happy hour.”
“Is there such a thing as an indecent happy hour?”
“Not in my experience,” I said, and led the way to the restaurant.
Chapter 23
I POURED ALLISON ANOTHER sake. “Feeling any better?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. She pointed at her sake vase. “Of course, a couple of these will make most things better.”
“I agree.” I took another sip of Kirin. I like Japanese beers. Not as much as I like the American craft beers, but definitely better than the mass-produced American stuff. It’s the one thing I would admit to being a snob about: for every beer advertised on TV, there are thirty better that most people never heard of. I was planning on having a Sapporo for my next one.