Croswell family, in their comparatively tiny ’70s bungalow, were either going to get on board, or get out of the way. Life has a way of marching on, whether you want it to or not.
Inside the chain-link fence, two miniature schnauzers showed off, frolicking in the dewy grass. The family was up. Fletcher wondered if they were missing their patriarch yet, if they had a sense that things were wrong. Or whether he was about to blindside yet another family.
God, sometimes he really hated this job.
They parked and went to the door. The bell wasn’t working, so Fletcher knocked. Knocked again. A woman answered, small, brown-eyed, dressed in scrubs, briskly rubbing her wet hair with a towel.
“Oh. I appreciate you coming by, but we have our own religion.” She smiled sweetly and started to close the door. Fletcher put his foot in the crack to stop her and held out his badge.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. Detective Fletcher, D.C. Homicide. My partner, Detective Hart. May we come in?”
She stared at him, the look he’d grown so accustomed to. Denial, fear, hate, worry, all crowded into a single glance. He could see her mind whirling.
“Is it Hal?” she asked quietly.
“Yes, ma’am. Please, can we come in?”
She swallowed audibly and nodded. Dropped the towel at her feet, opened the door all the way for them.
“Living room,” she managed, pointing. “I’ll be there in a second. I must… The baby.”
She disappeared around the corner. Fletcher nodded at Hart, who followed her, saying, “Ma’am? Mrs. Croswell? Let me help you.”
Fletcher heard the woman stumble, curse and fall, was glad Hart was there to catch her. Denial. The first step down the tumbling path called grief. She’d tried to run away from the news, as if not talking to them would make it all just go away.
Hart led her back into the living room, got her seated on the couch. “Kids aren’t up yet,” he said to Fletcher.
“Ma’am, we need to ask you some questions. But first, is there anyone we can call to be with you?”
She was mumbling, whispering almost to herself, and Fletcher heard, “Sister. Number. Refrigerator.”
Hart took off for the kitchen, and Fletcher got Mrs. Croswell to focus on him. She was slipping into shock—too upset even to cry.
“Ma’am, when was the last time you heard from your husband? Where was he supposed to be last night?”
She was having a hard time focusing. “Denver. But you’re with Metro. Was it a heart attack? Before he got on the plane? He texted me that he was getting on the plane, would call in the morning. I go to bed early.”
“No, ma’am. It wasn’t a heart attack. He was found in Georgetown. I’m sorry to say he’d been shot. Do you have any idea why he would be there? Why he would lie about where he was supposed to be?”
“He never lied. Hal never lied to me. We always told the truth.”
Obviously not. Fletcher scratched his forehead, rubbing at the headache that was trying to take hold. Hart came back in the living room.
“Sister’s on her way.”
Croswell’s wife was starting to grasp the situation, and her lips were trembling. Hart had brought water back from the kitchen with him. He handed the glass to Mrs. Croswell.
She drank, greedily, then set the glass on a coaster. Neat and tidy. Her eyes grew vacant.
“Mrs. Croswell?”
She snapped back to Fletcher, the words spilling out, frantic to be heard.
“Betty. My name is Betty.”
“Betty, do you or your husband know anyone by the name of Emerson? George or Tina Emerson?”
Her eyes were still blank. “No. Hal went to Denver for a conference yesterday. A reunion. His old army buddies were getting together at some aerospace thing. A few of them work for Lockheed Martin now, they were trying to get Hal in front of their bosses. He’s been in and out of work since he got back from his last tour of Iraq. He mustered out two years ago. He had a rough time over there.”
“Was he injured?”
“Not on the outside,
Inside the chain-link fence, two miniature schnauzers showed off, frolicking in the dewy grass. The family was up. Fletcher wondered if they were missing their patriarch yet, if they had a sense that things were wrong. Or whether he was about to blindside yet another family.
God, sometimes he really hated this job.
They parked and went to the door. The bell wasn’t working, so Fletcher knocked. Knocked again. A woman answered, small, brown-eyed, dressed in scrubs, briskly rubbing her wet hair with a towel.
“Oh. I appreciate you coming by, but we have our own religion.” She smiled sweetly and started to close the door. Fletcher put his foot in the crack to stop her and held out his badge.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. Detective Fletcher, D.C. Homicide. My partner, Detective Hart. May we come in?”
She stared at him, the look he’d grown so accustomed to. Denial, fear, hate, worry, all crowded into a single glance. He could see her mind whirling.
“Is it Hal?” she asked quietly.
“Yes, ma’am. Please, can we come in?”
She swallowed audibly and nodded. Dropped the towel at her feet, opened the door all the way for them.
“Living room,” she managed, pointing. “I’ll be there in a second. I must… The baby.”
She disappeared around the corner. Fletcher nodded at Hart, who followed her, saying, “Ma’am? Mrs. Croswell? Let me help you.”
Fletcher heard the woman stumble, curse and fall, was glad Hart was there to catch her. Denial. The first step down the tumbling path called grief. She’d tried to run away from the news, as if not talking to them would make it all just go away.
Hart led her back into the living room, got her seated on the couch. “Kids aren’t up yet,” he said to Fletcher.
“Ma’am, we need to ask you some questions. But first, is there anyone we can call to be with you?”
She was mumbling, whispering almost to herself, and Fletcher heard, “Sister. Number. Refrigerator.”
Hart took off for the kitchen, and Fletcher got Mrs. Croswell to focus on him. She was slipping into shock—too upset even to cry.
“Ma’am, when was the last time you heard from your husband? Where was he supposed to be last night?”
She was having a hard time focusing. “Denver. But you’re with Metro. Was it a heart attack? Before he got on the plane? He texted me that he was getting on the plane, would call in the morning. I go to bed early.”
“No, ma’am. It wasn’t a heart attack. He was found in Georgetown. I’m sorry to say he’d been shot. Do you have any idea why he would be there? Why he would lie about where he was supposed to be?”
“He never lied. Hal never lied to me. We always told the truth.”
Obviously not. Fletcher scratched his forehead, rubbing at the headache that was trying to take hold. Hart came back in the living room.
“Sister’s on her way.”
Croswell’s wife was starting to grasp the situation, and her lips were trembling. Hart had brought water back from the kitchen with him. He handed the glass to Mrs. Croswell.
She drank, greedily, then set the glass on a coaster. Neat and tidy. Her eyes grew vacant.
“Mrs. Croswell?”
She snapped back to Fletcher, the words spilling out, frantic to be heard.
“Betty. My name is Betty.”
“Betty, do you or your husband know anyone by the name of Emerson? George or Tina Emerson?”
Her eyes were still blank. “No. Hal went to Denver for a conference yesterday. A reunion. His old army buddies were getting together at some aerospace thing. A few of them work for Lockheed Martin now, they were trying to get Hal in front of their bosses. He’s been in and out of work since he got back from his last tour of Iraq. He mustered out two years ago. He had a rough time over there.”
“Was he injured?”
“Not on the outside,
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