Fifth Son by Barbara Fradkin Page A

lately, and if Derek mentioned coming home?”
    The young man seemed to think a long time before answering, as if debating the wisdom of disclosing family matters. “My father can’t speak,” he said finally. “He’s had a serious stroke that left him without speech and paralyzed on one side. I think he understands a little, but he can only say one or two words with great effort.”
    Sullivan had stopped taking notes, no doubt regarding the father’s health as irrelevant, so Green jumped in before he could change the subject. “When did this happen?”
    â€œAbout three months ago. He’s still in hospital; the doctors at first thought he wouldn’t survive, and later they said he’d never be able to go home again. That’s why I sold the farm. I work here in the city, and I couldn’t manage the farm. Anyway, I always hated the place.”
    Green could see Sullivan starting to fidget. Sullivan was a no-nonsense, straight-ahead type of investigator who liked to stick to the point, gather the facts and move on. No dallying, unless he was playing a suspect on the line, and no wandering down side alleys. Green, however, felt there was a strange mystery in this family. The earlier photos painted a picture of a close, happy family who loved to celebrate together. But something had happened to change all that, and suddenly the eldest son moved to the opposite side of the continent, never to return, another son became a drunk, a third had died in a car crash, and a happy home had turned to silence. Now, twenty years later, had that prodigal son returned? What had drawn him back, and what—or who—had he encountered upon his return that he had ended up dead?
    â€œAny special reason why you hated the place?” Green asked gently.
    Robbie had been gazing at the picture of the farmhouse, taken years ago when the porch was straight, the trim white and the gardens lush with flowers. “Because my parents hated it. Because all they ever did was scream at each other, and my brothers left me all alone to cope with them.” He snapped the photo album shut and thrust it back in its slot. “I never cared to see my brothers, detectives, because they never cared for me. I hear from Tom about once a year, always when he needs me to bail him out of some mess. Bad debts, or a failed business scheme, or a bar brawl. I’m not a rich man. I’m a produce manager for Loblaws, I have two ex-wives and one little girl, and as you can see, I barely have a place to live. I’ve lent Tom money half a dozen times and never seen a penny back, plus he’s never once come up to help me with Mom or Dad.”
    His face was growing red as the pent-up anger spilled out. “But then last week, out of the blue he calls me and freaks out when I tell him I sold the house. He hasn’t been back to visit or help out, but suddenly he’s swearing at me and saying I had no right to sell it, and he had important stuff in the basement there, and...” He broke off as a thought occurred to him, and he waved at the dead man’s photo in disgust. “That’s probably Tom, coming up to get his important stuff and being so goddamn drunk he fell off the church.”
    â€œWhat was the important stuff?” Green asked.
    â€œWho the hell knows? I told him there wasn’t a goddamn thing worth having in that house when I sold it. Just a bunch of old boxes full of junk.”
    Green removed the crucifix from his pocket and held it out. “Do you recognize this?”
    Robbie checked himself, as if embarrassed that he had lost control, and he took the chain with a puzzled frown. “Did you find this on the body?”
    â€œNo, but it was found in the vicinity. Derek is an unusual name, and the engraving looks old.”
    â€œI don’t recognize it, but I hardly remember Derek, let alone what he wore.”
    When Green asked if any of the rest of them had