was a very private person,” she said softly. “After my father died, my mother isolated herself from the few friends they had. I think she found being with people too painful.”
“Are there any relatives we can talk to?”
“No. They didn’t keep in touch with their family in Holland. I never knew why.”
Richards scribbled on his pad. “What did your mother do?”
“She was a housewife.” Her voice trembled. “My mother was a warm, loving person. She spent all her time taking care of Rose.” An old thought seared her brain. Was it her fault? If she had stayed home instead of going to work, would any of this have happened?
“How old was your mother?”
Nora cringed at his use of the past tense. “Sixty.”
“And your father?”
She had to think. “He would have been sixty-two last month.”
“What did he do?”
“He was a literature professor at St. Thomas University. The classics.”
“Did he have any enemies that you know of?”
Nora shook her head and then felt a well of panic rise. “Shouldn’t you focus on finding Rose?”
He must have sensed her hysteria, because he reached across the kitchen table and squeezed her clenched hands. Nora was surprised. She had not expected the police would openly offer comfort to a stranger. She felt a bit calmer. “Thank you,” she whispered. A nice man, a good man. He will help me.
“We’ve done all we can for the moment,” he said. “We’ll see what the investigators come up with once they’ve gone through the house.”
Nora felt a tap her on the shoulder.
“Drink maar op,” said Marijke.
“Dank je wel,” whispered Nora. She wrapped her trembling fingers around the hot cup, took a small sip and put it down.
Richards looked up from his pad. “Ms. de Jong, did you disturb the crime scene in any way when you came home?”
Nora hesitated. “I don’t know. When I saw my mother on the floor, I ran over to her.”
“Did you touch the body?”
She nodded. “I looked for a pulse. I held her in my arms.”
“Did you touch anything else?”
Nora felt her eyes fill. “Her head—her brains...”
“That’s all right.” He gave her a moment. “And the man?”
“I tripped over him looking for Rose.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
“No.”
“Did you touch his body?”
She put her head into her hands. “No—no! I didn’t want to get near him. And then I saw the gun on the floor...”
Richards’s eyes narrowed. “Did you touch it?”
Nora thought and then shook her head. Richards straightened his blue tie and made a few notes. His pencil was down to the nub. He muttered as he tossed it aside and drew out a pen from his jacket pocket. As he fired more questions, it seemed to Nora as if he were a journalist on a hot story. What time had Nora left the house that morning? Had she noticed anyone or anything out of the ordinary in the neighborhood? What time had she gotten home? Did her mother care for Rose all day? Was there a housekeeper, gardener or anyone else who had access? When had Nora last spoken to Anneke?
“I left around eight in the morning and got home before five,” she said. “I didn’t notice anything unusual in the neighborhood. No one else has a key to the house. I spoke to my mother after lunch. She sounded...happy.” She realized then that she would never speak to her mother again. Her grief felt unbearable. Then one of the crime scene investigators walked into the room.
Richards stood. “I’m going to see what they found. You wait here.”
“No, I’m going with you.”
Richards studied her. “All right, but first you have to put on gloves and shoe covers.” He glanced at Marijke. “Same goes for you.”
“Of course,” said Marijke.
One of the CSI men handed over gloves and booties. “Don’t touch anything,” Richards warned. “Just look.”
They quickly donned their gear and followed him into the living room. The M.E., a slight man with graying hair, had apparently arrived while Nora was answering Richards’s questions. He stood next to Anneke’s body. Nora could not help but stare at her mother’s forehead, the hideous bullet hole and the blood that had leaked from it, now coagulated into a thick black stream. Pitiful remnants of what used to be Anneke’s beautiful silver hair lay strewn in clumps on the floor. A pair of scissors with its blades wide-open lay partially hidden by the locks of shorn hair. It struck her again that the killer must have chopped off sections of her hair. Why in hell would he do that?
Nora watched as the M.E. knelt and examined the man’s body, first studying the eyes. “No petechial hemorrhaging here.”
“What does that mean?” asked Marijke.
“No burst veins,” Nora explained.
“Means he wasn’t strangled.” The M.E. pointed at tiny red marks that crisscrossed the man’s cheeks. “See the hemorrhaging there? Indicates heart attack, maybe stroke.” He pulled a thermometer from his bag and nodded to one of the investigators, who pulled down the man’s pants, exposing his buttocks. He inserted the thermometer, his eyes on his watch. Nora felt sick.
“Time of death?” asked Richards.
The M.E. wiped the thermometer and gave it a quick glance. “Probably four, five hours ago.” He held up one of the man’s arms. It was stiff, doll-like. “Rigor’s begun.”
“Cause?”
The M.E. shrugged. “Stroke, heart attack, like I said. Can’t confirm till the autopsy.” He struggled to his feet, nodding to the investigator, who pulled the dead man’s pants up.
Nora looked away. Marijke moved next to her and held her hand, their fingers entwined. Nora’s eyes riveted upon her ravaged mother. “Can’t you at least cover her?” she asked angrily. “A sheet, anything?”
The M.E. glanced at her, his eyes sympathetic. “I’m finished. When the investigators give us the green light, we’ll move her to the morgue.”
Nora’s eyes fixed again upon her mother and she caught a glint of silver around Anneke’s neck. Of course, she thought, her locket. She bent over Anneke and reached for it.
An investigator grabbed her shoulder. “Hey! You can’t do that!”
Nora
