Damaged (19 page)

“Patrick, you make the soup, I'm going to go make a phone call, okay?”

“Okay.” Patrick hoisted the mug into the microwave.

“Don't burn yourself.”

“I never do. I put it on two-and-a-half minutes. He says it gets too hot if you put it on three.”

“Good job.” Mary slipped out of the kitchen, went back to the living room, got her purse from the chair, and reached inside for her phone. She would have to call the police, and they would bring the city medical examiner. Edward's death was unattended, so by law, that meant an autopsy would have to be performed, since he wasn't in hospice. The only open question was what would happen to Patrick.

Mary's gut twisted. Patrick was now an orphan. The very thought was heartbreaking enough, and she dreaded to think of what would happen to him now. She assumed that the police would call DHS and he would be placed in the foster care system.

Mary sank into the chair, holding her phone. She didn't know much about foster care, but what she knew wasn't good. There wasn't a month that went by in Philadelphia when the newspaper didn't have some awful story about the foster care system. Maybe the stories weren't a fair representation, and there were undoubtedly wonderful foster parents who took great care of foster children. But that couldn't be guaranteed, especially for a child with special needs like Patrick.

Mary stared at her phone, frozen. She couldn't bring herself to call the police yet. As soon as she did, she would set in motion a series of events that would remove Patrick from the only home he knew and place him in the foster system. The authorities would take him, this very night, and he would go to sleep in a strange bed, in a stranger's house. On the other hand, Mary couldn't
not
call the police. It was grotesque that Edward's body lay upstairs in bed, where it had been all night and all day.

Mary couldn't wrap her mind around how quickly the boy's life had turned upside down and her hopes for his future scuttled. He'd been about to enter Fairmount Prep; she had it all rigged. But now all of that hung in jeopardy, and she could only imagine how losing his grandfather would hurt him. Coming on the heels of his assault, it might plunge him into depression.

Mary heard the microwave
ping
in the kitchen. If she could convince the police to wait until tomorrow to call DHS, she could stay at the house tonight with Patrick. Officer Diamond owed her a favor, and it was the best thing for Patrick. Officers Lee and Muniz had been here only yesterday, and they knew Patrick's situation.

Mary pressed in the number for the Twenty-fifth Precinct.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mary hung up the phone. It had taken her longer than she'd expected, but the police were on the way to take Edward's body and so was the medical examiner, since they happened to be at a “job” nearby. She hadn't been able to get through to Officers Diamond, Lee, or Muniz but she'd dropped their names, as well as Bennie Rosato's, then made her request to hold off DHS until morning. The police weren't making any promises, except that they'd come without sirens.

Mary went back to the kitchen, where Patrick was sitting at the table in front of a glass of water. He seemed more nervous than before, resting his forearms on the table and playing a game with his right hand, tapping each finger on the table, like a slow-motion drumming. An oversized mug of pea soup sat in front of Edward's empty seat, next to a napkin with a tablespoon. She didn't know what had happened to the bologna sandwich. The glass of milk had been replaced with a glass of water.

“The soup is ready for him,” Patrick said, with a grimly satisfied set to his mouth that made him look older. “I think he'll be down pretty soon. He doesn't mind if it's cold, he likes it that way.”

“I see.” Mary sat down in the empty chair next to him. She knew she had to say something, but she wasn't sure exactly what to say. She didn't know how to prepare a child for what was to come and she hadn't yet figured out all of the implications. She could only view it from his perspective, which was that his beloved grandfather was about to be taken from their house, never to be seen again. The random thought popped into her head that she could call a priest. It was too late for Last Rites, but it might help Patrick to see his priest right now.

“Patrick, do you go to church?”

Patrick nodded. “Every Saturday, we go to four o'clock Mass and then we go to Lee's Hoagies and eat Swiss cheese hoagies. He gets peppers and onions but I don't get that. We used to go to Mass on Sunday morning, but he likes to sleep in.”

“Who's your priest?”

“Father Pep. Our church is St. Catherine's. I go to CCD every Wednesday at the school.”

“Would you like me to call Father Pep and have him come over?”

“No.” Patrick shook his head emphatically. “We don't know him. He shakes my hand when we leave, that's all.”

“So you're not very involved with the church?”

Patrick shook his head. “I wrapped up the milk and the bologna sandwich and I put them back in the refrigerator. My Pops says it's a sin to waste food.”

Mary ignored the
non sequitur
and braced herself. “Patrick, I want you to understand what's going to happen next. The police are coming and they're going to go upstairs—”

“I already talked to the police. I told them about Mr. Robertson. You were there.” Patrick kept playing with his fingers, and Mary moved her hand lightly on top of his hand, so the drumming stopped.

“This will be different police, and they're here about your grandfather.”

“They're not going to be able to wake him up. It's hard to wake him up when he's asleep. He knows how much he sleeps every day. He writes it down.”

“He does?” Mary asked, surprised.

“Yep.” Patrick shook his head again, and though his fingers had stopped drumming, his foot started wiggling. “He has an office and he has a big calendar on his desk and every day he writes down in the boxes how much money he spent, what he ate, and how much he slept.”

“Really.” Mary made a mental note. “Is his office where he keeps his papers? Like, his important papers?”

“Yes.” Patrick wiggled his foot.

“Is his office the room upstairs next to his bedroom?”

Patrick nodded. “That's where he keeps everything and that's where he pays the bills. He told me that I could go in there but I'm not allowed to touch anything on the desk because I'll mess it up.”

“I see.” Mary guessed that was probably where Edward had kept his will. Hopefully there would be a lawyer she could contact about probate, as well as maybe tracking down any relatives who could take Patrick in. Edward was such a methodical man, and he must have made some provision for where Patrick could live.

“I wouldn't mess it up, I
neve
r would mess it up, but once I was drawing in there on the calendar, and he didn't like that, so I don't do that anymore.” Patrick turned his head toward the window, and Mary heard the slamming of heavy car doors in front of the house and rose quickly.

“Patrick, you stay here. Let me answer the door.”

“I have to tell them not to wake him up.” Patrick jumped out of his chair, but Mary tried to stop him.

“Patrick, no, I can tell them—”

“
I
have to tell them!” Patrick scooted past her into the living room, and she hustled after him, taking his arm gently as she opened the front door. She tried to put him behind her, but he peeked out.

Two uniformed officers, the medical examiner, and several of his uniformed assistants filled the step, their official presence jarring even to her.

A collapsible metal gurney with a flat body bag took up the front walk, and double-parked in front of the house were two police cruisers and the somber black Econoline van of the medical examiner, bearing his official emblem. Neighbors were already coming out of their houses and looking from their windows, so Mary let the officers inside quickly.

“Officers, I'm Mary DiNunzio, and you can go straight upstairs and go right toward the end of the hall.”

“Thanks, Ms. DiNunzio,” one of the cops said, stepping forward. He seemed older than the others, and he took charge of the situation. “I'm Officer Agabe-Diaz, a friend of Officer Diamond's. He said to tell you that he's trying to make that call but he doesn't think he'll get through 'til tomorrow morning.”

“Please thank him for me.” Mary felt a wave of relief. So Officer Diamond had unofficially granted her request not to take Patrick into DHS custody until tomorrow morning.

“No problem.” Officer Agabe-Diaz looked down at Patrick and ruffled up his head. “Hey buddy, you do me a favor? Go wait in the kitchen while we go upstairs?”

Patrick shook his head. “Don't wake up my Pops. I'm not allowed to wake up my Pops.”

“Buddy, you go back to the kitchen now,” Officer Agabe-Diaz repeated, gesturing Mary and Patrick out of the way, while behind him, the other uniformed officer, the medical examiner, and his assistants climbed the stairs, their heavy shoes pounding on the steps.

Mary put a firm hand on Patrick's shoulder. She didn't want him to see the gurney come into the house. “Patrick, let's go in the kitchen and wait there. Come on.”

“No!” Patrick broke free and ran over to the couch, where he sat down. “I want to wait here. I want to tell him about his soup. His soup is ready.”

“Patrick, please, no.” Mary hurried around the coffee table to the couch. “Please, come with me.”

“Patrick,” Officer Agabe-Diaz said, his tone newly firm. “Do what Mary says. Go in the kitchen with her. She's going to stay with you in the kitchen.”

Patrick permitted Mary to take him by the hand and lead him, but he stopped as soon as they got into the kitchen. He stood still, his hands at his side and his head cocked, listening to the mortuary assistants talking to each other in Spanish as they hoisted the gurney over the threshold on a three-count then carried it upstairs.

Mary put an arm around his narrow shoulders, holding him to her hip. “It's okay, honey. It's all right.”

“He sleeps like a log.”

“I understand. Everything is going to be all right, you'll see.” Mary could hear the noises upstairs, the heavy tread and the wheels of the stainless-steel gurney rolling down the hall.

“Ms. DiNunzio?” Officer Agabe-Diaz lumbered toward the kitchen with a clipboard. “I will need some information and a signature.”

“I gave the information over the phone, about how he was found.”

“I know, just to confirm. Decedent's name is Edward O'Brien?”

“Yes.”

“Middle name?”

“Uh, I don't know,” Mary answered. “Can I find out and let you know later?”

“Fitzgerald,” Patrick interjected, clinging to Mary's hip and looking up at Officer Agabe-Diaz. “My Pops's name is Edward Fitzgerald O'Brien and my name is Patrick Neil O'Brien. He's seventy-two years old and I'm ten years old. I'm in fifth grade.”

“Wow.” Officer Agabe-Diaz smiled down at him, making a note on the form on his clipboard. “Your grandfather is seventy-two? Do you know when his birthday is?”

Patrick nodded. “November 8. He can't kneel anymore. In church, he sits on the pew when you're supposed to kneel on the pad. He says Jesus doesn't mind.”

“I'm getting pretty old myself.” Officer Agabe-Diaz made another note, subtracting to get Edward's date of birth, then glanced at Mary. “Any next of kin we should notify?”

“Not that I know of,” Mary answered quietly.

“Will you be following up?”

“Yes.” Mary assumed that the question was about funeral arrangements but she wasn't about to clarify it in front of Patrick.

“Okay then, if you would sign here.” Officer Agabe-Diaz showed her the form on the clipboard.

“Sure.” Mary signed it quickly for Patrick's sake.

“Thank you.” Officer Agabe-Diaz put the clipboard discreetly behind his back, bending down to Patrick. “So you're in the fifth grade, buddy?”

Patrick nodded, his head still cocked, listening to the noises upstairs, the Spanish muffled now. Edward's bedroom must have been overhead because the ceiling creaked.

“Do you like school?” Officer Agabe-Diaz asked, in a conversational tone.

Patrick shook his head, no. Mary cringed inwardly, realizing that all the school questions that came so easily to grown-ups were a minefield for Patrick. Still she was grateful because she could tell that Officer Agabe-Diaz was trying to distract Patrick from what they were doing upstairs.

“How about recess, buddy? I bet you like recess.”

Patrick shook his head no, and Mary felt his arm tighten around her. She realized he was hugging her, which caught her in the throat. Upstairs she could hear the men's voices, then the gurney being rolled back down the second-floor hallway toward the stair. She knew that Patrick could hear it, too.

Officer Agabe-Diaz asked him, “What sports do you play?”

Patrick shook his head no.

Officer Agabe-Diaz blinked. “Do you like video games? I like Xbox. I play with my son, Dave. He's older than you are. We like Madden. Do you like Madden?”

Patrick shook his head no, again. Mary found herself listening to Officer Agabe-Diaz's questions from Patrick's perspective, dispatches from a strange and unusual world where sons and fathers shared video games, a world that was never his own.

“Patrick, I know, I bet you like
Goosebumps
. Do you like
Goosebumps
books? They're scary, right? Bloody hands playing the piano! Cool, right?”

Patrick shook his head, while upstairs, the men's Spanish grew louder and they descended the staircase heavily.

Officer Agabe-Diaz asked, “Patrick, what
do
you like to do? You like to watch TV?”