Gone for Good (16 page)

‘That sounds so old. Thirties.'

Janie laughed, and I did too.

I said, ‘I just looked at Ronnie when we were growing up, you know? My parents had him, and they were … I don't know, trapped, I guess. I didn't want to be trapped. By anyone. I wanted to have a career and get away from Dover.' Janie was listening intently. ‘Not that there's anything wrong with staying here.'

‘I get it,' she said. ‘I still think I might move away. I can go anywhere and get a job as a nurse. I can make good
money. There are shortages of nurses in some places. I could name my price.'

‘Better than being a history professor,' I said.

Janie smiled. ‘I do like it here, though. It's home. There are memories.' She rolled her eyes. ‘My parents are here. My sister.' She looked at me. ‘I'm sorry. I hope that didn't upset you. I'm saying, “My parents are here and it's great.” And you just lost your –'

‘It's okay,' I said. ‘I understand.'

The family across the way laughed together. I remembered Janie's house. It was small and warm, and her mother always hugged me when I came and went. So unlike my mom. And so unlike my family.

I'd said I understood, but I didn't. I really didn't understand that kind of life at all.

The phone woke me the next morning. It was Saturday, and normally I slept with the phone off on weekends. But I was still waiting for Paul to call me back, so I'd left it on. Maybe, I figured, if he called while I was half asleep it would be easier to talk to him, to get past the awkwardness of our fight and move on. And the sooner we moved on, the sooner he might be able to answer the questions raised at the lawyer's office.

But the phone call that woke me wasn't from Paul. I reached for the phone and looked at the display screen. I saw a local number, one I didn't recognize. I wondered if maybe it was the hospital, but I didn't answer. My mind was too foggy, my brain and body too tired from the week.
If it's important,
I thought,
they'll leave a message or call back.

A few moments later the phone chimed, letting me know I did have a message. But I rolled over and closed my eyes. I kept them shut, trying to drift back to sleep. I had slept surprisingly well, considering that it was my first night alone since the break-in, and my body and mind wanted more. Only, when I closed my eyes, everything from the day before tumbled through my mind. Elizabeth Yarbrough. Ronnie wanting to leave the hospital. The bank statement, the picture, the ‘cousins' –

The phone rang again.

‘Okay,' I said.

Maybe
it was important. A message and a call back.

I rolled over and picked up the phone. The identity of the caller made my heart jump.

It
was
Paul. I held the phone in front of me, staring at the screen. My strategy hadn't worked – I was plenty awake. And nervous to talk to him. For a split second, I thought about ignoring it, but I knew I couldn't. He had reached out. And with everything going on, I couldn't make it the way I always made it. I couldn't do it all alone.

I needed help.

‘Hello?' I said.

‘Elizabeth …'

He sounded tired, almost as if he too were still half asleep.

‘Paul? Are you okay?'

‘I'm here,' he said.

‘Where?'

‘I'm here. On the phone.'

‘What's the matter?' I asked.

‘Did the police call you?' he asked.

I knew – the message I hadn't listened to. The call I hadn't taken.

‘Someone just called. But the police? What's wrong? Are you hurt?'

‘No,' he said. ‘It's Ronnie.'

‘Oh, God.'

A burning pain crossed my midsection. It felt as if someone had placed a hot poker there, just rested it against my flesh and didn't move.

Ronnie. What happened to Ronnie?

‘Is he dead?' I asked.

A
long pause. I heard Paul breathing.

‘Paul?'

‘He's not dead,' Paul said. ‘It's worse. He confessed, Elizabeth. This morning he told the police he killed your mom.'

I expected to walk into a scene of chaos at Dover Community – police officers talking into phones and radios, doctors and nurses scurrying to and from Ronnie's room. Maybe even television cameras, a reporter in front of the building with a news van and a live remote. Wouldn't a murder confession, especially the confession of a man with Down's syndrome to the crime of murdering his own mother, warrant all of that activity?

But the hospital corridor looked just as it did any other day. An elderly patient shuffled by me, muttering about the condition of her slippers. The nurses worked at their stations. The only addition to the scene was Detective Richland. He stood outside Ronnie's room, talking on a cell phone. He didn't move his eyes towards me as I rushed down the hallway. I was wearing the first clothes I had found on the floor of my apartment – a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, running shoes without socks. I hadn't brushed my teeth and had only smoothed down my hair with my hand while I drove.

I tried not to make eye contact with Richland. I angled for Ronnie's room, and as I did, he stopped his call and held his hand out to me, a traffic cop's gesture.

‘You can't go in there,' he said. His hand was huge, the size of a dinner plate.

‘Why not?'

‘You
just can't,' he said, sounding a little petulant. He didn't meet my eye either. ‘We're working on your brother's case.'

‘Is he in there?' I asked. ‘Is my brother still in that room?'

‘Why don't you wait in the lounge?' He pointed with his phone towards the consultation room where I had spoken to Dr Heil.

‘Did you take my brother away?' I asked.

‘Please wait in there,' he said. ‘I'll be with you in a minute.'

I stood in the hallway, hanging between two impulses. As a good girl, one who was raised to respect authority and always do what I was asked to do, I felt compelled to just slink off to the room and wait. My mother was gone and Ronnie in custody – did my family need any other drama, like a run-in with the police?

But I wanted to see my brother. It was bad enough for him to be left alone in that hospital for the past week, away from everything he knew, everything that brought him comfort, even at the time he mourned the loss of the most important person in the world to him.

Richland made another gesture towards the consultation room, his body language more insistent. He indicated that I wouldn't be getting many more warnings from him. So I took the out he offered me. Why? Because I wasn't sure how much I wanted to see Ronnie right at that moment after all. What would I say to him? And what would he have to say to me?

What if what he had confessed was true?

I turned away and entered the small room. As I did, I
heard Richland go back to his phone call. I tried to listen to what he was saying, to pick up on some sense of what he was talking about, especially if it related to Ronnie, but he spoke in a low, muffled voice so I couldn't hear.

Inside the room, I sat alone. There weren't any magazines to read and no television. This room meant business. If you were in there, you weren't supposed to be distracting yourself from whatever difficulties you were facing. I had my phone, though. Paul said he was coming to the hospital as well, but I hadn't seen him anywhere. I texted him, asking where he was. I started to text Dan, but what would I say?
At hospital. Brother confessed to murder. LOL
. I thought about calling, but even then, how would that work? What would I want from him? Dan would insist on coming, on sitting by my side and riding the rapids with me. I wasn't sure I could ask anyone to do that, not when things were getting as deep as they were.

I waited, my hands folded in my lap.

Why, Ronnie? Why?

And, Mom – why? Why did you let things get so far out of control?

I rested my elbows on my knees and brought my hands up to my face. I buried my face against my palms, which were sweaty and warm. I closed my eyes and tried to absorb it all.

Why?

I don't know how long I sat that way. It felt like hours, but it must have been only a few minutes. I looked up when I heard the door open. Detective Richland came into the room, still holding his phone and nothing else. He didn't
make eye contact with me or offer a greeting. He took the seat across from mine, folding his extended frame into the compact chair. He didn't pull out his little notebook or anything. I wasn't sure why he was there.

‘Are you doing okay, Ms Hampton?' he asked. He met my eye this time. He seemed to be trying.

‘No.'

‘Do you need some water?' he asked.

‘Why do you cops always offer me water?' I asked. ‘Do you think that's going to make anything better?'

‘No,' he said. ‘But I'm trying to be nice.' His hands fluttered a little, then quickly stopped.

‘Why don't you tell me what's going on?' I said. ‘My uncle called me this morning and said Ronnie confessed to killing my mother. That has to be a mistake.'

‘Just to be clear,' Richland said, ‘we tried to call you first. You're the next of kin, of both the victim and the perpetrator. We did call you, and you didn't answer. That's when we called your uncle.'

‘What happened?' I asked.

‘I'll tell you what I can right now,' he said. ‘We're still putting things together and tying up some loose ends. But this morning I came by here to consult with Dr Heil about your brother's situation. I had some follow-up questions about the report Dr Heil had submitted after he examined Ronnie. And let me just state this up front – Dr Heil's report assured me that Ronnie is capable of understanding the difference between right and wrong and understanding the consequences of his actions. The report spoke very highly of his intellectual capabilities.'

‘I
could have told you that,' I said.

‘You understand we need to hear it from a professional.'

‘How did all of this lead to a confession?' I asked.

‘When I arrived here at the hospital, Ronnie told the nurse on duty that he wanted to speak to me. I went in, and he told me that he had killed your mother.'

‘He just told you that.'

‘He did.' Richland raised his right index finger as though to emphasize a point. ‘Dr Heil was present when I spoke to your brother, and after he made that declaration – what we call a spontaneous declaration – I informed him of his Miranda rights. In fact, I went over them three times with him. He understood them. Dr Heil felt Ronnie understood them and understood what he was telling me.'

‘And he just said it to you, just like that.'

‘He said, “I killed my mom.” Clear as day he said it. And he repeated it when I followed up.'

I closed my eyes. I tried to lose myself in the darkness behind my lids, to drift away and out of that room and that space. But I couldn't. I could still hear the soft hum of the hospital's heating and cooling system, could still hear the occasional footsteps in the hallway, the voices over the loudspeaker paging nurses and doctors to more trouble. I couldn't escape it.

‘Why?' I asked, opening my eyes.

‘What's that?'

‘Why did he do it?' I asked. ‘What did he say caused … this to happen?'

Richland paused. ‘At this point, I don't want to get
into any of these details. Like I said, we're working some things out.'

‘So you won't tell me anything except that my brother confessed to killing my mother?'

‘You know what the issues were we already had,' he said. ‘We haven't been able to account for your brother's whereabouts on the night your mother died. We have a history of violent behaviour. And now …'

He didn't say it, but I knew what he meant.
Now, a confession.
And I couldn't help but think back to the night before, when I had spoken to Ronnie in the hospital. I had asked Ronnie directly if he'd hurt Mom – and he didn't answer me. He didn't confess, but he didn't deny it either. And I wondered, sitting there with Detective Richland, if my question from the night before had set Ronnie on the path to confessing to the crime. Had he wanted to do it for a while, but couldn't bring himself to say it to me?

‘What happens now?' I asked.

‘I'll hand everything over to the county attorney's office. It will be in their hands from here on out. They'll decide the best facility to hold your brother in short term and then long term.'

Long term?

‘How long?' I asked.

‘I can't say. That's out of my hands.'

‘Are we talking about life in prison?' I asked.

Richland raised his hands as though to say,
I don't know. And please don't ask.

‘Can I go see him?' I asked.

Richland shook his head. ‘Not now. No one can see
him now. Everything is at a crucial point. We can't risk having someone else in the mix.'

‘Do you understand that disabled people have a strong desire to give in to and please authority?' I asked.

‘I told you he was informed of his Miranda rights –'

‘He might have confessed just to do that,' I said.

‘To do what?'

‘To please you because you're in a position of authority over him.'

‘What about your mother?' he asked. ‘Isn't – or should I say
wasn't
she in a position of authority over him? She was his mother, right?'

He looked at me, waiting for an answer. I didn't give him one.

‘He didn't respect her authority that night he went after her and she had to call the police, did he? And he didn't respect her authority when he killed her.' He waited another moment. ‘Did he?'

I didn't answer. I didn't have anything to use against him. He had completely deflated my argument. He unfolded himself from the chair and left me alone in the room. Alone with the knowledge that my family was disappearing – and one of them had very likely killed the other.