The Silence of Murder (11 page)

T.J. and I never talk about Jeremy. Usually, I hate it when people ask me what’s wrong with my brother. But I don’t know now. I want Chase to understand, and T.J. too. I don’t want to be the only one who understands Jeremy well enough to believe he didn’t do what they say he did.

“Jeremy was born with a neurological disorder. Probably Asperger’s syndrome, although he’s had all the standard labels pasted on him at one time or another: learning disabled, ADHD, autistic. One counselor at a school in Chicago was sure Jer had epilepsy because of his tantrum fits. And, yeah, selective mutism, which is a no-brainer since we know Jeremy selected to be mute.”

“So he’s been tested before all this, like in a hospital?” Chase sets down his sandwich and leans in, catching every word.

“Jeremy’s been tested and retested. Every time he got a new teacher, they’d call Rita in and ask her about him. Then they’d send him to the school psychologist—those people have some big problems of their own, if you ask me. Then
they’d
give up and send Jer on to some doctor, or hospital, or specialist.”

“And nobody knows why he won’t talk?” Chase asks, almost like he can’t quite believe this.

I understand where he’s coming from. “At first, Rita thought he was just being stubborn. She’d get so mad at Jeremy.” I stop talking because I’m remembering times when I had to get between Rita and my brother. I remember one time when I shoved a drunk Rita out of the way so Jeremy could escape to the bathroom and lock himself in until she got over it, or fell asleep.

But if I’m honest, there are other pictures stored inside my mind too. Rita sitting on the floor with Jeremy, holding up word cards the speech therapist gave her. Rita all excited over a new “herbologist” or “naturalist” she heard about, who could cure what didn’t come out of Jeremy’s mouth by being more picky about what went into his mouth.

I get up and run myself a glass of water. It tastes as cloudy as it looks and smells like iron. Then I sit back down.

“I don’t remember any of that stuff going on when you and Jeremy moved to Grain,” T.J. says.

“By the time we moved here, Rita was so tired of the whole rigmarole that she’d started telling new schools Jeremy had been in an accident and
couldn’t
talk. She just didn’t want to go through all those tests again. I guess Jer’s language arts teacher, Ms. Graham, tried to teach him sign language our first year here. It didn’t take, though. Jeremy likes to write notes. You should see his handwriting.”

“So that’s it?” Chase asks. He hasn’t taken another bite of his sandwich since we’ve been talking about Jeremy. T.J. has finished both of his. “There’s really nothing else wrong with him?”

“Nope. Not with Jer,” I answer. “Nothing except the fact that people have a hard time understanding unique.”

“Unique.” Chase mutters this, so I can’t tell if it’s a question or not.

I know he doesn’t get what I’m saying, and I’m not sure how to say it any better. I want him—them—to
get
Jeremy. I struggle for a minute over how to explain the Jeremy I love, what makes him who he is. And then I know.

Leaving our dirty dishes, I get up from the table. “Come with me.”

Standing outside Jeremy’s bedroom
, my hand wrapped around the doorknob, I know one thing. Chase and T.J. are about to get a true glimpse of Jeremy Long. What I don’t know is how they’ll react. Slowly, I turn the knob and open the door.

This time, it’s T.J. who hangs back and Chase who goes in first. He stares up and around, in a full circle, as if awed by a starry sky. His gaze passes over the baseball bedspread I found at Goodwill in Oklahoma. My brother loves that spread. Most days since he’s been gone, I’ve come in and smoothed out the wrinkles. The only piece of furniture in the room besides this single bed is an old dresser I painted blue to match the bedspread. Above the dresser hangs one of Jeremy’s drawings—a circle divided into sixteen pie pieces, each meticulously colored in with a different color. This is Jeremy’s art. My brother has made me dozens, maybe hundreds, of these pictures, each with a different color scheme, but all the exact same design. I’ve saved every one of them.

But Chase isn’t looking at the dresser or the color wheel. He’s staring at Jeremy’s glass jars. Three walls are lined with shelves. The last owner or renter must have filled these shelves with books—most people would.

But not Jeremy.

“These are the jars you talked about in court,” Chase whispers, as if afraid of disturbing the row after row of emptiness. His eyes widen as his gaze shifts from one wall to the next. “How many does he have?”

“I’ve never counted them.”

“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” He says this like he’s able to admire the collection, to respect my brother. “It must have taken him a long time to do this.”

“He’d have more if a box of the jars hadn’t been left back in Chicago one time. Not a pleasant experience for any of us,” I admit. An image flashes through my mind—Jeremy throwing glasses and plates in our new kitchen, Rita the one hiding under the table for once.

T.J. clears his throat. It startles me, and I turn to see him still standing in the doorway, his arms straight out from his sides, like he’s holding on to the doorframe. He nods at the baseball curtains I got when I found the spread. “He really loves baseball, huh?”

I sit on the edge of the bed. “At least that’s something you guys can understand. You’ve probably been baseball-crazy since you were little boys.”

“Got that right,” T.J. agrees. “Dad took me to my first Wooster-Grain game when I was six weeks old.”

I wait for Chase to say something like that, but he doesn’t. “I don’t know. I like to play, but I can’t say I’ve ever been
crazy
about baseball.”

I’m surprised. He always looks so serious about it at practices, dedicated even.

“Hold on a minute,” T.J. says, venturing into the room with us. “You play here in the summer, and you’re on a team in Boston too, right?”

“That was Husband Number Two’s idea. When I started playing, I guess I was pretty good, like it was natural for me. All of a sudden, my dad started calling me after games to see if we won and how I did. Then he began calling before games too, to give me last-minute tips and advice.”

“And that was a good thing?” T.J. asks.

“Yeah. Before baseball, Dad almost never called me. And when he did, we didn’t have anything to talk about. After I got into baseball, we could talk for an hour on the phone. And things weren’t as awkward when I came to visit him. We had baseball, you know?”

“I know what you mean,” T.J. agrees. “My dad and I can talk baseball for hours. He can talk about grass and weeds for hours too, but I don’t stick around.”

Chase frowns, like he’s trying to understand, so I explain. “T.J.’s dad works for TruGreen lawn care.”

“Ah.” Chase nods. Then he takes another long look at Jeremy’s jars, tracing the shelves all the way around the room. He gets it. I can see he does.

T.J.’s already back to baseball. “Your dad played ball in high school, didn’t he? Did he play with Coach?”

I’m watching the lines of Chase’s forehead, and I don’t think he’s enjoying all of T.J.’s questions. But he answers anyway. “Dad played in high school, but he lived in Wooster. So
he and Coach were rivals. I’m not sure either one of them ever got over it. I don’t think Coach appreciated Dad’s postgame advice after our Panther games.”

“Still,” T.J. says, “Coach was going to let
you
start against Wooster. Your dad must have been pumped to see you pitch in the biggest game of the year.”

Chase doesn’t look at either of us. “You could say that. He practically ordered everybody in his office to go to the game. He even bought fireworks to set off when we scored against Wooster.”

I’m beginning to think it was a mistake to show them Jer’s room. Somehow we’ve ended up talking about the day of the murder, the game that wasn’t played. I think I hate baseball.

“What’s this?” T.J.’s picked up something off Jeremy’s dresser. He reads out loud: “Suspects. A vagrant. The Panth—”

“Give me that!” I tear across the room and grab my suspect list out of his hands. I don’t remember leaving my notebook on Jer’s dresser, but I must have.

“What was that?” T.J. asks, standing on his toes to try to read over my shoulder.

“None of your business.” I clutch the notebook to my chest, feeling stupid, like I’ve been caught at something.

T.J. won’t let it go. “You’re trying to solve the murder. That’s it, isn’t it? I knew it. You’ve got a list of suspects and—”

I wheel on him. “Well, why wouldn’t I try to figure out who the real killer is? I’m the only one who believes, who
knows
, it wasn’t Jeremy. Who else is going to—?”

“It’s cool, Hope,” T.J. says. “I’ve been expecting you to do this. I think you need to try. I want to help.” He glances down at his feet. “I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”

I narrow my eyes, studying him. I know he wants to help me. But I’m pretty sure he’s believed Jeremy is guilty all along—I’ve never asked. Still, T.J. has always been there for me when I really needed him. I glance back at Chase. His face is a blank. I have no idea what he’s thinking.

Then, as if he’s planned all of this, scripted it even, T.J. crosses the room and sits next to Chase on the bed. “You can help too, Chase, if you’ll do it.”

Chase stiffens. “No.”

“Think about it at least, man,” T.J. urges. “You have an inside track to what’s going on in the trial, to evidence … to your dad. Hope needs us.”

I know T.J. is doing this for me. I can’t even look at Chase. “T.J., don’t.”

“What?” T.J. asks.

I stare at him. “Why would
he
want to help Jeremy?”

“It’s not that,” Chase says. “I just … I mean … I wouldn’t be any help.”

“But you would!” T.J. insists.

Chase shakes his head. “My dad barely talks to me, T.J.”

“I don’t care,” T.J. says. “Besides, you owe me, man.”

Chase’s forehead wrinkles. “I thought two rides from the courthouse squared us.”

“Not by a long shot.” T.J. waits a minute, then adds, “And you know it.”

They exchange a weird look. I am definitely missing
something. There’s more to this than T.J. convincing Coach to let Chase pitch. I can tell that much.

T.J. gets to his feet and turns to me. “Chase is in. Tell us what we can do.”

I don’t know what’s going on between them, but I don’t want any part of it. “T.J., drop it. Chase doesn’t want to help.”

“It’s not that,” Chase says. “I mean, I’d be glad to help, if I could. But—”

“See? He’s in,” T.J. insists. “Go on, Hope. What do you need?”

I glance at Chase, and I know he’s not “in.” He’ll probably take off as soon as he can. And that’s fine. But what if T.J.’s right? What if Chase knows something that could help Jer? Something he heard from his dad or got out of the trial? It’s possible. So, embarrassed or not, I might as well get what I can out of him while he’s here. For Jeremy’s sake.

“Okay. I know you need to go,” I tell him. “But if you could help me with just one thing, that’s all I’ll ask. I’d really like to get my hands on a roster. Do either of you have a team roster?”

“Why?” Chase frowns at me, and I wish I’d waited until he left. T.J. probably has one. “Why do you want a roster?”

“Well, maybe I don’t need a roster exactly. I just need to know the names of all the players on the Panthers. And anything else about them, especially how they got along with Coach.”

“For your suspect list,” T.J. says. “Right. I can give you the names of everybody on the team.” He reaches for my notebook, and I let him take it. He starts filling in my list of names.

Chase stands up. “You don’t really need me for this.”

“Sit back down, man,” T.J. says, still writing. “You know more about some of these guys than I do.”

“Are you serious?” Chase asks. “You live here. They go to school with you, don’t they?”

“That doesn’t mean they hang out with me. They don’t. They hang out with you.”

I get the feeling it costs T.J. something to admit this. I’m grateful.

Chase sits on the edge of the bed and rubs his hands together as if he’s warming himself by a bonfire. “Give me a name. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Fifteen minutes later, my suspect list has doubled.

“I have to tell you, Hope,” Chase says when we’re finished with the Panther list, “everybody on the Panthers really liked Coach.”

“So did Jeremy,” I add.

“So did Jeremy,” he agrees.

T.J. has been sitting cross-legged on the floor, but he gets up. “They liked him. Maybe. But maybe not.”

“What do you mean, T.J.?” I ask.

When he looks at me, his face is hard, his mouth a razor-thin line. “Coach wasn’t perfect.”

I’m a little stunned at the change in T.J. I know he was angry about Coach making fun of his mom, but I wonder if there’s something else going on. After another minute, I ask him again, “What do you mean?”

He’s quiet for so long that I don’t think he’s going to answer me. Then he does. “It’s just … everybody talks about
Coach Johnson like he’s this saint or something. Just because people are dead doesn’t mean you forget all the bad stuff they did. He wasn’t perfect. That’s all I’m saying. So maybe everybody
didn’t
like him.”

I want to ask more, but I don’t. I just say, “Good point,” and let it go at that.

“Okay.” Chase frowns, like he doesn’t understand either. “Nobody’s perfect. I’m just saying that I don’t think the Panthers make great suspects.”

I hate to agree with him, but I do. “I had to start somewhere. But I think the best possibility is Caroline Johnson, Coach’s wife.”

“You underlined her,” T.J. says, sitting down again. He taps the end of the pen on the list. The
click, click
reminds me of Jeremy, the way he can drive me crazy with constant clicking whenever he has a pen in his hand.

Chase turns to me. “Did you underline her name because you really think she murdered her husband?”

“Lots of wives do, you know.”

“That’s true,” T.J. says. “Spouses are the number one suspect in any murder. One-third of female homicide victims were killed by their husbands or boyfriends. Some say fifty-three percent of murders were done by spouses, but most of them got off.”