By the Time You Read This

15

SERGEANT MARY FLOWER CAME into the squad room and sat on Delorme’s desk. That was what she did when she wanted you to drop everything and pay attention to her. Annoying but effective.

Delorme was on the phone with the coroner’s office, trying without success to determine the whereabouts of his evidence concerning a case of domestic murder that was coming to trial in two weeks. She put her hand over the phone and cocked an eyebrow at Flower.

“We got Mrs. Dorn outside, mad as hell,” she said. “She wants to speak to you, I don’t know why.”

“It turns out I know her daughter.”

“Good. She’s here too. I love that top, by the way, is that Gap?”

“Benetton. Tell them I’ll be right out.”

Delorme found them in the waiting area. A woman in her fifties was standing under the clock, arms folded across her chest, one foot tapping furiously as if she were counting every split second of justice delayed. Her daughter, Shelly, was seated in a chair behind her. Shelly was an amusing red-haired friend of Delorme’s from the health club. They often took treadmills next to each other and chatted to pass the time. Delorme liked her, but Shelly was married with two kids, and this was the first time Delorme had seen her outside the club. She stood up when she saw Delorme.

“Lise, I know we shouldn’t show up unannounced.”

“That’s all right,” Delorme said. “I’m so sorry about your brother. He was so young.”

“Yes, he was young,” the older woman said, and even in those first few words Delorme could hear the agony that was coming out as fury. “He was hardly more than a boy. He was still a student, a brilliant student. He was accepted at McGill, he had every reason to live, and he didn’t have to die.”

“Lise, this is my mother, Beverly Dorn.”

“Mrs. Dorn, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“But are you going to help us with it? That’s what I want to know. What are you going to do to help us right this terrible wrong? Perry was a smart person, a sensitive person, and now he’s dead and it didn’t have to happen. There should be an inquest, an investigation. We deserve answers.”

“Mom, Lise will do whatever she can. Just take it easy.”

“Why don’t you come with me,” Delorme said. She showed them into a room that was often used for families under stress. Unlike the other interview rooms, it had carpeting and an almost comfortable couch. There was a scratchy-looking artwork of a mother and child on one wall, a blackboard without chalk on the other. Delorme closed the door behind them.

“Won’t you sit down?” Delorme said.

“I don’t feel like sitting,” Mrs. Dorn said. “I’m too angry.”

“Mom, you don’t have any reason to be angry at Lise.”

“There was another officer in that laundromat with Perry. What about him? He was right there when it happened. He was there before it happened. Why did he not disarm him, can you tell me that? Why didn’t he do something?”

Delorme gestured once again toward the couch and waited until Mrs. Dorn sat beside her daughter. Her eyes were red and raw from the kind of crying that brings no relief, her hyper-agitation that of one whom sleep has abandoned.

Delorme sat across from them and spoke softly. “Yes, there was a police officer at the laundromat. He was in the coffee shop next door, off duty, when the man beside him saw your son entering the laundromat with a shotgun. After calling for backup, the officer followed your son inside.”

“Why didn’t he take the gun away from him? That’s what I want to know. Why didn’t he tear that gun right out of his hand? He just stood by and let it happen!”

“The officer’s first concern was the safety of everyone in the laundromat. There were other people there. He focused on getting them to safety as quickly as possible.”

“Perry has never been a danger to anyone but himself. It’s obvious when you look at him. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. That is literally true, by the way. He’ll go to enormous lengths to get an insect out of the house without injuring it.”

“The officer did not know your son. All he saw was a distraught man, armed, in a room full of people. He got the others out first, which was the appropriate action.”

“And he lets my obviously distraught son kill himself. Bravo. Give the man a medal.”

“Mom. Let her talk.” Shelly put a hand on her mother’s forearm, but Mrs. Dorn jerked it away.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Nobody’s patronizing you. You asked a question, and Lise is answering it. Let her finish.”

“The officer then tried to—”

“The officer, the officer—does this person have a name? A badge number?”

“He does. And you’re welcome to that information, but it won’t change the facts. He tried to calm your son down. He spoke quietly with him and encouraged him to put the gun down. Your son refused.”

“He was just a boy! You have a trained police officer, and he can’t stop a boy from killing himself? Why didn’t he grab that gun!”

Delorme let the question—accusation, rather—hang there in the air for a minute.

“I think you know the answer to that question, Mrs. Dorn.”

Mrs. Dorn shook her head tightly.

“The officer did not want to upset Perry any more than he already was. And he didn’t want to get shot himself. I repeat, he was unarmed.”

“It’s a policeman’s job to take risks. He should have talked calmly to him, and got himself close enough to get that gun away from him.”

“And I’m sure he would have done so, had it been possible. He was trying to talk him down, to calm him, just as you say. They were talking, and then Perry suddenly turned the gun on himself and fired.”

“And nobody stopped him.”

“Mrs. Dorn, from the time your son was seen entering the laundromat to the time he pulled the trigger took less than eight minutes. It took three or four minutes to get the other people out. That gave the officer and your son at most about five minutes to work things out.”

“Time enough to save his life. Why didn’t he stop him? Dear God, why didn’t he stop him, he was just a boy!”

“He did his best, Mrs. Dorn. There simply wasn’t time.”

“Could I speak to this officer, please?”

“Mom—”

“He isn’t here today,” Delorme said. “The reason is, he’s devastated by what happened. No police officer enters into a situation like that without wanting the best possible outcome. At that moment, believe me, Mrs. Dorn, no one wanted your son to live more than that police officer. Had he succeeded in talking Perry out of it, he would be here today and he would be on top of the world. But he isn’t, he’s miserable.”

“Maybe because he feels guilty. Maybe that’s why he’s miserable. Maybe because he didn’t do his job.”

“I hope when you’re calmer you’ll see it differently.”

Mrs. Dorn sniffed. She looked at the picture on the wall, then back to her daughter.

“Well, we certainly plan to demand an investigation.”

“There’s no longer a Special Investigations officer up here, but I’ll give you their number in Toronto. If they feel it’s warranted, they’ll investigate.”