Confessions of a Murder Suspect

82

“So you broke into Crosby’s apartment,” Caputo said. “And you want us to what? Watch a movie?”

Caputo’s expression was sour, but I didn’t care. My insides were liquid. I could barely stand or order my thoughts.

I had just watched my parents die.

I picked up the three-hole-punched sheaf of paper with the cover sheet that read “Filthy Rich” and shoved it at Caputo.

“Crosby outlined all the scenes,” I said.

My voice broke. I swallowed hard, then pushed on.

“These DVDs are copies of illegal wireless transmissions from our apartment to this apartment. Sergeant, Nate Crosby knew the whole story. He knew what happened to my parents because he filmed it.”

“So you say,” said Caputo.

Harry took a puff from his inhaler. Then he cued up the DVD. I didn’t think I could bear to see it again, but I had no choice.

Harry pushed play, and the video began to roll.

The camera had been mounted above the fireplace, looking toward the bed. My mother was wearing ice-blue satin pajamas. My father wore his favorite striped cotton pj’s, with the Angel Pharma logo over the breast pocket.

My mother coughed into a tissue, then dropped it into a trash can beside the bed. Her voice sounded strained when she turned to my father and said, “I’m sorry, Malcolm. I don’t think I can put it off any longer.”

“Maud. What are you saying?”

He put his book down, then took off his reading glasses and placed them on the night table along with the book. He looked into my mother’s eyes. “We haven’t even decided to go through with it. Do you really think you’re ready? Something could change.”

Maud said, “I wish.… But there’s no getting around it, Malcolm. The pain has become unbearable. I could hardly get through dinner tonight. Everything is coming down. And I won’t survive it. You know that. This is the right time.” There were tears on her cheeks, and in her voice, too.

With the exception of my one fractured memory of hearing my mother’s voice breaking in her study, I’d never known her to cry, and I’d certainly never witnessed it. I’d thought she was invincible. I wiped away my own tears with the back of my hand. More tears immediately replaced them.

My father said, “I’m not sure. I should feel sure. I must feel sure.”

“You’re an optimist, Mal, and I love you for that, but it’s my decision. Please. Forgive me. For everything. Don’t fight me on this.”

My father touched my mother’s cheek and said, “There’s nothing to forgive, darling. Okay.”

Then he opened the drawer of his night table and withdrew a small amber bottle.

Crosby had used his editing program to move closer for this shot. He focused on my mother as she gripped a water glass with both hands. Then he pulled back again so that the camera could capture my father pouring liquid from the bottle into the glass.

I wanted to scream, Stop. Stop. Stop.

But the story was unstoppable.

My mother said, “Thank you, Malcolm. I love you. I’ve never loved you more.”

He replied, “I’m sorry for anything I’ve done to hurt you, Maudie. I’ve never loved anyone but you.”

My father moaned as my mother drank down the contents of her water glass. Then, as I looked at his face, I saw tears fall from his eyes. And I saw him accept the decision.

He lifted the bottle to his lips and quickly drank the rest of the poison down. The empty bottle rolled out of his hand and across the silk bedding. Then it fell to the floor.

My mother grabbed my father’s arm and cried out, “No! No, Malcolm. What have you done?”

What had they done?

What had they done?