Confessions of a Murder Suspect

64

“Oh, God, I can’t take this anymore,” said Harry. “I really can’t take it.”

Satellite vans from local and national news outlets lined Central Park West, spilling around the corner and down Seventy-second Street, circling the Dakota like a twenty-first-century wagon train.

“Try to think of it this way,” I said to Harry. “We want the same thing as the press. They want to know who did it, and why.”

Virgil parked in a no-parking zone, a prohibited space next to a fire hydrant right in front of the building. The rain was coming down even harder than before. High winds were thrashing treetops in the park and gusting up the avenue.

A hundred black umbrellas lifted and riffled in the wind.

“Just look at the buzzards,” Hugo said. “I’d like to punch every single one of them in the face.”

“That’s my baby brother, Hugo,” Matty said, and laughed out loud. “Let him out!”

It was astonishing.

All of these reporters were waiting for us.

I’d seen pictures of the media frenzy after John Lennon had been shot, murdered by a lunatic at the Dakota. This was what the media circus looked like then. And now there was another juicy story that would not die. A prominent couple had been murdered, and one or all of their kids had likely done it. A quote from any of us, or even from a nosy neighbor, would make headlines and secure the top-of-the-hour news slot.

“Ready to do this, Matthew?” Virgil said.

We all took a deep breath and got out of the car. With Matthew and Virgil parting the crowd, we bumped along in formation, ducking rain and umbrellas as we headed toward the Dakota’s front doors.

We were almost there when a woman slammed into me and said, “Whoops, I’m sorry.” It was Kaylee Kerz, a reporter I’d seen on ESPN so many times that I felt as though I knew her. But apart from the “whoops,” she didn’t notice me. Her eyes were on Matty.

“Matthew! Matthew, could you comment on your suspension from the NFL?”

If it hadn’t been so unnerving to be in the thick of such mayhem, I would have laughed out loud at the idea of the NFL suspending my brother. They would never do that. He was the icon of all sports icons. He was a superstar.

But when Matthew turned to her, I saw his expression, and he wasn’t shocked at what the TV reporter had asked him. He didn’t look as though the ground had opened up under him, either. He didn’t even look angry.

Matthew almost always looked angry.

“Hi, Kaylee. Nice to see you,” he said. “Want to make some news together?”