Double Homicide

17

Two-thirty in the afternoon and already Leo Van Beest was deep into alcoholic memories.

Back to the days when he’d been a Ferrari. For a while, the ride had been fast, wild, dangerously thrilling.

Now two detectives were standing over him and the dream was gone and Leo was feeling mighty sorry for himself.

His house was a one-bedroom, shingle-front dump, unkempt and unloved with dirty ice for a front yard. A rusted green Mercedes diesel sedan sat in the sunken driveway.

Inside, threadbare carpeting covered the floor, and bedsheets draped the windows. There were crusted dishes in the sink, and rumpled clothing and wrinkled papers were scattered everywhere. A rotten smell permeated the stifling front room. The walls were yellowed, hung with black-and-white photos from Leo’s European glory days. The old man was dressed in torn sweats, drinking from a coffee mug, staring into the cup. A boozy steam wafted up from the rim and misted his face.

“I wouldn’t have done it, ”cept that’s what Julius wanted.“

Dorothy said, “Parents are supposed to talk children out of bad decisions, Mr. Van Beest.”

Leo looked up from his drink. Red eyes struggled to focus on Dorothy’s face. He was sitting, but Dorothy was standing. No way she was going to touch that couch. Who knew what he had done on it?

“You think it was a bad decision, huh?” The old man sipped his drink. “I supposed to talk my son out of being someone big… someone famous. So he can do back-breaking labor for the rest of his days?”

“There were other options,” McCain said.

Leo smiled, then laughed. “Oh, yeah. Other options. Like college. Like Julius was some kind of smarty.” He laughed again, but it was mirthless. “That boy was born to move-born to run and jump and be a star. He was a racehorse, not an old plow horse. Julius was a giant! He was big and strong and coordinated and had a talent that was given to God’s creatures once in a lifetime. That boy was a giant even with the giants. And I supposed to tell him he can’t do it?”

He shook his head no, then he looked up again.

“You wanna know what the boy said to me? He said, ”Pops, I’d rather be a shooting star than no star at all. You gotta keep this a secret. You gotta not tell Mama, no matter what! You gotta be a man about this, Pops. And you gotta let me be a man.“”

“That your definition of being a man?” McCain said. “Knowing every time your son went on the basketball court, he could drop dead?”

“And a cop don’t look death in the eye every time he answers a call?”

“That’s a cheap shot,” Dorothy said.

“No, you don’t understand!” Leo said forcefully. He jabbed his finger up in the air. “You’re a cop, that’s your job. Julius was a basketball player. That was his job! And I be damned if I wasn’t gonna let him live out his dream.”

“His dream or your dream?” Dorothy said.

“Don’t matter now,” Leo snarled at her. “Because now it’s nobody’s dream.”

No one spoke.

“I know what you all is thinking: that I killed my son by lettin‘ him play. Bullshit! Better he die a quick death than a slow painful one, you know what I’m saying?”

“No, I don’t know what you’re saying, sir,” Dorothy said. “But that’s irrelevant. If Julius had died in high school, I would have arrested you-for endangering the life of your child, maybe even for murder. But Julius died three years after he reached his majority. He knew his situation and he knew it was dangerous. At some point, it was his responsibility.”

Leo nodded in agreement. “You’re right about that, lady. The boy wanted to play no matter what.”

“That’s why he brought in X-rays of your chest instead of his,” McCain said.

Leo didn’t answer.

“Those were your X-rays, weren’t they?” Dorothy said.

“My boy asked me to help him and I did,” Leo said.

Dorothy’s hands tightened into fists. He just didn’t get it.

McCain said, “You helped your son nail his own coffin, Mr. Van Beest. But like Detective Breton said, in the end it was Julius’s decision.”

“So what happens now?” said Leo.

“Legally, you’re off the hook,” Dorothy said. “But morally…” She didn’t finish the sentence. “We’re going now. If you want to contact us about anything, I can be reached at this number.” She handed him her card.

Leo pursed his lips and tossed it aside. “Why would I want to talk to you?”

“You never know,” McCain said.

“Does Ellen know how the boy died?”

McCain nodded. “She knows he died of an aneurysm.”

“But she don’t know the full story?”

Dorothy said, “We see no reason to give her additional heartache. I’m not going to rat you out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Leo digested that. Nodded and got up from the couch. “I’ll walk you out.”

“No need,” McCain said. “The place ain’t that big.”

They closed the door and walked away silently, too depressed to talk. They were halfway down the driveway, just past the Mercedes, when they heard the gunshot.

It made the front pages of the Globe and the Herald. Leo had lived a bum life, but he died a heartbroken hero. Ellen Van Beest attended two funerals in one week, then she took an extended vacation to be with her family.

“I could use that,” Dorothy told McCain. “An extended vacation. As a matter of fact, I’d go for any kind of vacation.”

“It’s only two p.m.” He closed his suitcase. “You still got time to take the boys and come down to Florida with me. We can celebrate together.”

“Micky, Christmas is snow on the treetops, a big roaring fire, and spicy, hot rum. Not palm trees and a sunburn.”

“You burn?”

“Only when stupid people get on my nerves.” McCain grinned. “There’s rum in Miami, pard.” She rolled her eyes and checked her watch. Micky’s plane was supposed to depart in an hour. Unlike most airports, Logan International was located close to the city center-the one good thing about the place. Still, the roads were icy and traffic was always a bitch, especially on Christmas Eve. “We’d better get going, Micky.” He hefted his suitcase. “Let’s do it, Detective.”

Though the road was snarled and the tempers were hot, Dorothy made decent time. She watched Micky disappear into the terminal, then hooked back onto the highway for the ride back. All she wanted to do was get home and hug her kids.

Three blocks from her house, it started to snow… a gentle dusting. Soft snow, the kind that tickles your nose and face, the kind that makes you want to stick out your tongue and eat it. The kind of snow that turns dirty old Boston into a picturesque, quaint New England town.

Dorothy blinked and felt her cheeks go wet.

It was going to be a beautiful Christmas. She had to believe that.