Time of Death

34

Ren sat alone at Annie’s kitchen table with print-outs of the photos Billy had taken of Trudie Hammond’s file. Having pushed away her guilt at lying to Janine Hooks and at roping Billy into her mess, she was struggling to bury the fear of getting caught. She needed a sharp mind to put together the pieces of something she was not even quite sure of. It was like the ingredients of a cake laid out on a table without the recipe — you had to start baking it, but you had no real idea what cake you were making. A lot of it came down to guesswork, and the end result could be a disaster. With a cold-case file, you were dealing with out-of-date technology and the inexperience and limited resources of an older police force. Re-investigating it could make you the person who turns up decades later at a forgotten mine and strikes gold. Or the person who shows up and confirms that there was nothing new to be uncovered.

In Trudie Hammond’s case, there was a twenty-seven-year gap and a file that was disappointingly slim. Ren ran through the details, starting with a series of shots of the blood-soaked crime scene.

Trudie Hammond, housewife and mother of one was found dead by her husband at 11 a.m. on August 16, 1983. He had left for work at 8 a.m., returned unexpectedly to pick up a work file and found his wife lying dead on the living-room floor. She had been struck several times on the head with a glass vase and had crashed through a glass coffee table.

The couple’s two-year-old daughter had been asleep in her crib and was awakened by a female police officer and brought to a family member’s home. There were no signs of sexual assault. Mrs Hammond had had sex that morning with her husband before he left for work.

In evidence: one nightgown, fragments of broken glass from the vase, one piece of carpet.

All twenty houses on the street had been canvassed. The only name Ren recognized was Lucinda Kerr, who had been home sick from work, but was sleeping and had not seen or heard a thing. Her husband, Peter Everett, had been out jogging and had also not seen or heard anything suspicious. He had returned to find police cars on the street. Most of the residents discovered the tragedy when they came home at the end of the working day.

Ren studied the photos. Trudie Hammond was dressed in a white nightgown with a halo of blonde hair spread out above her head. It was the same nightgown that she had been wearing when her husband had left her that morning. She was heavily made up, but tears had clearly washed her mascara down her cheeks. Her bright pink lipstick was gone, leaving behind a faint stain.

Why did she have full makeup on when she was killed if she had not showered since her husband left? Would a woman shower, apply makeup and put on the nightgown from the previous night? Little things, maybe, but odd.

And how had little Mia Hammond slept through all this? Anintruder entering the house. Shattering glass. Her mother’s crying and probable screaming. Her father’s car pulling up. His arrival into the house.

Ren felt a surge of frustration at not being able to walk through the rooms of the Hammond house, of not being able to question the non-witnesses, at not being able to talk to Douglas Hammond or any of the detectives on the case or…There was one name she recognized, signed at the bottom of the autopsy report under the pathologist’s name: Dr Barry Tolman.

Ren liked Barry Tolman. He had a nice manner, was efficient and easy to deal with. Could she trust him to give her details on the case without blabbing to Janine Hooks?

Hmm.

Ren closed the file, shoved it under the sofa and went to bed.

Few wise decisions can be made at four a.m.

At eight the following morning Ren was standing in front of the kitchen cabinet reaching for a box of peppermint tea, wishing there would come a day when four hours’ sleep would not leave her feeling nauseous. As she reached for the kettle, the house phone startled her. One day, four hours’ sleep would not make her jumpy.

Few people had Annie’s home number. Or would expect Ren to ever be home, no matter what was going on in her life.

‘Hello?’ she said.

‘Did you know Beau had been doing drugs?’ Her mother’s voice was painfully shrill — the voice that heralded a conversation riddled with ridiculous statements.

Ren looked at her watch again. ‘What? It’s eight a.m., Mom. Jesus.’

‘Jesus doesn’t care what time it is,’ said her mom. Ridiculous statement #1.

‘Hello?’ said Ren. ‘It’s early, you know I have to go to work in a little while. So, tell me, calmly, what is going on.’

‘Don’t tell me to be calm,’ she said. ‘Would you be calm if the whole world said your son was a drug user?’ Statement #2.

The whole world. Ren took a deep breath. ‘Why did you call me? To take out your anger at the police? Or for…what exactly?’

‘I want to know if you knew that Beau was doing drugs.’

‘I want to know what makes you think that he was.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Ren, drop the lawyer/therapist act.’ Statement #3. ‘Was Beau doing drugs?’

‘No,’ said Ren. ‘And if he was, would it matter now? And would it matter if I knew or “the whole world” knew?’

‘Well, according to Daryl Stroud, when his detectives spoke with Beau’s friends, they said that he had been doing drugs. The detectives asked them had they been to his room, did they know of this hole he had in the bed-’

‘Does it matter? Seriously?’

‘Of course it matters,’ said her mother. ‘He suffered from depression. He was not supposed to be doing drugs. Drugs would make everything worse for someone like Beau. And how did your father and I not notice? I can’t believe he was doing drugs under our noses and none of us noticed.’

‘Mom…can we believe whoever said this?’ And can anybody let Beau rest in peace?

‘It changes everything,’ said her mother.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There was something we could have done. If I had noticed, I could have put a stop to it. God knows how they were affecting his brain. He could still be here today if I had been paying more attention. I’m his mother.’

‘Mom, you and Dad could not have paid more attention to us if you tried — short of following us all around every day.’

‘Obviously, that wasn’t enough.’

No — it was too much. ‘Whatever you’d like to think about this revelation, it doesn’t change a-’

‘Of course it does, Ren. I have spent how many years being told by people “There was nothing you could do”, and finally I had started to believe it. I allowed myself to be convinced that I had done everything I could for Beau. But now it’s obvious that was not the case. I failed my son.’

‘I know you’re not going to hear this right now,’ said Ren, ‘but I’ll say it anyway. You did not fail Beau. Please do not look for an excuse to go back and punish yourself again. You did everything. After that, it was Beau alone with his mind. And his mind was shooting out faulty messages. And at that moment in time, he listened to them. He had no control over that. So you definitely couldn’t have.’

‘How can you be so calm about all this?’

‘Years of therapy is how,’ said Ren. ‘Maybe you should give it a shot.’

‘I don’t need therapy.’ Statement #4.

‘Everyone needs therapy, if you ask me.’

‘It wouldn’t do any good at my age…’

I give up. ‘Well, if you think it will make you feel any worse than the way you do right now, you’re absolutely right not to go.’

Silence.

‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ said Ren. ‘Take care. Hi to Dad. And Beau didn’t do drugs.’