Shred of Evidence

“Is a second murder easier to commit than the first?” Dr. Fiscus strolled across the front of the classroom, stroking his chest as if smoothing an invisible tie.

No one spoke up. The early spring sun poured through the rain-blotched windows, and it was an effort to keep one’s head up, let alone think. Brian held absolutely still, afraid to be singled out.

Fiscus stopped in front of the sexy blonde in the front row, smiled down at her, and rephrased, “Is it easier to kill the second time?”

She ran a splayed hand down the back of her mane, a gesture that made Brian think of his sister and all her self-conscious mannerisms. Joyce. Where would she be right this minute?

The blonde in front was answering in an unlovely, high-pitched voice. “…can only be executed once.”

“No, no, Ms. Laird. This is Theories in Psychology, not Criminal Justice 101. The murderer, I assure you, doesn’t think about how often he can be punished. Here we have Chuck Schmuck, who strangled Mrs. Schmuck for buying one too many pairs of shoes. He gets away with it.” Fiscus, hands in pockets, rocked on his heels. Dark-haired and stout, the professor gave off an aura of superiority that Brian had discovered was not the real man at all. In a private student consultation, Fiscus was as unassuming and quiet as—well, as Brian.

“So. Is our murderer less conflicted about drowning Wife Number Two in her bubble bath for whatever reason? Or does his eldritch experience with the previous murder stay his hand?”

Before Brian could do anything stupid, the bell rang. The class thumped, banged and clattered its way into the hall until Brian was the only one left in the room with Dr. Fiscus, who looked askance at him while gathering up books and papers. It was tempting to initiate discussion—”Dr. F., what do you think about….” But it was a lot easier—and safer—to shake his head, collect his own books, and go.

* * *

As usual, Brian was home before ten. The night smelled sweet and green, inviting him to take a walk. But the last time he’d succumbed to that enticement, his mother had berated him for a full hour for scaring her. “The car was here and you weren’t here and I had no idea where you were and I was about to call 911 and you never think of anyone but yourself and look at me a nervous wreck.”

He unlocked the back door and slipped inside, but she heard him. “Brian!” It was worse than fingernails on a blackboard, that whining squeal. He dropped his keys and backpack on the kitchen table and let his feet drag him into the living room. She lounged on her black recliner like a seal on a promontory rock. She’d muted the television, the better to listen for him. A lovely young woman smiled out into the room, mouthing the news, as other story headlines crawled by below her.

“I’m starved,” Brian’s mother said, folding her arms over her pillowy breasts. She said nothing else, didn’t look at him, so it was one of her better days.

He used the bathroom, staring into his eyes as he washed up after. He opened a can of tomato soup and toasted a cheese sandwich. She could have done it. Sometimes she’d go on a tear—bake cookies, bake bread, cut flowers from the garden to arrange in bursts of color all over the house. Usually, she sat and watched TV.

“How was work?” she asked him over her soup bowl. She’d come to the kitchen to eat, another sign of a good day.

“Okay. Kid choked on a pickle and the manager had to give him the Heimlich.”

“Oh no. Was the child okay?” Her dull eyes came alive with concern. A very good day. The old Mom, who hugged him when he fell down and kissed the bloody knee. Brian’s hand twitched toward hers, lying on the table, but he stopped himself, afraid he’d stir her up.

“Yeah,” he said. “The whole thing was over in seconds. No problem.”

“Joycie choked on a piece of hard candy once,” Mom said, spoon poised for the next dip, gaze far away. “Scared me to death.” Her eyes reddened and glittered as she remembered. “I wish that girl would at least let me know she’s alive.”

Brian believed Joyce was not only alive but well—happy, even. Probably by now she’d been married once or twice, had three or four kids. Nice house, nice car. He thought she’d eat in nice restaurants at least once a week and have her hair done by a professional.

Because she’d had sense enough to get out, while the getting was possible. All his siblings had escaped, one way or another.

Brian took his time washing the dishes—supper, lunch and breakfast. He tidied the kitchen, wiped down counters and polished chrome. He even washed the windows over the sink. All the time thinking about his family, and about how any of them could have done it. Could have murdered Dad.

* * *

“Any one of them could of done it,” the squat policeman with the broad nose and big, black nostrils had said.

Brian, nine, hiding out in the upstairs bathroom could hear the two cops talking in the kitchen below, their voices familiar but hollow from the journey up the furnace vent. Sitting on the floor, jammed into the corner behind the toilet, he hugged his pale knees to his bony chest.

“You don’t think the wife did it?” the other policeman said. He had a cold, coughing every few minutes. Talked hoarse, like it hurt.

“How’d she do it with a broken arm? And she’s out cold on the floor?”

“Only takes one arm to blast somebody. She shoots and then she passes out.”

“Yeah, no doubt. But—didja see the look on that oldest boy’s face?” Paper rustled. “Richard, his name is. Eighteen. Big, strong kid, probably tired of his father beating on his mother.”

“What about the girl? She’s big and strong, too, looks like to me. Joyce. Sixteen. Daddy’s probably been abusing the whole tribe. Brian? What’s he, ten?”

Brian squirmed deeper into the chilly tile wall. The speaker coughed a while before adding, “Hell, even the six-year-old coulda done it.”

But little Donnie hadn’t fired the shot that shattered Dad’s rib cage and burst his heart. As forensics would soon show, Donnie was the only one with no traces of gunpowder on his fingers.

All the rest of them, Mom included, had handled the gun. Richard, as quick-thinking as he was slow to smile, had insisted on it. While Mom moaned in and out of consciousness, he tenderly wrapped her fingers around the grip. He’d even pressed Dad’s palm to the black metal, smearing blood in the process, so that Brian’s throat convulsed with rising vomit and shrieks.

That was the last time they pulled together as a family. As soon as Mom’s trial ended in a not guilty verdict—for insufficient evidence—Richard and Joyce lit out for parts still unknown and Donnie died in a bike accident.

Brian blamed Mom for Donnie. She wasn’t anywhere near the street when it happened, but that was the point. She wasn’t there. Before Dad died, she kept the peace as best she could by being the best cook, housekeeper, mother, and self-sacrificing woman alive. After her acquittal, she tried to take on Dad’s role, as well, and only succeeded in emulating his capacity for liquor and pessimism.

They were well-off financially, thanks to insurance policies that paid off the mortgage and established college funds. Still, Brian couldn’t afford to leave home yet. Worse, his mother depended on him. Who else would take care of her? Who had a better reason than Brian?

* * *

Too late for lunch, too early for dinner, Brian stopped in the student union cafeteria after classes and before going to work. Turning from the cashier’s station with his coffee cup and sweet roll, he found he had plenty of empty tables to chose from. He tramped toward a far booth, his gaze skidding away from a couple he passed. Good-looking girl. Guy no better looking than Brian.

Brian tamped down a twinge of envy. He’d resigned himself to the reality that dating was out of the question. Mom drove him crazy. What would she do to a stranger?

“Brian, is it? Sit down. Have some conversation with your snack.”

At the hearty hail, a swash of hot coffee bathed Brian’s hand. Dr. Fiscus smiled up from a high-backed booth. His table was strewn with newspapers and the remnants of a soup and salad repast.

“Hello, sir. Thank you, I’d like that.” Brian settled into the other bench and sipped cautiously at his cup.

“Just wanted to say, your last test results were outstanding. You have a talent for psychology. Any plans to pursue a career of it?”

“Uh, I hadn’t thought of it. What can a guy do with a degree in psychology?”

“Research. Clinical work. Guidance-counseling. There’s always teaching.” Fiscus narrowed his gaze as if reading something behind Brian’s eyes.

“I don’t know. It’s—interesting—how the mind works. Sometimes I wish I could shut mine off.”

Fiscus raised his eyebrows. Brian could almost see him shifting into consultatory mode. “Oh?” he said.

“I can’t forget.” Brian shrugged and chuckled, to show it was no big deal. “Every little bad thing that happens, adds to the big compost heap of mistakes and disappointments, all moldering in my head.” He laughed again, sorry he’d said anything, wondering why he had, knowing he’d add this to the mental dross to fret about tonight in bed. He glanced around, thankful no one was close enough to overhear.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Fiscus lazily rearranged his arms and legs, obviously deeply interested. “So what’s the mistake or the disappointment in the very core of this festering thought-sore? Have you excavated far enough to learn that?”

Brian bit into the sweet roll. It was stale, so dry it filled his mouth with dust. When he took a hasty swallow of coffee, it burned like bile.

He swiped at his eyes with his napkin. “Sorry. I choked.” Brian forced himself to look directly at Fiscus, whose expression exuded sympathy beyond the call of burnt tongues. “No,” Brian said. “I have no idea what I have to be depressed about.”

* * *

Another day, another psychology class, another apropos topic of discussion.

“How do our parents’ examples influence our behavior as we mature?” Fiscus asked. The room’s subsequent silence was broken by a mockingbird outside the window, improvising joyfully.

A few hands went up, and Fiscus nodded at one.

“No matter what the dad or mom say, it’s how they act that the kid picks up on.”

“So?” Fiscus encouraged.

“So if the mom drives like a maniac, so will the kid. Or if the dad uses profanity, so will the kid.”

Someone else inserted, “The dad robs banks, the kid robs banks.”

“Prejudice,” a girl spoke up. “Prejudice is learned from parents.” She pinched her mouth shut and nodded absolute certitude.

Fiscus pulled at his bottom lip. “So you’re saying a criminal parent will result in a juvenile delinquent offspring?”

Blondie Laird in the first row straightened up and whined, “Yeah, but what about the people who go the opposite? Like, the dad’s a lush and the kid’s disgusted to the max by the mess and the embarrassment. So the kid never touches a drop of booze.”

Brian had tasted beer. Sour. Bitter.

“Brian,” Fiscus called across the too-warm room. “What are your thoughts?”

“I think…. A father that’s determined to drink ought to smother his babies at birth.”

* * *

Fiscus waylaid him after the bell and wanted to meet at his office. Brian made excuses. Next week. Maybe the week after that. As he rushed away down the hall, he felt Fiscus’s concern boring a hole in the back of his neck.

And of course, it was one of Mom’s bad nights.

Brian cleaned up the day’s accidents. The deck of cards sown broadcast on the living room floor. The mustard jar shattered and splattered across the kitchen carpet. She’d soiled herself before she passed out on the bed. Changing her and it, he wondered if she realized how much he’d done for her. She never said thank you.

He brushed his teeth, eyes fixed on eyes in the mirror. Not once had his mother shown gratitude. Maybe she would be okay with a professional caretaker, in a home somewhere.

She’d never said she was sorry, either.

That night he woke twice from the same old nightmare of Mom chasing him through endless halls, screaming at him, but using his father’s name.

The third time he wakened, the scream was real. Fumbling into his slippers, taking time to don and tie his white terry robe, Brian shuffled across the hall and callously flipped on the overhead light.

His mother sat, wild-haired and wild-eyed, amidst what looked suspiciously like wet sheets. She flinched, and raised a trembling hand to ward off the sudden glare. “Richard?” she quavered.

“No, Mom. I’m Brian.”

This, too, was a reoccurring theme. He could mouth the next words and the next, in sync with her slowly moving lips.

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I was knocked out. I got the gun, and I shot and missed and then he hit me and hit me.”

“Go back to sleep, Mom. It’s just a bad dream.”

“Was Richard there?”

Brian sighed, so very weary of this routine. “We were all there.”

“I shouldn’t have got the gun.”

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s over now.”

But it would never be over. He would keep rerunning that bloody scene again and again till the day he died. And so would she. For a moment pity won out over disgust, and he crossed the room to pat her shoulder and then the sheet. The dampness was only sweat.

“You want some hot cocoa to help you get back to sleep?” He’d never offered that before, and he could see by her blank stare she’d lost her place in the script. “Never mind,” he said and backed away.

She gasped as he reached for the switch. “Leave the light on!” When she began to sob and claw at her throat, he deserted.

* * *

Three A.M. Brian sat on the next-to-the-bottom stair step, outside the kitchen, just as he’d sat the night his father had died. That was a different house. They couldn’t continue to live where violence, like cigarette smoke, had permeated the walls and furnishings.

An hour ago, his mother had roused up screaming, again at two-twenty, and again at ten minutes to three. Now she’d quieted, and silence pulsed in Brian’s ears. He slumped against the banister, longing for peace.

All his life, he’d played the old if-this-happens-then-this-will-happen game. If I finish my Twinkie before the bell rings, I’ll get an A on the geography test. If Dad comes home before the next commercial, we’ll go to the zoo tomorrow.

If she screams one more time, I’ll do it.

He sat, waiting. Illumination from a street lamp trickled through the front door window. It silvered the pistol clasped in his hands. Not the one that had killed his father. One just as ugly.

Brian had met a girl once named Mercy.

He wished he could let Dr. Fiscus know that it was absolutely not easier to kill a second time.

In fact, Brian couldn’t shoot her, mercy or no. He sat, the bitter barrel in his mouth, and waited.