The Killing Room by Richard Montanari

very sorry for your loss,’ Byrne said.
    The woman crossed the kitchen, reached into a cupboard, pulled out a cup. It was not a coffee mug, but rather a child’s brightly colored plastic tumbler. Jessica noticed that it was decorated with characters from the Flintstones. The woman didn’t pour anything into it – no coffee, no soda, no juice. She justheld it. Jessica wanted desperately to look at her partner, but stopped herself.
    ‘What … what happened?’ the woman asked. ‘Was it the drugs?’
    Jessica knew the convenient answer would be to say yes. Yes, he died of an overdose . It would make the job so much easier if they could blame all of this on a weakness, not the cracked mind of a killer.
    ‘No,’ Byrne said. ‘We think he was murdered.’
    The woman steadied herself with the arm of the sofa. ‘Why?’
    ‘We’re not sure yet, ma’am,’ Byrne said. ‘We’re just beginning our investigation. And we could use your help. I know this is a terrible shock. Do you feel up to answering a few of our questions?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so.’
    Byrne took out his notebook and pen. ‘When did you last see Danny?’
    The woman thought for a few moments. ‘I saw him two weeks ago. Maybe longer than that.’
    ‘Do you remember the day of the week?’
    The woman’s stare was blank. Jessica had seen this many times also, the way sudden grief could steal even the smallest details from your memory. It was a form of shock.
    ‘It’s okay if you can’t remember right now,’ Byrne said. ‘We can get to it later.’
    Loretta Palumbo nodded.
    ‘Did Danny live here?’
    ‘No, not for years,’ she said. ‘It’s just that sometimes he would stay here when he …’
    When he got sick, Jessica thought. When he needed money. She looked around the room. There was no television, no DVD player, no stereo. Jessica wondered if those things had gone up Danny Palumbo’s arm.
    ‘I wouldn’t let him do his drugs in this house,’ Loretta said. ‘I just couldn’t.’
    The woman’s legs got a little shaky. Byrne crossed the room, eased her into a chair. He pointed to the plastic cup in her hands. ‘Can we get you some water, ma’am?’
    Loretta Palumbo pulled a tissue from a square box on the coffee table, dabbed her eyes. ‘No, thank you.’
    Byrne nodded to Jessica, who took out her notebook. Byrne put his away, sat on the couch. ‘When Danny was here, the last time you saw him, how did he seem? Did he seem particularly troubled?’
    Loretta stared at the framed photographs on the end table. One of them showed a much younger Loretta Palumbo leaning against the trunk of a 1980s compact car, a baby in her arms. ‘He was always troubled,’ she said. ‘Even as a baby. Always restless, never could stay in one spot too long. One time he got out of his playpen and crawled almost to the corner.’
    Byrne let the woman talk.
    ‘When his father died, Danny was only ten years old. He came to me after the funeral holding my husband’s toolbox. His father was quite handy around the house, you know.’
    ‘When Danny stayed here, did he have his own room?’ Byrne asked.
    ‘Of course,’ she said.
    ‘May we take a look at it? There may be something in there that might help us.’
    ‘It’s upstairs,’ Loretta said. ‘On the left.’
    Byrne nodded to Jessica, telling her that he would sit with the woman while she searched the victim’s room.
    Jessica took the stairs two treads at a time, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in this cramped rowhouse, suddenly wanting to move on. Notification was never an easy thing – indeed, it was the worst part of her job – but for some reason she was having a harder than usual time with this one. It was all such a waste.
    She opened the door to the bedroom on the left. The first thing that struck her was how spartan the room was. Against the wall with the window that looked out the front of the rowhouse there was a single bed, tightly made up with a light blue blanket,