“The important thing is what happens when you are hard pressed. The First Principle means you keep that clearly in mind, pay close attention and make sure you do not get caught in a pinch, unprepared.”
—Yagyū Munenori, The Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War
Houston and Anne stood in front of the entrance to the dormitory, waiting for the arrival of a campus police officer. Houston’s patience was at its limit and his temper was showing. “Where the hell is this guy?”
“Mike, will you calm down?” Anne asked.
“What do you mean by that?” Houston stared through the glass in the heavy door. He fought against the desire to leave and let someone else take care of this onerous task.
“If you go busting in here like you’re on a drug raid, all you’ll do is make the rift between you and your daughter wider. She’s going to have enough to deal with as it is. All your shitty attitude will do is make it harder.”
Houston turned away from the building and looked both ways along the street. He glanced at his watch. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous before—not even on my first mission in Somalia, and that was in 1993, twenty years ago.”
He turned back toward her, and she saw that, even though he tried to hide it, he was worried. She knew he fought with his emotions and that this was a battle he was not prepared for. She reached out and gripped his hand. “Mike, it’s your daughter in there, not some armed nutcase hyped on drugs.”
“That’s the problem. I know how to deal with nutcases.”
“Do you want me to do this for you?”
“No. I don’t need you holding my hand like I was some kindergartner on the first day of school.” Houston turned toward the building. “Well, this isn’t getting it done, is it?”
“No, that’s a fact.” Anne took his arm. “I’m going with you, whether you like it or not.”
“Anne, I can do this myself.”
“I know that.”
A campus police car pulled alongside of the curb and a female officer got out and walked to the entrance of the dorm. “Officers Houston and Bouchard?”
“That’s us,” Anne replied.
“Officer Beverley Justis. Could I see some ID, please?”
Anne held her badge and ID card open and Justis studied it for a few seconds. She nodded and then turned to Houston. “Sir?”
Anne gave him a reproachful look when he said, “Jesus Christ.”
“Mike.”
Houston displayed his credentials.
“Thank you,” Justis said to him. “I understand that you’re the father of one of our students.”
“That’s correct. Look Officer . . . ” Houston glanced at the name plate she wore on her uniform blouse. “ . . . Justis. I am not here in an official capacity. My daughter’s mother has passed away and I want to be the one to tell her. So can we just get inside please?”
“Of course.” A locked security door barred access to the building. The only way to gain entrance into the dormitory was via a call box on the wall to the left of the door. Justis leaned past Houston and entered a three-digit code to buzz the desired room. After several seconds a female voice asked, “Who is it?”
Justis leaned forward so her face aligned with the speaker. “BU Police.”
The voice asked, “Is something wrong?”
“No, but I need to come up.”
The door buzzed and Houston barged through. He rushed toward an elevator and punched the up button.
“Mike, don’t go up there like you’re storming a beach,” Anne said.
He glared at her. “I’m all right.”
“No, you’re not. You’re madder than hell and if you go in there acting like you were confronting a perp, how will she react? I don’t know about Susie, but if it were me I’d never forgive you.”
Justis gave him a look that told Anne the officer was having second thoughts about letting him have access to the dorm. The elevator arrived and they stepped inside. Anne took the initiative and pressed the button for the fourth floor.
She heard Houston inhale deeply and then exhale in a single explosive breath. “You’re right,” he said. “I can’t handle this like a cop.”
“No, you need to handle this like a father.”
“Great . . . like I have a clue about how to do that.”
Anne noted that Justis stood in the corner and silently studied them. It was evident that she was trying to decide just how close these two BPD officers were. Even Anne was aware that they communicated on a plane more personal than that of partners. She was relieved when the lift stopped and the door opened without any comment from the campus officer.
Susie lived in room 415. They exited the elevator and followed the arrow on a placard that indicated her room was to the left. Halfway down the hall, they stopped before a metal door with the appropriate number painted on it. Justis knocked on the door.
A petite blonde-haired girl wearing a lightweight BU shirt and cutoff blue jeans answered the door. The air conditioning was set low and it was evident she wore no bra. Justis said, “Susan Houston, please.”
“She isn’t here right now.”
“These people are from the Boston police. They need to speak with her.” She stepped aside as Anne and Houston showed her their credentials. The young girl’s eyebrows arched with curiosity. “What has Susie done?”
“I’m her father.” They were the first words Houston had uttered since exiting the elevator.
Anne answered the girl’s question. “Nothing, we just need to speak with her.”
“She’s at the library. I can text her.”
“Please do so,” Justis said. “This is important.”
“Don’t,” Houston interjected, “tell her that I’m here . . . ”
The girl gave him a quizzical look, then shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”
Anne thought Houston sounded disingenuous when he said, “I want to surprise her.”
The coed turned from the door and picked up a cell phone. She spent a few seconds entering text into it and then put it down. In a matter of seconds the phone buzzed and she looked at the trio of adults at the door. “She’s on her way back. I suppose it would be okay for you to come in and wait for her.”
Once they were inside, Anne saw Houston studying the room. It was the first normal thing she had seen him do since they had departed the Comm Avenue crime scene. This was possibly the first time in many years he had been in a room in which his daughter lived and she wondered what was going through his mind.
It was a typical college dorm room, which contained two single beds, both in teenaged disarray with sheets and blankets twisted into formless piles and pushed inboard against the wall. Between the beds were two small desks, on which sat two laptops. Rap music reverberated from a nearby room and Anne tried to ignore it. She believed that the phrase “rap music” was an oxymoron. She had lost interest in popular music in the ’90s. Compared to the angry pounding and violent, sexist lyrics of modern music, heavy metal seemed tame.
In one corner of the room a small television was tuned to the local news. Amanda Boyce was reporting from the waterfront shooting scene, informing Boston that the sniper had struck again . . . possibly twice.
The blonde girl interrupted her. “I’m Melissa Redfern, Susie’s roommate. “I’m Detective Bouchard,” Anne said. “You’ve already been introduced to Detective Houston.”
The girl looked at Houston with interest. It was as if she were checking him out to see if there were enough resemblance between him and Susie to name him in a paternity suit.
Houston felt his face flush. Who knew what Susie had told her roommate about their relationship? It wouldn’t be the first time an angry child bad-mouthed a parent.
Houston went back to studying his daughter’s half of the room. He walked to her bed and seemed to forget he was not alone. He reverently picked up a blouse that lay sprawled on the bed. He held it in his hands and studied it. He detected the faint scent of perfume and realized that his little girl was neither little nor a girl any longer. He replaced the blouse and looked at the small shelf mounted on the wall above the bed. Centered, and looking as if it were in a place of honor, was a picture of him standing next to Pam, an attractive and fit young woman. Susie, then a gangly girl, stood in front of him. He stood like a statue and stared at the framed photo. Houston stared, concentrating on Pam’s image and realized that she had not changed much over the years.
Anne noted that Melissa was staring at them as if they had just arrived from another solar system. She thought there was a look of hostile disapproval when she looked at Houston. Ignoring the girl, Anne walked over and stood beside him. She looked at the picture that held his attention. “Pam was beautiful,” she said.
Houston started. “Yes, she was. My sister took that picture on the Fourth of July. Susie was thirteen that year. Six months later everything went to hell and I left.”
“You never tried to reconcile?”
“I didn’t think there was any hope. I started drinking heavily and just lost my way. As long as I was a cop, Pam would never have considered reconciliation. She hated my job, almost as much as she came to hate me.”
“I think you’re being too harsh on yourself. I can understand how she may have disliked what you do, but I doubt she hated you. You are, after all is said and done, the father of her child, and for a woman that is something that always gives a man a special place in her heart.”
“She’d probably have changed that if she could.”
Houston went about his business in the only way he knew how. He needed to process things for himself, and part of the process he used was self-flagellation. For the time being she was thankful that she knew him well enough to restrict her role to that of an interested bystander.
She walked to the other side of the room, stood quiet and watched while he turned back to the desk and picked up one of Susie’s textbooks. He flipped through the pages without actually reading them and returned the book to its place. He picked up a loose-leaf photo album, opened it and began looking at the pictures.
Curiosity got the better of Anne and she returned to his side and looked over his shoulder at the pictures. Ignoring her, he turned the pages slowly. The first page contained a portrait of Susie as a toddler and several that appeared to be early grammar school photos.
His face went through a number of emotions as he turned the pages. With each picture, he became sadder and on a couple of occasions grimaced as if someone had shoved a knife into his gut. He stared at an eight-by-five photo of a more mature Susie, dressed in a formal gown, standing between her mother and a healthy, athletic-looking young man. On the facing page was another of Susie and the young man alone, standing on a platform decorated with flowers and shiny banners.
“Mike, have you ever considered this? If Pam hated you so much, why didn’t she remarry?”
Houston didn’t want to address her statement and quickly changed the subject. He held the notebook up. “Looks like Susie’s prom picture.”
“She’s beautiful,” Anne said.
His eyes remained fixed on the photo album. “Something else I wasn’t around for.”
He valiantly tried to look casual as he flipped through the album. Suddenly he closed the book and spun around. “I’m only in one picture. I guess even when I was around—I wasn’t.”
Anne was shocked by the deep sorrow on her partner’s face; he had never before shown this softer side. “Maybe you were behind the camera taking the pictures.”
“I doubt that.”
“This job places a lot of demands on a family.”
“I screwed that up, didn’t I? Instead of having a job to support my life I let it become my life.”
“I don’t think Susie is going to like you going through her things,” Melissa said.
Anne felt her face flush with anger, but she held back the retort that was on her tongue.
The door opened and they stopped talking and turned toward it. A young woman walked in and immediately stopped, surprised by the presence of four people in her room. She held several books against her torso and her arms tensed, pulling them tighter. When she saw Houston, her face turned hard. She said nothing and closed the door behind her.
Houston stared at her. It was as if a younger Pam had walked through the door. Susie’s hair was the same bright red as her mother’s. Her green eyes had a classical shape and her complexion was flawless. She was tall and looked athletic. The only thing marring her youthful beauty was the dark, angry look she gave her father, which resembled the look on Houston’s face when he was angry. She tensed, stiffened her back and demanded, “What are you doing here?”
Justis had been silently standing by the threshold of the door since they had entered. “Well, it looks as if my presence is no longer required. I’ll be leaving.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Anne said.
Justis nodded and left.
Melissa also took Susie’s arrival as an excuse to exit. “I’m supposed to be studying with a friend,” she said, making a hasty retreat from the room.
Tension filled the room and Houston’s face reddened. Houston struggled, trying not to respond to his daughter’s anger with his own. He was uncertain about what he should say. He stared at his daughter and said, “Hello, Susie.” His voice sounded gruff as he tried to hide the hurt, loss, and pain he felt.
Susie pushed her way past him and dumped her books on the bed. “That’s it? After all these years, all you have to say is, ‘Hello, Susie’? Why don’t you do the one thing I know you’re good at and leave?”
Houston’s jaw clenched as he battled to control the anger that his self-recrimination fueled. He knew that he had to keep his cool, because anything he said in haste would only exacerbate the situation and then there would be one more thing for which he would have to atone. He remained quiet.
He realized that Anne tried to defuse the situation when she said, “Susie . . . ”
His daughter spun and glared at her. “Who are you, his girlfriend? This is between my father and me—so butt out!”
The flush on Anne’s face told Houston that she fought to keep from retaliating and lashing out at the younger woman. He debated whether or not he should intervene when Anne quickly regrouped, put on her professional face and said, “I’m your father’s partner. We came here because something has happened that your father felt you should hear from him.”
Susie seemed convinced it was all a ploy to get her to calm down. The venom in her voice startled Houston when she snapped, “Whatever it is, tell me and then get out!”
“It’s about your mom,” Houston said.
Houston saw Susie’s mouth open with fear and her complexion pale. “Mom . . . what about Mom? Is she okay?” Despite her angry tone, her eyes darted between Anne and his. He knew that look all too well; he had seen it hundreds of times before.
“No, she isn’t,” Houston said.
“Has she been hurt?” Susie looked as if she were ready to bolt out the door and run to the nearest hospital.
“She’s dead,” Houston said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted how clinical and cold they sounded.
Susie’s legs seemed to lose strength and she sat on the bed. “Mom . . . dead? No way!”
“I’m afraid it’s the truth,” Houston replied.
“Did she have an accident?”
“No.” Houston offered nothing more.
Susie stared at her father as if the situation was beyond her comprehension. “If she didn’t have an accident, how did she die?” Tears streamed down her cheeks, smearing her makeup and leaving black tracks across her cheeks.
“She was murdered.” Houston’s tone was devoid of any compassion.
Susie flopped backward, rolled onto her side and began to sob.
Houston was at a loss as to how he should handle the situation. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder.
Susie recoiled from his touch and retreated to the far side of the bed, putting as much distance between them as the wall allowed. Suddenly she whirled around and launched herself at him, slapping at his arms and chest. As quickly as the attack started, it stopped, and Susie stared at her father through tear-filled eyes. “I want you to leave now.”
Houston reached for her again and she kicked at him. “Just Go!”
“Susie . . . ” Houston hated the pleading in his voice.
“Get the fuck out! I don’t want you here!” She sat up and huddled with her back against the wall, her legs pulled tight against her torso and her arms wrapped around them. She dropped her head and buried her face between her knees.
Houston slid toward her and then checked his desire to embrace her, to help her deal with her shock. Suddenly he knew that his presence only made his daughter’s loss seem deeper. It took all of his energy to maintain his composure and refrain from shouting at her. He did not resist when Anne gently pulled him to his feet and urged him toward the door. “Let me handle this, okay?”
He walked to the door and paused with his hand on the doorknob. He turned and looked back. Anne sat on the bed, Susie’s face pressed into her shoulder. She looked at Houston in a manner that told him to go.
“I’ll call your Aunt Maureen.” Houston did not look back as he walked out.
Anne held Susie for several moments, letting her cry out her shock and grief. She felt awkward. Although holding Mike’s daughter while she grieved for her mother seemed to be the natural thing to do, at the same time it felt unnatural. She had never before thought of herself as being a woman with a maternal instinct.
After a while, Anne felt Susie’s sobs subside. Susie realized who held her and she pushed Anne away. She scrambled to the edge of the bed, reached over to the desk, grabbed some tissues from a box that was on the corner and began to dab at her eyes and cheeks.
“Susie, I know how hard this must be.”
Susie’s stare made Anne feel as if she had just arrived from some remote corner of the universe. “How can you know how I feel? You don’t know me.”
“No, I don’t know you. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t know what it is like to lose a parent. I lost mine when I was a couple of years younger than you.”
“I bet they weren’t murdered . . . ”
“Yes, they were, only not in the same way your mother was. They were killed in a car accident coming home from a Christmas party. A drunk driver ran a stop sign and hit them head-on. As far as I’m concerned, it was murder.”
Susie stared at Anne for a few seconds. “That must have really sucked.”
“Yes, it did—big time . . . ”
Susie dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Has anyone told Uncle Jimmy yet?” Anne’s head snapped back. “Uncle Jimmy?”
Susie looked at Anne as if the older woman was brain damaged. “Jimmy O’Leary. He’s my mother’s brother.”
Anne walked out of the building a half hour after Houston. She saw that Houston sat behind the steering wheel and slid into the passenger seat.
She saw that Houston was in no mood to talk and she stared straight ahead. He started the motor and drove toward Kenmore Square. When he turned right onto Storrow Drive, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“I’m going to drop you at the precinct and then I have another stop to make.”
“In Southie?”
Houston glanced at her. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“You’re going to tell your brother-in-law, aren’t you?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “How long have you known that Jimmy is . . . was . . . my brother-in-law?”
“Susie just told me.”
Houston remained silent for a second. “It isn’t something that either he or I advertise.”