Pedelini had us follow him down to the sheriff’s office to make a statement. By the time we got there, it was past three that Saturday afternoon, and the uniformed officers were changing shifts.
The detective showed us into the detectives’ bullpen and pointed us to chairs near his desk, which featured a recent picture of him in a tricked-out bass boat, grinning and fishing with two darling little girls.
“Your daughters?” Bree asked.
The detective smiled, said, “Two of the joys of my life.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “When did your wife pass away?”
My wife frowned at me, but Pedelini cocked his head, said, “How did you know?”
“The way you were rubbing the ring finger of your left hand just then. I used to catch myself doing it after my first wife died.”
Pedelini looked down at his hand, said, “Remind me not to play poker with you, Dr. Cross. My Ellen died seven years ago this September. Childbirth.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Detective,” I said. “That’s rough.”
“I appreciate that,” Pedelini said. “I really do. But the girls and my job keep me going. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Coca-Cola? Mr. Pibb?”
“I’ll take a coffee,” Bree said. “Cream, no sugar.”
“A Mr. Pibb,” I said. “Haven’t had one of those in years.”
“I’m partial to them myself,” Pedelini said, and he disappeared down a hallway.
“I like him,” my wife said.
“I do too,” I said. “He’s solid.”
A female deputy came into the room carrying an armful of files and mail that she distributed to the various desks. When she got to Pedelini’s, she said, “Guy here?”
“Getting us something to drink,” Bree said.
She nodded, put several dusty old files on his desk, said, “Tell him these came over from the clerk. He’s been asking after them.”
“We’ll do that,” I promised, and the deputy moved on.
I had a crick in my lower back suddenly, and I stood to stretch. When I did, I happened to look down at the files; I saw the faded labels on the tabs, and felt my head retreat by several degrees.
The label of the file on top read Cross, Christina.
The one below it read Cross, Jason.
I picked up the file on my mother and was about to flip it open when Bree said in alarm, “Alex, you can’t just start going—”
“Oh, Jesus,” Pedelini said.
I looked up, saw the detective balancing a coffee mug and two cans of Mr. Pibb on a small tray. His skin had lost three shades of color.
“I am so sorry, Dr. Cross,” he said, chagrined. “I…I ran your name through our databases, and those files came up. So I…requested them.”
“My name?” I said. “What are these?”
Pedelini swallowed, set the tray down, and said, “Old investigative files.”
“On what?” Bree said, standing to look.
The detective hesitated, and then said, “Your mother’s murder, Dr. Cross.”
At first I thought I’d misheard him. I squinted and said, “You mean my mother’s death?”
“I don’t think so,” Pedelini replied. “They were filed under homicide.”
“My mother died of cancer,” I said.
The detective looked puzzled. “No, that’s not right. The database says murder by asphyxiation, case eventually closed due to the death of chief suspect, who was shot trying to escape the police and fell into the gorge.”
In total shock, I said, “Who was the chief suspect?”
“Your father, Dr. Cross. Didn’t you know?”