Jessica led the way back into the foyer. The couple standing outside jumped forward and there was a flurry of hand signs punctuated with soft noises. Mrs. Scott was right behind us and she drew the two people away. She had the unenviable task of communicating with them what had happened. Jessica, Hannah, and I all continued across the reception area and Jessica opened a door into a spacious room that must have once been the dining room. The ceilings were high and there were deep bay windows, which were pulling in as much of the light from the day as possible. They faced onto what must have once been a lawn, now a parking lot.
“This is a lovely room,” I said, and it was.
Except for a cluttered long table in the centre, the furnishings were elegant and welcoming: a couple of rose-coloured brocade couches along the walls, some wingback chairs, also brocade, and a soft old rug that covered the wood floor. The fireplace with its ornate mahogany mantelpiece was still intact.
“Let’s have some light, for Christ’s sake,” said Jessica. She flicked on the switch and a beautiful crystal chandelier lit up.
“Over here,” said Hannah.
I had expected an ugly metal bank of lockers like you see in high schools but somebody had found an antique oak lawyer’s cupboard and it blended in beautifully with the rest of the décor. It stood against the far wall opposite the windows.
Hannah opened one of the lockers; it was high and narrow. Maybe the lawyers had kept their robes in there. Both she and Jessica stopped abruptly because, like any other private cupboard, this one contained its owner’s personal possessions. There were a pair of runners, a sweater on the hook, and a photograph of Joy on the door. The sight of these things made Hannah weep again. She leaned her head on Jessica’s shoulder, who stroked her hair softly. She appeared to be the stronger of the two. Her eyes met mine.
“The letters are in the envelope.”
On the shelf, there was also a textbook for the deaf, a DVD, and a paperback novel. I checked the title. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers. A novel I’d read years ago and considered to be one of the saddest books I’d ever read. Tucked underneath was manila envelope.
Handling it by the corner I took it out. “I think it would be simpler if I took this with me and looked it over in my office.”
In my bag I had what I thought of as a forensic minikit. It contained a pair of sterile gloves, several clear plastic zip-locked bags, a pair of tweezers, and a receipt book.
I put the envelope in one of the plastic bags and labelled it.
“I’m going to make out the receipt for the envelope to you, Jessica. Is that okay with you?”
She shrugged. “I suppose so. I’m the executrix of her will. We’re all each other’s.”
Hannah didn’t seem to have understood what I was doing and she signed at Jessica. I wrote out the receipt and gave it to Jessica, who folded it carefully and put it in her pocket.
“Have you yourself seen the letters?” I asked.
“Pardon?”
I’d been looking down when I spoke. I repeated myself so she could see my mouth.
“Some of them. I thought they were hateful but Deidre treated them as a joke.” Jessica paused. “She felt they … what’s the word, they vindicated her actions.”
“In having a deaf baby on purpose, you mean?”
Hannah had read that and she glared at me. She touched her fingertips to her forehead, dropped her hand, then flicked her thumb from under her chin. Her expression was clear. Why not?
I didn’t see any point in beating around the bush on this next question because it might be central to the case.
“Do you know who fathered her child?”
I was speaking directly to Jessica now, although Hannah was in my line of vision. There had been no signing as yet but it appeared that Hannah understood what I’d said. I caught the quick lowering of her eyes. Jessica shook her head and made the sign to her friend, who also indicated a no then made a back-and-forth and fingers-to-mouth movement.
“She never told us.”
“Did you suspect anybody? Was she dating anybody?”
Another vigorous denial from both of them.
“I would like the names of any males in your university class.”
Jessica shrugged. “That was three years ago; I don’t remember.”
“Whatever you can recall would be helpful.”
We were going to have to get the list from the university and follow up on it, but I wanted to see who these young women came up with. I’d bet a month’s wages that Deidre had used somebody at the university. The dates fit and she had plenty of deaf colleagues to choose from.
Both of them were looking decidedly uneasy. I felt rather like an airport sniffer dog who is getting the scent.
Maybe Deidre had sworn them to secrecy. I don’t think these days there are a lot of reasons why young women would protect the father’s identity. Shame is one of them. Embarrassment over an unsuitable mate you don’t want to admit to. You don’t want him to know you’re carrying his child. Women’s power since the beginning of time. My mind did a quick hop over to my own mother and the secret of my paternity that she had kept for forty years. I brought myself quickly back to the current situation and took the piece of paper out of my bag where they had written down friend’s names.
“Were any of these men at university with you?”
“No,” said Jessica.
“I’ll just jot down any others from Gallaudet that you can think of then … or you know what, maybe you could each do that for me. Do you have more paper?”
The amount of suspicion my request engendered was more fitting for the McCarthy enquiry.
“Nobody from there would have harmed Deidre,” said Jessica.
“That’s not what I’m asking. I’d simply like the names of any male friends she may have hung out with.”
Reluctantly, they went over to the table, got a piece of paper from a drawer, and sat down.
I took one of the empty chairs and waited.
Hannah handed me her paper first. She had written down five names.
“Were any of these guys from Canada?”
She didn’t wait to have that interpreted. “No, all from the States.”
Jessica had got six names. I pointed to the additional name and asked Hannah, “Do you remember him now?”
She pursed her lips then shook her head. “No, I don’t. If he was there he wasn’t our particular friend.” Jessica saw which name I was pointing to and she looked as if she was going to contradict. She made some quick signs and Hannah answered in kind. Emphatically.
“My mistake,” said Jessica and she crossed out what she had written. “He wasn’t in our year. I was acquainted with him but Deidre wouldn’t have known him.”
I had registered the name. Zachary Taylor. It might not be significant but I had seen a flash of intense anger between the two young women when Hannah had seen his name. I’d have given anything to understand what they were signing to each other.
I put the papers in my briefcase and returned to the locker. The girls came over with me.
“Do you know what’s on the DVD?” I asked.
Hannah took the novel off the shelf and showed it to Jessica.
She talked, for my benefit, I presumed. “Why on earth was Dee reading this crap? It’s so yesterday. Poor little deaf and dumb guy. How pathetic.”
Well, that dismissed an acclaimed book with one swoop but I didn’t feel like discussing its literary merits right now. I’d actually been very affected by it.
I picked up the DVD and waved it in front of her. It was unlabelled. “Any idea what’s on this?”
Jessica and Hannah were continuing to have an intense exchange, presumably still focused on The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. I got their attention and they both indicated they didn’t know what the DVD was.
“It’s probably for the class,” said Jessica.
We’d have to find out who was in Deidre’s class sooner or later but I plumped for later. Ed Chaffey could get a list from Mrs. Scott. However, DVDs had proven integral to many cases and I wasn’t going to take the risk of leaving this one unexamined.
“Can I have a look at it?”
Jessica pursed her lips. For a pretty girl she could manage some sour expressions.
“Are you planning to learn sign language? You can’t master it in a day, you know. We don’t want to be the latest fad.” She shrilled her voice and fluttered her hands wildly. “‘Oh look at me I’m doing sign language!’ Whoopee.”
I don’t like rude even though I was giving both of them a lot of slack considering the circumstances.
I turned and faced them, making sure Hannah could read my lips. “Your friend has been killed and I’m very sorry about that. Her father is my friend. I am here to find out who killed her. There will be other police officers here and they will ask you similar questions. We have no interest in patronizing you or demeaning Deaf Culture.”
I waited for that to sink in and to make sure they had understood what I’d said. They obviously did. Jessica flushed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that … some people don’t understand how long it takes to become fluent in our language.”
“Tell me about it. Everybody and their uncle has a Ph.D. in Forensic Science after watching CSI for one season.” I mimicked her voice elevation. “‘Oh officer, have you tried checking the teeth for DNA? You can learn a lot from that, you know.’”
That brought a small smile to her lips. She signed to Hannah, who also brought up a bit of a grin.
What I’d said was in fact true. The CSI franchise was the bane of our lives. Most jurors were familiar with the show and expected miracles from us, demanding, “Why is this test result taking so long to get?” or journalists, who should know better, asking the same question a week after a crime had been discovered. Because there is a three-month backlog of other equally serious cases, and besides, we do not, contrary to popular opinion, have to solve our cases within a forty-five-minute time span. On the other hand, the shows had brought a new interest in the science itself, which was a good thing. I’m told you can get a lot of dates if you fess up to being a profiler. Male, that is, not female. The opposite is true for us women.
“We can look at it on the computer,” said Jessica, her tone conciliatory.
She cleared away some filing trays that had strayed to one of the chairs, inserted the disk, and switched it on for me. The computer screen came up an ominous black with a strip of light at the bottom. Didn’t look good.
“Oh no. It still hasn’t been fixed.”
She pressed some keys to no avail, turned it off then on again, but nothing made a difference.
“I’m sorry. We desperately need a new computer but it isn’t in the budget for this year.”
Being computer savvy wasn’t my strong suit so I couldn’t offer much help. All three of us stared at the black screen for a few moments, as if it were a sullen animal who might change its mind and come to life. Nothing doing.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take the disc with me and watch it at the office,” I said.
Jessica removed the disc while I wrote another receipt.
“Is there anything else you need to take?” she asked.
“Not right now. The other officers might decide differently.”
“I’d like her instruction book then. We can’t just drop her classes and I’d like to know where she’d got to.”
I removed the book myself and leafed through it quickly. You never know, Deidre might have written something important in the margins. People do, sometimes unconsciously. The book was pristine. There was nothing except a slip of paper with a note, “Homework, cover units 9–12 by next class.”
I handed it over to Jessica, who hugged it to her chest. Both girls started to cry again. I sat it out until finally they subsided.
“I’m so sorry. We’re going to catch the person responsible.”
I shouldn’t have said it like that. I should have couched my words in a vaguer way. We’re not encouraged to make statements that sound like promises because it’s not always possible to find killers. Some of them do get away with it, unfortunately.