Several hours went by before Nathan Ginsberg composed himself, and could talk to Mary. How could he tell her that he had witnessed the deaths of her two sons and ex-husband? He finally decided it would be best to call her before going to see her.
“Mary, it’s Nathan.”
She was sobbing uncontrollably. “I already know. The police were here. They told me Chris and Lucas are dead…and Rufus. Oh my, God! My sons are both gone!”
“Can I come over?” he asked, holding back tears and feeling devastated by her distress. Then, more quietly, he asked, “Did they tell you I was there?”
“Yes,” she answered in a frozen voice.
He was at her front door in less than fifteen minutes. For the first time, Ginsberg noticed how small and modest Mary’s apartment was. Inexpensive furniture—the kind you buy at a big box store and put together when it arrives—was complemented by cheap impressionist reproductions hanging on the walls. Standing on an unpretentious étagère was a photograph of Mary with two young boys, perhaps eight and ten. It was an image of happier times with her sons Lucas and Chris.
He watched her from across the room. He was afraid to touch her. Sitting on the couch, she looked like a fragile China doll that might break in his hands.
“Nathan,” she sobbed. “My family is gone. I have nothing left!”
“You have me,” Ginsberg offered, his voice cracking. She extended her arms, and he rushed to embrace her.
“The police said I have to go to the morgue and identify the bodies. I’m not sure I can do that alone. Will you come with me?” Ginsberg nodded. There was a long silence between them as they found comfort in each other’s embrace. “Nathan, tell me what happened—what really happened.” Her voice faltered, and they both struggled to hold back tears.
“Of course,” he began quietly. “I will tell you what I know, but I’m afraid my story will be incomplete. Everything happened so quickly. It all seems so unreal now. A few men from a group I’m in called The Martini Club went to Rufus’s office after we learned he’d swindled us out of some money. As we started up the stairs, we heard gunshots and yelling. The rest is a bit confusing, Mary, and may be hurtful to you. Are you sure you want me to continue?”
“Yes, please,” Mary whispered, dabbing at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief.
“When we reached the top of the landing, we saw people on the floor. Lucas was about to shoot the sheriff, but my friend, Gerald Smyth, intervened. Lucas threw Gerald to the floor and went after him. At that point, Mike Rose, another member of The Martini Club, pulled out his gun and shot Lucas. He died instantly. I am sorry, Mary. You can take comfort in the fact that he did not suffer.”
Mary slumped over with grief and began weeping more deeply. Ginsberg looked down, finding it difficult to continue. “There is no easy way to tell you the next part of the story, Mary. One of the people lying dead on the floor was Chris. The sheriff told us Lucas shot him. Apparently, Chris tried to stop his brother from killing everyone in the room.”
Mary stared at Nathan through wet, glazed eyes, trying to understand this catastrophe beyond comprehension. “Lucas killed Chris?” There was a long pause as she tried to process how such an unfathomable question had become a true statement. “It had to be his father,” she said angrily. “Lucas would only do this for Rufus. He idolized that bastard.”
Other motivations raced through Nathan Ginsberg’s mind, like the biblical hatred of older brothers for their younger siblings. He just shrugged and said, “I don’t know.”
Mary stood and wiped her face. “I think I should go to the morgue now. Will you drive me?”
Ginsberg nodded. “You didn’t ask me about Rufus. I was with him when he died. If it is of any comfort, Rufus talked of you in his last moments. I think somewhere, deep down, he still loved you.”