A Person of Interest

by Ernest Hill

Genres: Clean & Wholesome Romance

Synopsis

Ernest Hill has won critical accolades and an ardent fan base for novels such as Cry Me a River. Hill’s unflinching insight into the human condition is on full display in A Person of Interest. One morning, Felicia is startled to see police at the house of her long-ago lover, Luther. When she learns that Luther’s wife and young son have been murdered in their home, she refuses to accept the police’s contention that the man she once loved could have committed the crime.

“A skilled storyteller.”— New York Times Book Review

Release date: March 19, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

The deafening sounds of the sirens fell silent, and through the partially opened blinds of my bedroom window, I could see the twirling beams of light casting long shadows on the house across the street. And though I was only partially conscious, there was in me an overbearing urge to rise, for I could not imagine, try as I may, what ungodly occurrence could have caused such upheaval in our quaint community at such an unseemly hour of the morning. And as I hastily draped a robe over my scantily clad body and a scarf over my freshly curled hair, I could hear rising from the streets the panicked sound of people scurrying about, and I could hear the muddled sound of a man’s authoritative voice barking out a series of unintelligible orders, and could hear the screeching wail of a pained woman screaming at the top of her lungs.

And those sounds incited me again, and I pulled the sash tighter about my waist and slipped my bare feet into my old house slippers and made my way out of the house and into the darkness. And the sight of the yellow police tape strung around Luther’s house confused me. As did the ambulance that was backed against his front porch, and the fire truck and three squad cars parked on the shoulder just beyond his front yard. And I was staring at the scene, trying to make some sense of things, when I heard her pained voice again.

And I saw that it was his wife’s mother, and she was hanging onto a paramedic, and her limp legs were like spaghetti, and there was an awful smell in the air and I saw Luther standing before the porch with his hands clasped over his mouth and a police officer was standing next to him, and in the officer’s hands was a pad. And as my eyes moved beyond his face and I inched closer to the yellow tape, I noticed that the front door of his house was open, and there was a trail of white smoke floating out of the house and billowing high into the early morning air. And until this moment, I had thought that this was simply a fire that had burned out of control, but now I sensed something more.

And I was struggling with those feelings and trying to make some sense of the chaos when I approached the yellow tape and noticed two policemen passing back and forth before the front door. The porch light was on, as were the lights inside the house, and I could see several other officers congregating at a spot just inside the door, and I opened my mouth to question the officer standing on the opposite side of the tape, but before I could summon the words, he spoke first.

“Move back,” he said. “You can’t go in there.” And he looked at me with eyes made stern by the seriousness of the moment.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Move back,” he said again. “Please move back.”

I stepped back into the street, and though it was a warm, humid morning, I felt a chill sweep over me and I tugged at my robe and as I did, I saw another officer rush from the house and out toward the street. And when he was near the officer guarding the perimeter, he paused and spoke.

“There’s gasoline all over the goddamn place,” he said. Then I saw him look toward the cars parked along the street. “They here yet?”

“Over there,” the other officer said.

I saw him squint and look. A third officer was struggling to remove a large dog from the rear of his car.

“Get that goddamn dog over here,” he yelled.

I watched him for a moment, then I turned and looked at Luther, and I could see that he had collapsed to the ground, crying. And I could see his body trembling, and I could see his large, powerful hands pounding the ground, and I wanted to go to him, but I knew that I could not, and the fact that I could not pained me. And I was staring at Luther when I saw the officer gingerly lift him to his feet and escort him away from the house and out toward one of the squad cars parked just beyond the yard. And as they disappeared into the shadows I was aware of the foul odor again, and the people milling about the streets, and next to me, I heard Brother Jenkins say that Luther had just made it home, and that he had found his wife and son’s smoldering bodies huddled together just inside the door, and they had been doused with gasoline, and they were burned beyond recognition, and that it was a goddamn shame for one person to do that to another person, and that when they caught the son of a bitch that did this, they ought to hang him upside down by his baby maker and beat him to death with horse wire.

And in the distance, I saw the car with Luther in it pull out into the street, and I heard the officer say that they were headed downtown to take his statement. And as they passed, I saw Luther slumped over in the front seat with his forearms folded against the dashboard and his head lying against his arms. And as I watched the car disappear into the curb, I felt my eyes moisten, and I wondered how Luther was going to go on without his family, and I wondered how Mrs. Miller was going to go on without her child. And on the horizon, I saw the light of the rising sun breaking through the darkness, illuminating the ugliness of this godforsaken day. And suddenly, I could not help but notice the stillness of the morning, or the way the huge branches of the old oak tree in the yard before Luther’s house hung perfectly still in the warm, breezeless air. Or the spot beneath that tree where, from across the street in the window of my parents’ house, I had recently watched him and her lying on a blanket laden with food, laughing and frolicking and making merry like it was Christmas. And I was looking at that spot, remembering them, when I heard the distant sound of my mother’s feeble voice calling to me from the depths of her front porch.

The door to my house was open, and from where I stood, I could see the tiny trail of smoke rising from their badly charred bodies. And I could smell the strong scent of their burning flesh. And the officer they called A.J. was standing next to me. And he was asking me questions and writing on his pad. And I could hear the commotion all about me. And my trembling hands were covering my mouth, and I could not move. And I could not breathe. And I could not stop the tears from streaming down my face. And through the chaos, I heard Chief Harlan Ladue’s voice rising above the mayhem.

“A.J., get him out of here!” he screamed. “He don’t need to see them like this!”

And I saw A.J. click his ink pen shut and place it in his shirt pocket. And when he did, I heard the chief call to him again.

“And tell Billy Ray to keep everybody behind that goddamn tape. I don’t want to see anybody trampling over this crime scene. You hear?”

“Yes, sir, Chief,” A.J. called back to him.

And then he eased next to me, and I felt him take my lifeless arm and place it about his neck. And his weight was supporting my weight. And I felt myself leaning hard against his body, and I felt my weak, wobbly legs keeping time with his as we proceeded to his car, which was parked on the road just beyond the house. And as we walked, I noticed the neighbors standing on their stoops, many of them still wearing their nightclothes, and I saw others standing in the road that ran past my house, and they were all looking at me, and I knew that like me, they were trying to figure out what in the hell had happened.

When we reached the car, A.J. pulled the door open on the passenger’s side and I slid onto the seat, and a second officer approached him, and I heard him tell the officer that he was taking me downtown, and that he would get my statement, and that this was one of the most brutal crimes that he had seen in Brownsville in his twenty-three years on the force. Then I heard him tell the officer to keep the crowd behind the tape because the chief didn’t want anybody trampling over the crime scene. Then he climbed behind the wheel—the window on the passenger’s side of the car was down and the other officer spoke to me. I could see his lips moving and I could hear him talking, but I could not focus.

So I turned my face away from the window, and I closed my eyes, and laid my head upon the dash. And I could feel the car moving out into the street, I could hear the people outside the car talking, and I could smell the scent of burning flesh, and I could feel the tears stinging my eyes. And I could feel the intense pain of my aching heart. I was in a nightmare, and darkness was all about. And the world was spinning, and all I wanted was to die.

I felt the car navigating the curb, and then I felt it accelerate, and I knew we were on the long stretch of highway leading downtown. And inside my tormented mind, I wished that this were a normal day. And I wished I was at work, and I wished Juanita was sitting at the kitchen table having her morning coffee, and I wished Darnell was still in bed, sleeping. And I wished that I had come home sooner, and I wished that none of this had happened.

We passed the old train depot, and my head was still bowed, and my mind was whirling, but in spite of it all, I could hear the townsfolk milling out near the street. And I was certain they had heard the sirens, that by now someone had given them the news, and like everybody else in town, they were speculating on what had happened, and on who in God’s name would do such a thing. And I had asked myself that question a thousand times and a thousand times I had drawn a blank. And I had prayed over and over again for this nightmare to end. But pray as I might, I knew that when I again raised my head and opened my eyes, the horror of this day would still be before me. And I wished that I could keep my head bowed and my eyes closed and that I could somehow stave off that terrible moment which, at present, I neither had the courage nor the desire to face.

At the station, A.J. pulled into the large parking lot behind the courthouse just off the square, and I followed him through the side door of the police station. Outside, the sun was just beginning to rise, and there were a few people milling about the square and one of the trustees was outside, washing a car, and I saw him looking at me, and I knew he was wondering if my presence had anything to do with the sirens. I saw him, and yet I did not see him. I was outside of myself, mindlessly following the officer while struggling to stand and struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

I followed him into the building, and he led me down a narrow hall to a small room which sported only a table and two chairs. When I entered the room, he motioned for me to sit down, which I did. Then he pulled the chair out as if he, too, was going to sit, but before he did, he hesitated and looked at me.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he asked.

I looked at him, but I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I saw him look at the officer standing just beyond the door.

“Get him a cup of coffee,” he said.

I saw him remove an empty cup, fill it with coffee, then hand it to me. I raised the cup to my mouth but my hands were shaking so badly, I only managed to take a sip before I had to set the cup down. I was dead inside—my nerves were shot, and I could not stop trembling. I saw A.J. sit down directly across from me. He took the pad and pencil from his pocket, and after he had flipped through the pad a moment, he looked up at me.

“Mr. Jackson,” he said in a low, sympathetic voice.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and I could feel my voice breaking.

He paused again, and I saw him study the pad. “I’m sorry to have to put you through this again,” he said, “but I’m afraid we need to go over this one more time. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try,” I said.

I saw him look at the pad again, then click on the tape recorder.

“Let’s see,” he said. “I believe you said you discovered the bodies at approximately five A.M. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

And through the dazed state which was now my reality, I heard myself sobbing. And I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands. And I could see the image of their smoldering bodies lying before the door. And I could smell the stench of their burning flesh. And I only wished that I could die.

I turned and looked back toward the house. I could see that Mama had come out onto the porch, and she was still wearing the long, white nightgown that she had worn to bed the night before and from where I stood, I could see her looking at me and I knew she was wondering what was going on. So, I made my way back across the street and up the steps leading onto the porch. My nerves were frazzled, my head was spinning, and I wanted to sit down, but there was only one chair on the porch and I left it vacant just in case Mama wanted to sit.

“What’s all the commotion about?” Mama asked.

I saw her brace herself against the old deep-freezer, and I wished that she would sit down. Mama had grown old. She was nearly seventy-five—and her heart was impaired and her pressure was high, and she was suffering with rheumatoid arthritis.

“Was there a fire?” she asked. “I see the fire truck over there. Did Luther’s house catch on fire?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. Suddenly, I could feel my body trembling.

“They’re dead,” I said.

“Who?”she asked.

“Luther’s wife and son,” I said. My voice broke and I felt like crying.

“Dead!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Somebody killed them.”

“My God!” I heard Mama gasp. “Who would do such a thing?”

Mama had been standing against the wall, but now she walked closer to the screen and I saw her looking across at Luther’s house. The police were still there, and now it all made sense to her. The yellow tape, the fire truck, the ambulance, the police. She looked for a moment, then she spoke again.

“Where Luther?”

“They took him downtown,” I said.

I saw her look at the house again. Then back at me.

“For what?” she said.

“They say he found the bodies,” I said.

Suddenly, her eyes grew wide.

“They don’t think he had nothing to do with this, do they?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m sure they just want to ask him a few questions.”

Across the street I saw the policeman open the door on Luther’s old truck and the dog jumped inside; then the officer waved the chief over, and the two of them walked around the truck—and I saw the chief smile and pat the officer on the shoulder and I saw the officer bend down and hug the dog hard. And I was watching him and wondering what was going on, when I heard Mama’s frail voice say, “Look like we got company.” I looked toward the street and saw T-Baby, the only black officer on the Brownsville police force, walking toward our porch.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning, T-Baby,” I said.

I saw him frown and look at me strangely—I knew he was trying to figure out who I was.

“Felicia,” he said. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” I said.

I saw him smile, then slap his knee with his hand.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Last I heard you were married and living somewhere out in California.”

“Los Angeles,” I said.

I saw him tilt his head and look past me.

“Your husband come with you?”

“No,” I said. “He died about three months ago. Liver cancer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know. You hear?”

“Thank you,” I said. “I will.”

I saw him remove his hat and wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he looked across the street, then back at me.

“Well,” he said, “we got ourselves a pretty bad situation over there. Two people dead and no real clues as to why.” He paused and looked at me again. “Were you home last night?”

“I was here,” I said.

“Did you happen to see or hear anything suspicious?”

“Over there?” I asked, looking toward Luther’s house.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did your parents?”

I looked at Mama. She shook her head.

“Well, did you notice any strangers or any strange vehicles in the neighborhood?”

“No,” I said.

I saw T-Baby sigh, then scratch his head. “Well, do you know if they were having any kind of trouble?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Luther,” he said. “And his wife.”

“Luther!” I said. “You don’t suspect Luther, do you?”

“Right now we don’t have any suspects,” he said. “Just two dead people and a husband who was gone all night.”

“T-Baby,” I . . .