Death Before Facebook

together,” as her friend Alison put it. She didn’t get it, but she had to admit it looked better than something she’d have picked herself—probably something red, singularly inappropriate for a homicide detective.
    She was at her desk, drinking her second cup of inky coffee, when her sergeant, Sylvia Cappello, handed her a day record from the coroner’s office, along with its autopsy report.
    “Take a look. I just talked to the coroner about this.”
    It was an “unclassified,” or suspicious, death. A thirty-one-year-old, healthy white male had been found dead after an apparent fall from a ladder.
    Cappello said, “Notice it says he fractured his ankle and his skull? Pretty unlikely, apparently. You’d either land on your feet or your head, not both.”
    “I can see that.”
    “But if you landed on your feet, broke your ankle, and you were too badly hurt to move, somebody could come along and bang your head against the concrete pretty easily.”
    “Surely someone from Homicide went out on it.”
    “Lasko and Drumm. But it looked like an accident and they thought that was how it should be classified.” She handed Skip the brief report they’d done. “And now they’re up to their eyebrows with that triple shooting in the Magnolia Project.”
    “It happened Thursday.” Skip sighed. “And today’s Monday. I hate to think about the crime scene.”
    “Well, what the heck—what else have you got to do?”
    A macabre joke that drew a snort from Skip. The city’s homicide rate was sky-high and climbing.
    “Thirty-one’s too young to die.”
    “But too old to live with your parents.”
    Yet Geoffrey Kavanagh, the victim, had lived with his, in a rambling old house on Octavia Street. From the outside, it looked like the sort of place the neighborhood kids would call “the haunted house”—the one with its yard overgrown, the one that hadn’t been painted in a couple of decades. The occupants must not be particularly friendly people, must not want much contact with the outside world, to live behind such an urban forest. Skip approached with trepidation.
    Inside the house, a dog barked. What sort of people were like that? Antisocial people by definition. Crazy people, probably. Neglectful people.
    Depressed people.
    Alcoholics.
    But as she entered the jungle, she saw that there was a certain pattern to its wildness, an artfulness, a cultivation of the inherent drama of the thing. Deadwood had been cleared and so had paths; leaves had been raked—in fact, the jungle was an illusion, only a tangle at the front of the yard. Past that was a neatly mowed lawn and some beautifully tended beds. Three or four sleek cats sunned themselves in what patches of light they could find. Those who lived here weren’t neglectful, despite the desperate paint situation.
    Just as Skip had decided that, a woman who belied it answered the door. She wore baggy, faded sweats. Her face was drawn, without makeup, her cheeks sunken, the half-moons under her eyes purplish. Her hair was drawn back in a loose ponytail, but it lacked body and shine. She could have been sixty, judging by her ravaged face, but her hair was black; she had some fight left in her.
    “Mrs. Kavanagh?”
    “Terry. Marguerite Terry.”
    Skip identified herself. “I wonder if I could ask you some questions about your son?”
    Immediately, her eyes filled. “My son? But he’s… I don’t understand.”
    “About his death.”
    She seemed relieved. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still half asleep; I’ve been sleeping so
much
.”
    Skip nodded slightly but said nothing, hoping Marguerite Terry would remember her manners, but she only looked expectant. At her heels, a white dog with brown ears wagged its tail in a vague sort of way. “I wonder if I could come in?”
    “Oh. Of course.” She glanced at the dog. “Okay, Toots?’ The dog gave another vague wave, apparently acquiescing.
    Skip stepped into a room as gloomy as is appropriate in a house where there’s been a death. The curtains were drawn, making it cave-like. Newspapers were piled on the floor, as if no one could be bothered to remove them. There was a glass or two on a coffee table and a rumpled blanket on the couch; otherwise the room was dusty and looked seldom used. The rug was threadbare and the floor was bare wood, its finish long since worn away. The upholstery was frayed. The ancient wallpaper had never been replaced.
    Yet once someone had cared; there were good quality