The Lesson of Her Death

wire, then carefully rolled the wire into a circle and replaced it in the box marked
X-mas Lights
.
    She muttered ominously, “You shouldn’t’ve done that.”
    Diane appeared in the doorway.
“What
is going on out here? I heard you all the way in the bedroom.”
    Jamie said, “Sarah was playing with the Christmas lights.”
    “Sarah, were you?”
    The little girl puckered her lips into an angry pout. “He called me stupid.”
    Diane turned on him. “Jamie?”
    “Well, she was
being
stupid. She could’ve like electrocuted herself or something.”
    “It was pretty and he
ruined
it.”
    “Mom,” he said, utterly exasperated.
    Diane turned to her daughter. “You know to leave the decorations alone. If you broke any it’ll come out of your allowance.”
    “I didn’t do anything!” Sarah shrieked then stormed out of the garage.
    Jamie pulled his bike off the pegs stuck in the garage wall and lifted it down. Diane walked over to him and spoke in a menacing whisper, “How many times have I told you not to call her stupid.”
    “She was playing with—”
    “I don’t care what she was doing. It’s the worst thing in the world for her. Don’t do it.”
    “Mom.”
    “Just don’t do it.”
    “You don’t under—”
    “Did you hear me?”
    His strong hands squeezed the brake levers on his bike. Diane repeated her question. “Yes,” he grumbled formally.
    Diane’s voice softened. “If you see her doing something like that again come tell me. Your sister’s going through a very tough time right now. Little things are really hard on her.”
    “I said all right.”
    He angrily wheeled his bicycle back and forth.
    Diane wiped her hands on her skirt. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
    “Okay,” he muttered. “No problem.”
    “You have the match tonight, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “We’ll be there.”
    “You and Sarah.”
    “Your father’s going to be working. It’s a very important case.”
    He leapt on the high bike and rolled down the driveway.
    “I wish you’d let the deputy take you to school. Your father doesn’t want you two going places alone.”
    He shrugged.
    “Jamie,” she shouted, looking on the shelf beside the door. “Wait! Your helmet …”
    But the boy seemed not to hear and leaned sharply into the turn as he sped out of the driveway and into the road.
    He thought it was a skull but he couldn’t be sure.
    “You Watkins?”
    “That I am.”
    Naw couldn’t be
. Jim Slocum walked into a small, windowless office in the State Building in Higgins. He introduced himself. He wasn’t impressed; his own office in the New Lebanon Sheriff’s Department was bigger and had a window to boot. This room smelled of onions and was filled with books and telexes and photocopies of memos. He glanced at some and thought how boring they must be.
Justice Department Monthly Homicide Demographics Report. Intrafamily Violence Review
—
Midwest Edition
.
    Slocum squinted at the glass-enclosed bookcase behind Watkins. No, it was a grapefruit the guy had put in there and forgotten about. Maybe an ostrich egg.
    Earl Watkins was short and round and wore a tight blue button-down dress shirt. Round metal-rimmed glasses hung on his nose. His mouth was a squooshed O above a deep cleft chin. “Take a pew.”
    Slocum settled onto the hard oak chair. “Say, what is that?”
    He followed the deputy’s finger. “That? It’s a skull. See the bullet hole?” Watkins, a huge Capitol rotunda of a man, with flags of sweat under his arms, was a special agent, Violent Crime Division, State Police.
    Slocum said, “We’re hoping you could shed some light on this situation we’ve got ourselves. Help us out with a profile of the killer. I’ll tell you, there’s some spooky stuff involved.”
    Watkins asked slowly, “Spooky stuff?”
    Slocum gave him a summary of the Gebben murder then added, “Happened on the night of the half-moon and underneath her was this cult knife.” He handed Watkins a photocopy.
    The large man looked at it briefly, without emotion. “Uh-huh. When was her birthday?”
    Slocum blinked. He opened his near-empty briefcase and looked into then closed it, remembering the exact spot where he’d left the rest of the file on his desk. “Uhm, I’ve got somebody compiling all that stuff. I’ll get you a copy.”
    Watkins then asked, “Multiple perpetrators?”
    “Don’t know. Were a lot of footprints around. Mostly men’s. I had pictures taken of them. I’ll get you copies if