Skimming Over the Lake Read online

  Siever shook his head slowly. “I initially thought maybe he hit his head on the bottom of the lake, diving after his phone or something. And he could have been bumped by the boat. Even though it was an inflatable, those things still have some hardware and can do damage.”

  “I can’t imagine this being done by a collision with the bottom of the lake or the raft. It would have to be multiple collisions.”

  “Ready to go?” Sergeant MacDonald asked as he walked by the bullpen. Siever looked uncomfortable. He waited until MacDonald was in his office, then looked at Jones and Margie.

  “What am I going to say? Mac is going to be expecting us to put this one to bed, but I can’t do that with the ME saying that it needs to be investigated further.”

  “Just tell him that, then. You can’t control what the ME finds,” Jones told him. “You’re not responsible for that. You just summarize it and figure out what we’re going to do next.”

  Siever looked a little green. “You’re so much better at this than I am.”

  “What’s Mac going to do? He’s not going to fire you. He can’t even criticize you for continuing the investigation, considering that is what the medical examiner says to do. Now if you tried to close it, that would definitely be a problem.” Jones laughed. She went over to her own desk, putting down her purse and straightening things on her desk. “We’d better get ready, then; looks like he’s raring to go.”

  According to the system clock on Margie’s computer, they still had another twenty minutes before the scheduled stand-up meeting in the conference room. She looked at Siever. “We still have time to prep. No one can tell you that you’re late just because Mac is eager to start the meeting. Why don’t we take one of the small meeting rooms, and we’ll go over your notes and what you want to say? You can write down bullet points or rehearse or whatever helps you.”

  Siever’s eyebrows went up. “You would do that?”

  “Sure. Grab your stuff and we’ll do a quick run-through. Mac doesn’t need to hear everything; it’s only supposed to be a brief.”

  Siever returned to his desk to grab a folder of loose papers and his tablet. They closeted themselves in one of the small interrogation rooms and bent their heads over the papers.

  It wasn’t a particularly comfortable setting. The plastic chairs and wobbly table were not meant to make suspects feel good. While on the surface, a suspect was kept comfortable and given everything he needed, there was subtler effort to keep him off his game. To make him want to get out of there as soon as he could.

  But Margie knew she and Siever were only going to be there for fifteen minutes. How comfortable the furniture was didn’t come into it. Siever briskly paged through the reports and statements in his folder. He opened a note on his tablet and began to type bullet points. Margie didn’t really do anything other than to act as a sounding board and encourage him to get down what he needed to in order to be comfortable.

  “It’s okay if everyone’s questions are not answered,” Margie reminded him. “People will ask questions and the answer will be ‘we don’t know’ or ‘I will look into that.’ That’s perfectly reasonable. Today may officially be day four, but it is really only day one. We didn’t know this could be classed as anything other than an accident until today. Now we will start making inquiries of a more personal nature.”

  “What about the scene? Should we have done anything else at the scene to preserve evidence? Was there anyone else that I should have talked to, or any other follow-up?”

  “You followed all the correct protocols. Even though it looked like an accident, you taped off the perimeter, identified forensic evidence beside the lake, and stayed out of the way to let the techies’ and ME’s office handle the evidence collection. There wasn’t anything else to find.”

  “And you helped to establish time of death,” Siever pointed out.

  “Yes.” Margie flipped through the ME’s report and saw that his time of death window had been much larger. Because Margie knew that he had still been alive and playing with his boat at six o’clock, the TOD had to be between then and when the first witness had spotted the body under the raft, sometime around eight. It was good to have a narrow window. It made it much easier to identify or eliminate suspects.

  Were they looking for a suspect? Of what? Murder? It seemed bizarre that they would be thinking about suspects instead of just an accident. How could it have been anything but an accident?

  “The death occurred between six and eight,” Margie said. “That is something that we know. Concrete.”

  “Yeah. That’s good. When we look at the video coverage, we can eliminate anyone who left before or came after that.” He caught Margie’s eye. “As a witness, I mean. It will help us to identify witnesses.”

  “Yes. Someone might have seen something without even knowing that it was important.”

  Siever made a couple of additional bullet points and was looking far more relaxed. He nodded slowly. “This is better. Thank you. I just needed to get my mind around it all. You really helped.”

  Margie checked the time on her phone, though she had been watching it pretty closely throughout their meeting. Having a prep meeting was great. Showing up late for Mac’s stand-up meeting would not be.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As usual, the stand-up meeting moved briskly. It was a chance for everyone on the team to hear of the latest developments on each active case. They gave reports, asked questions, and spitballed solutions at a rapid pace.

  She listened to Siever’s efficient outline of the Hustler case and what they knew so far. He gave no sign of his earlier anxiety, sounding confident and self-assured.

  “Any idea what it was that caused these bruises?” Mac drilled.

  “We don’t know yet. We will need to investigate further.”

  “There wasn’t anything on the scene that you could identify as a weapon?”

  “There were plenty of rocks, some sticks or branches. But whatever it was didn’t break the skin most of the time. Only once or twice. There were no signs of blood on the shore, but it’s rocky; they could have been missed. But he died of drowning, not the blows or any blood loss. My guess would be that whatever hit him was in the water.” Siever shook his head. “We just don’t know what that was yet.”

  “What about this dog that found him, that kept swimming out to the boat. Could he have shifted the boat and caused the bruising?”

  “Not with the number of bruises that he had. It wasn’t just the boat landing on top of him. It was multiple blows or collisions.”

  Margie tried to envision what might have happened and still couldn’t fathom it.

  “Is it something that happened before he went out on the water, then?” Cruz asked. “Maybe he had a fight with someone. Then he went off to get the boat, overturned, and presto, we’re back to accident again.”

  “Could be,” Siever agreed. “We’ll need to find out if there were any bad feelings with anyone. If he was the kind of guy who normally got into physical fights. Questions for family and friends.”

  “Was anyone there with him?”

  “Not that we’re aware of. We have some video footage of traffic going into or close to the park. I’ll be watching to see whether anyone arrived at the same time as Hustler, or sometime during the time of death window.”

  The discussion went on to other cases. Siever’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He stayed engaged, commenting and asking questions on the other cases that were presented. The meeting dismissed and they all headed toward the door. Margie hung back a little so that she could exit behind Siever. She slapped him on the shoulder. “Good job.”

  “Thanks again for the prep.”

  Margie nodded. “So, what do we tackle first? You have the names of his family?”

  “His mother. Father is either dead or not in the picture. Hustler wasn’t married, no children.”

  “Well, that’s something, at least. Those little guys… they just tear your heart out.”

  Siever nodded his agreement. “I did the death notification Friday and explained that I would be doing the investigation into her son’s death and would be in contact if I had any further questions. So now… I guess we go ask her further questions.”

  “Was he an only child? Is she on her own now?”

  “Yes. All alone.”

  Margie sighed. “Poor woman.”

  “Hopefully she has friends, maybe extended family. She couldn’t have just relied on her son for all of her social interaction.”

  Mrs. Hustler, the decedent’s mother, lived in a small home by herself in Inglewood. It was an older part of town, and Margie suspected that she had probably lived there all of her life. Or at least since she had gotten married and/or had her son. Everything about the house spoke to it having been there for a long time, with Mrs. Hustler making only the very necessary technological advancements as time marched by her or upgrades when something fell to pieces. It was like walking into a church, only less cheery.

  Mrs. Hustler herself was not that old. Certainly not as old as the house. If Hustler had been forty, she was probably sixty. She looked older than that, but she wasn’t a wizened, tottering old woman. She had wrinkles, extra weight, and what Margie suspected was a wig. She moved decisively, showing Siever and Margie into her living room and showing them to their seats. She offered them tea, which both turned down, and she sat down in a chair a few feet away from them. Margie looked over to Siever to see whether he would start the questioning. He looked back at her, widening his eyes slightly in an expression that Margie thought was intended as go ahead.

  “Mrs. Hustler. We are terribly sorry for your loss. And sorry about having to come back here to bother you with more questions.”

  “Yes, I know,” she agreed. “Nothing one can do but go on.”

  “You remember Detective Siever. And I’m Detective Patenaude. Some people prefer to just call me Detective Pat.”

  “Okay.”

  “Had you seen Simon recently? How long was it since you had seen him?”

  “We Skype every week. I have not seen him face-to-face in months. With the pandemic, you know.”

  Indoor gatherings had been prohibited for some time prior to July 1. Although a woman living on her own, as Mrs. Hustler was, was allowed two regular visitors. It was odd that her son hadn’t been one of hers.

  “So what day did you usually talk to him?”

  “Sunday.”

  “And did you talk to him last Sunday?”

  Mrs. Hustler hesitated. “Sunday a week ago, yes.”

  “Had you talked to him any time since? Emailed or messaged?”

  “We might have emailed during the week. I would have to check.”

  “But nothing that jumps to mind.”

  “No. If we did… it was just to share a joke or a news article, that kind of thing. Nothing important.”

  “How was he when you talked to him on Sunday?”

  She thought back, leaning her head back on the headrest and closing her eyes. “I don’t remember very much about it, I’m sorry. They all run together after a while.”

  “Was there anything that he might have been upset about? A complaint about someone else?”

  “Oh… he always had grievances, that boy.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why he chose to be so miserable. He had a good life. You know, before you have children, you have all these wonderful ideas of what kind of a parent you will be. How your children will be so well-behaved because you know how to do it all. Other people’s children act up because they weren’t raised right.”

  “Uh-huh…?” Margie could see where this was going and smiled slightly.

  “And then you have your own child. Welcome to reality. You find out that they come with their own personalities and sensitivities, their own ideas about how the world should work. We do our best to lead and guide them, but they aren’t just miniature versions of ourselves. We can’t just train them to be the way we think they should be.”

  Margie nodded. “I have a teenager.”

  “Well then, you know. During the teen years… you can do nothing right. You don’t know anything about anything. And they do.”

  Margie chuckled. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

  “Simon was miserable as a teenager… and he never really grew out of it. It’s like he got stuck on that one track, complaining about everything and being unhappy about the rest of the world and how they treated him. And he could never appreciate the good things about his life.”

  Margie jotted a couple of notes in her notepad. Not because there was really anything to write about Simon Hustler having a bad attitude about life in general, but because she wanted Mrs. Hustler to get used to seeing the pen and notepad in Margie’s hands, so that when she did have something important to write, it wouldn’t distract the woman from what she had to say.

  “What was his life like? I understand that he wasn’t married, didn’t have any children?”

  “No. And he had a lot of sour grapes about that. No woman ever saw what a great catch he was. He was so smart and would be a good provider. She could stay at home with the kids and be the kind of mother that he always wanted. But the women that he was interested in were never interested in him. Sometimes he would go on a date or two, but it never lasted.”

  “That must have been disappointing for him. And for you.”

  “You want to die knowing that your children are cared for and are in good hands. I always wanted him to find the woman that could be… a soul mate for him. Someone who understood his quirks and could put up with his nonsense when he got worked up. He was never violent. He just… had a lot to say.”

  Margie nodded. “And no relationships that produced children?”

  “Certainly none that I was ever aware of. And I think that he would have told me if he’d had any. He would have been so proud. But as it was… No. I won’t ever have any grandchildren. He even tried doing the big brother thing for a while. I don’t know which organization it was, but one of these programs where they mentor children. Uncles or brothers or whatever.”

  “But that didn’t work out the way he hoped?”

  “No. He went through two or three different children, but it was the same as the dating game. He would see them a few times, and then he would be assigned someone else. They never told him what he was doing wrong or if the children were complaining about him. He just bounced from one to another for a while… and then they stopped assigning him. They told him they would call when they had a match for him. And then they never called.”

  If he had been as negative as his mother perceived, then Margie could understand that. That wasn’t a good influence around children. They would either be irritated by his attitude, or they would copy it and drive their parents and everybody else crazy. Mentoring programs had very high standards and, if he had failed a few times, they might have decided to just let him down easy. Ghost him until he got the message and gave up.

  “That’s too bad. It would have been rewarding for him if it had worked out.”

  “Maybe it would have,” Mrs. Hustler agreed. “Or maybe it wouldn’t. He didn’t seem to… feel the happy stuff. The negative stuff, yes; he would talk about it for hours. But the good stuff never seemed to lift his spirits. I suppose they have a name for that now.”

  “Depression?” Margie suggested.

  “Alexithymia,” Siever said.

  Margie looked at him, surprised. Mrs. Hustler frowned and leaned forward.

  “I’ve never heard of that. What is it?”

  “Well… it’s sort of a broad term for not being able to feel emotions or to identify the emotions you are feeling. Sometimes it can be like you said, never being happy about things.” Siever shrugged. “I don’t know if he had that… but it’s a possibility.”

  Mrs. Hustler nodded slowly. “Could you write that down for me so I could look it up later?”

  Siever’s brows drew down, studying her. Then he took out his notebook, wrote the word down carefully, and tore the page out of the notebook for her. Mrs. Hustler put it on the side table under the lamp and put a pen on top of it to keep it from fluttering away in the breeze from the fan oscillating back and forth.

  “Did Simon get cross-threaded with people?” Siever asked. “Was there anyone in particular who had a problem with his personality or negativity? Maybe someone at work?”

  “I don’t remember him talking about any one person more than another. Simon… complained about everyone at some point or another. I hate to think about what he might have told people about me. I’m sure he wasn’t any happier with our relationship than he was with any other. He didn’t shy away from saying hurtful things to my face. I can only imagine what he might have said behind my back.”

  “So at work… there isn’t anything that jumped out at you lately that he was unhappy with?”

  “No. No more than usual.”

  “And what about his social life? I know you said he didn’t get along well with women… but did he have any friends that he spent time with? Somebody who might have gone with him to the park for a stroll…”

  “The only people I know of that he ever met at the park were those boat people.”

  “Those boat people?” Margie echoed.

  “His club. The group that he ran. Racing the toy boats. They were always getting together. Not a lot during COVID, maybe, but whenever they could. They met a couple of times a week, normally.”

  Margie captured this point in her notepad, leaving Siever free to continue with his questions.

  “He didn’t just use the RC boats by himself.”

  “Oh, no. There was a big group of them. He was very well-regarded by them. They made him the president of their club. If that’s what you would call it. He could talk for hours about his boats and racing on the lake.”

  “So there was something that he enjoyed in life,” Margie suggested.

  “I suppose so… though he wasn’t ever telling me about how wonderful things were going. If he didn’t win a race, there was always a reason, the other boaters cheated or didn’t follow all the rules like he did. If he did win, then he would complain about how the others hadn’t congratulated him or had complained about something he had done that was totally within the rules. They were very competitive, from what he said.”