Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [45]
He asked Marge, “Do you have a Bell and Wakefield yearbook?”
“I can get one.”
“I’d like to have faces to go with the names. In the cases of Heddy, Ramona, and Lisa, I’d like to have last names.” He went through some of Myra’s texts: c u soon, pick u up at 5.
It would take way too long to go over all her texts. Decker returned the phone to the nightstand. “I’d love to keep it, but I suppose I have to ask permission.” He regarded Marge. “Two kids from the same school kill themselves within a month and a half of each other. Both of them were . . . outsiders. What do you think?”
“That it’s often the outsiders who commit suicide. Plus, one was male; the other was female, different ages, different grades.”
“And the female had a history of depression,” Decker said.
“But . . .” Marge said. “It’s still two kids from the same school within a very small period of time. I’m thinking maybe some kind of suicide club or suicide pact or . . . Did they even know each other?”
“I’m wondering about the gun. Where did it come from?” The room fell quiet. Decker finally said, “I don’t see a computer.”
“Maybe there’s a shared computer,” Marge suggested. “I can ask Eric about it.”
“If we want to break into Myra’s personal life, we’re going to have to ask Mrs. Gelb for permission.” Decker raked his hair with his hands. “And unlike Wendy Hesse, she hasn’t asked for our help.” He returned his eyes to the closet. In the corner were two cardboard moving boxes. He pulled one out and opened it up. “Lookie here, Margie.”
Hundreds of drawings—pen and ink, pencil, crayon, pastels, watercolors—on random pieces of white paper, scratch paper with advertisements on the other side, a dozen sketch pads, and lots of napkins, newspapers, and Post-its: anything made of pulp.
“At last,” Decker said. “We’ve found the real Myra Gelb.”
“She was good.” Marge picked up some material on the top and regarded it with a critical eye. “Very good, as a matter of fact.”
There were faces, there were landscapes, there were still lifes and lots of cartoons and caricatures. They began to sort through the material one by one by one. An hour later, Decker was looking at a detailed pen-and-ink drawing of a big jock-type guy grunting on the toilet. The caption was Dylan’s artistic output. He showed the drawing to Marge.
“Dylan Lashay?” When Decker shrugged, she said, “Whoever he is, Myra wasn’t a fan. I’ll get a yearbook tomorrow.”
By midnight, Marge stood up and stretched. She’d been in the apartment for almost six hours, the last four of them spent in the bedroom. She heard footsteps. Eric knocked on the doorpost, and Marge and Decker came out of the room.
“What’s up?” she said.
“I just got a call from Dr. Radcliff. They’ve admitted my mom. I need to go to the hospital. I’d really like to close this up for tonight.”
“Not a problem,” Decker said. “We’re going to rope off the room with tape. Please don’t go in or out of it.”
“I guarantee you that won’t be an issue.”
“We’ll come back tomorrow. Thanks for letting us stay so late.”
“No problem.” Eric paused. “What are you looking for?”
“I know your sister was depressed. But she was on medication and seeing a psychiatrist. She was also functioning. She certainly was drawing a lot.” Decker paused. “Do you think your mother would mind if I took these boxes to the station house and looked them over?”
“What’s inside?”
“Your sister’s artwork.”
“My mom’s going to want them back.”
“Of course,” Decker said. “But this way, I can look through them and not be in your way.”
“I guess it would be okay.” Eric exhaled. “Sure, take them.”
Marge took one box, and Decker took the other. They were bulky but not heavy. Eric locked up the door, and the four of them walked to the elevator. When they got to the ground floor, Eric went out first.
“Give our deepest sympathies to your mom,” Marge said.
“I will.”
Decker hefted one of the boxes. “This may be a little awkward, Eric, but I’m going to ask it anyway. We couldn’t find your sister’s computer. Did she have