Broken Saint, The
were
headed out to the provost’s house. He lived in the North End, the original
residential neighborhood in Rawlings. Most of the houses dated from early in
the last century. Prices were still reasonable, there was a short strip with a
coffee shop, a Thai restaurant, a little grocery store, and a park, and there
were no associations telling you you couldn’t grow tomatoes or you had to mow
your lawn every month. As a result, one house would be a tidy two-story
Craftsman bungalow with shutters, curtains, and a picket fence. Next door would
be the same house, except for the weeds growing out of the gutters, neon Coors
signs in the windows, and two-thirds of a motorcycle with a black and red
for-sale sign in the front yard.
    We parked outside Gerson’s place. It was a
two-story, with weathered unpainted shingles. A porch spanned the width of the
house. Off to the side, connected by a walkway, was the two-car garage. As I
knocked with the brass knocker in the shape of a bunch of wheat stalks tied
together, I noticed a couple of original leaded windows off to the right in
what was probably the living room.
    I heard Al Gerson’s big footsteps as he clumped
his way toward the door, which was painted eggplant and had a winter wreath
hanging from it. The floor squeaked as he opened the door.
    I almost didn’t recognize him. He looked ten years
older than he had this morning. His posture was slumped, and his face was all
pale and doughy. His eyes were red-rimmed.
    “Detectives.” His voice was soft as he stood aside
for me and Ryan to come in. It was a simple entry parlor, a braided rug over slate
flooring, with the staircase centered in front of the door. Everything was
heavy, dark wood that I took to be cherry. “Thank you for stopping by,” he said
as he led us into the living room. He gestured for us to sit in any of the
various unmatched chairs and sofas in the cramped room. There was a Victorian mahogany
couch with wooden arms, a pair of mid-century oak Scandinavian modern chairs,
an overstuffed cloth loveseat, half a dozen end tables and coffee tables, and a
black baby-grand piano. There were some paintings on the wall. None of them looked
like anything I could recognize. The focus of the room was a brick-bordered
fireplace, with all sorts of family photos on the mantle.
    He called into the kitchen, “Honey, the detectives
are here.”
    Ryan and I remained standing, expecting his wife
to come into the living room. We stood there for a good half-minute. I glanced
at Gerson, who was looking down at the tattered fringe on a Persian rug, his
hands in his pockets, trying to look patient.
    Finally, she appeared. Her face was deeply lined,
her posture bowed. Her medium-length hair was gray, halfway to white. She wore
glasses, no makeup or earrings or anything. She had on blue jeans, baggy, and a
hideous hand-knit sweater as thick as a horse blanket, the kind you put on only
when the crazy aunt who knit it stops by.
    She walked with quick, jerky movements, like a
bird, her head pointed toward the floor. She looked up only to navigate her way
through the cluttered room. I could tell she had been crying. She didn’t make
eye contact with any of the three of us in the room.
    “Andrea, this is Detective … I’m sorry, I’ve
forgotten your names,” Gerson said, his hands out in apology.
    “I understand.” I turned to Andrea Gerson, who was
standing near the doorway from the kitchen. “My name is Karen Seagate. My partner,
Ryan Miner.”
    “Very glad to meet you.” She looked at me for just
an instant, then shifted her gaze back to the floor. She did not look at Ryan.
    “As I told your husband earlier today, we’re very
sorry for your loss.”
    I paused, to see if one of them was going to say
something. Finally, Gerson invited us all to sit, which we did. Andrea didn’t
walk across the room to be closer to her husband. She just lowered herself quickly
onto the piano bench.
    Gerson sighed. “We can’t … we can’t

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