He couldn’t decide if it would be better or worse if the autopsy revealed the presence of drugs or high levels of alcohol in Michael’s system. He even had wild thoughts of the coroner saying the results showed Michael was dying of some fatal disease or had suffered some personality-altering seizure, thereby explaining why he’d done what he did. Billy had other mad thoughts, too. Like the court revealing Michael hadn’t taken his own life after all, but was murdered. All these horrible scenarios would be easier to accept than not knowing, than Michael seeming to have had no other reason than that provided by the expert guesses of social workers and the police. They all said Michael had to have suffered unbearable anguish and utter hopelessness, and saw no other way out.
A woman called out Billy’s name. He spun around, seeing Delia Murray. A florist, she had supplied the flowers and wreaths for Michael’s funeral. “Ah, hello, there, how are you?” she said. “I’ve thought of you all often.” The three Brennans mumbled embarrassed hellos. “This is a pleasant surprise,” Delia continued. “What brings you here so early?” Billy wasn’t sure if she was making idle small talk, or fishing for news.
He, Tricia, and John looked at each other guiltily. “We’re here for a meeting,” Billy said.
“I see.” Delia looked unconvinced. Her attention remained on Billy, as if she was trying to figure out what had changed about him. He’d lost twenty-nine pounds.
Delia raised the green watering can in her hand, looking pleased with herself. “I do the flowers here.”
“Very good,” he said.
“Well, I’ll let you get on with it,” she said. “Best of luck with everything, now.”
They hurried down the corridor away from her. “Do you think she knows?” Tricia whispered.
“Who cares?” John said.
“We’re here,” Billy said, breathless. He pulled open the heavy wooden door.
Two tables stood at the head of the empty room, spaced several feet apart and covered with starched white cloths—the makeshift judge’s bench and the witness stand. A lonely-looking jug of iced water sweated on each table, a stack of glasses next to them. Behind the tables, two red-velvet chairs with thick wooden arms, and in front, a dozen gray plastic chairs arranged in three rows. Billy, shaking, checked the time on his mobile phone. Twenty-five minutes before the hour.
“We shouldn’t have come so early,” Tricia said.
“Where is everyone?” John also sounded rattled.
They sat in the front row and waited. Tricia’s pointer finger picked at the skin next to her thumbnail. “I’d kill for a cigarette.”
“You’ve time,” John said.
“It might start early.” Her fingernail dug at her thumb, drawing blood.
“It’s not going to start early,” John said.
“Let your mother do what she wants,” Billy said.
“I want this over with,” Tricia said. “Before I get sick all over the place.”
Billy fetched her a glass of water from the witness table. “What are you doing?” she said nervously. “That’s not for us.”
“What are they going to do?” Billy said. “Arrest me?”
She took a long drink. “Thanks.”
These were the things to notice, Billy thought, a thirst quenched, a kind word, a seat beneath them, and warmth out of the cold. That was how they would get through this.
Fantastic smells wafted from the hotel’s kitchen—fried foods, roasted meats, and creamy, herbed sauces. A lid opened on Billy’s stomach, letting out a wail. He felt starved. He needed to eat. To stuff himself. At the very least, he deserved a little treat. No one could blame him for breaking out today, of all days.
He could be in and out of the hotel restaurant in minutes, could put away a burger, chips, and Coca-Cola in record time. No one need ever know. He could make some remark to the staff about it being for John and Tricia, then he could scoff the lot in the car. His mouth wetted and his eyelids turned heavy. He could taste the salt and grease and meat already. A little treat would calm him. Fortify him. After, he’d get right back on track. He’d never again cave.
The door opened and Sergeant Deveney entered. Billy’s stomach bucked. He hadn’t seen the policeman face-to-face since that night in Kennedy’s. Now the fucker had ruined his planned treat, too. A short, white-haired man with small round spectacles followed Deveney, a thick file of papers under his arm. Billy, Tricia, and John stood to attention, a sweat breaking on Billy that rivaled the condensation on the two water jugs.
Deveney nodded his hellos and introduced the coroner, Mr. Feeney. Feeney’s small eyes slid over Billy’s bulk and then darted to Deveney, as if to say, You weren’t joking. Billy pulled on his open cardigan, trying to drag the front panels around his drooping sides and middle. Twenty-nine pounds gone, but he couldn’t get any more give out of the garment.
Feeney offered his condolences. “I know this is difficult,” he continued, “but we’ll move through everything as quickly as we can, all right?” Billy and Tricia thanked him. John hung back like a distrustful dog.