Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 34

Chapter

34

Back in his office, he printed Errol Moffett’s death certificate, studied it in detail, and passed it to me.

Found hanging in the family garage by his parents, Scott and Lindsay Moffett.

Both had sparse Facebook pages, Scott a computer engineer, bald with a bristly gray beard, Lindsay a dance instructor with a lean face and spiky black hair.

Minimal self-promotion because their online attention had been concentrated on a memorial site for their son?

Those pages were heralded by a photo of a nice-looking, tentatively smiling boy with long brown hair and a fledgling mustache. Strong resemblance to Mom. The portrait was bordered by black roses. From the looks of it, taken not long before his death.

Both parents offered heart-wrenching memories of their son. Next came tributes from Errol’s older sister, Brynne, and his younger brother, Shelton. Then more of the same from friends and acquaintances, many of whom added their headshots to mini-essays, doggerel, and lyrics from popular songs.

Errol had been “brilliant,” “intense,” “passionate about science,” “a great human being,” and a “mind warrior,” whatever that meant.

No hobbies or outside interests cited. As far as I could see, Errol Moffett’s priority had been limited to “wanting to be a great neurosurgeon.”

I scrolled a bit more. Sad stuff, well meaning, repetitive. I stopped reading and returned the printout to Milo.

He rubbed his face. “A seventeen-year-old feeling the need to do that over a B minus.”

I said, “Probably not that simple.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cases like his typically get blamed on situational factors—bullying, video games, some sort of failure, including grades. Those can be triggers but there’s usually a serious underlying depression.”

“Start off in a gray world, doesn’t take much to turn it black?”

“Well put.”

He returned to Scott’s and Lindsay’s pages. “Not much here about them. Maybe ’cause they lived for their kids.”

I said, “Two hours of commuting a day says they were highly invested.”

I used my phone to look up Brynne’s and Shelton Moffett’s social platforms. She was a freshman at Pierce junior college, he a sophomore at Woodland Hills High School. Both into sports, music, friends. Perfectly normal, conventional kids, but no evidence of exceptional academic achievement.

I pointed it out to Milo. “Looks like Errol was tagged as the gifted one.”

He said, “Star of the family show, then he stops living. That defines devastation, no? Maybe leads them to looking for a scapegoat. We know they blamed Rosales initially.”

“If so,” I said, “they stewed on it for a year. Or they’re just poor, grieving parents who’ve done nothing wrong.”

“We’ve found no one else so far who had anything against Rosales. Which leads me to a big problem, Alex. How the hell do I approach them? Hey, folks, not only did you lose your golden boy, now we want to find out if you conspired to commit murder. ”

I said, “You’re right, wish I had an easy answer. If they’re not involved, you’ll be compounding their grief. And if they are guilty, all they have to do is refuse to talk to you. I guess a look at their phone records and their financials might tell you something but I don’t see how you’d ever get subpoenas based on what you have.”

He swiveled and stared at me. “That was therapy?”

I got up. “If I come up with something, you’ll be the first to know.”

As I left, he said, “All I can ask for, amigo. Keep thinking.”