Chapter 7
CHAPTER
Before we drove over to Alexandria, Virginia, to meet with Conrad Talbot’s family, I got Abby Howard’s number from Dispatch and called her house.
I spoke to her mother, Lisa Howard, and informed her that her daughter had been injured and was en route to GWU Hospital.
I said we’d meet her at the hospital later this morning.
When Sampson and I got back in the car, he said, “FYI, you should have asked the mother not to call Conrad’s parents.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t think of that. Does it matter? Why do you think she would?”
“Well, I’m assuming Abby’s mother knew her daughter was out with Conrad last night, and she must have called his family when her daughter didn’t come home, so maybe she’ll call them now to give them an update.
But I’d rather inform the family in person.
Especially in cases like this, when it’s the death of a kid with his whole life ahead of him.
I see it as part of the job. Our responsibility. ”
“I didn’t tell her Conrad was dead.”
“I know,” he said. “But you get the point.”
“Learning.”
“Every day.”
The Talbot family lived in a sprawling red-brick Colonial on a shaded cul-de-sac in Alexandria about two miles from the Charles School. It was ten minutes to nine when we knocked on the front door with our badges out.
We could hear raised voices inside.
A teenage girl came and looked out the side window. She was dressed all in black, from her Doc Martens to her cardigan, and wore dark eye makeup and a couple of nose rings.
I waved my badge and smiled. She rolled her eyes and opened the front door.
A man yelled, “How the hell should I know where he’d go all night in Geoff’s Bronco, Sue Ann? Am I supposed to be psychic?”
“Will, stop being dramatic! I’m on hold with the Fairfax sheriff and—”
Conrad’s mother appeared in the front hallway in a robe, her hair up in curlers, a cordless phone pressed to her ear. She took one look at us and scurried away.
The girl snorted.
“Will!” we heard the mother call. “There are two big Black men at the front door.”
“They’re the police, Mom!” the teen yelled. “They’ve got badges and everything!”
There was a brief silence, then the loud beep of the phone being clicked off. Will Talbot, a lanky blond man in his forties, came to the door. He wore tennis shorts, a Harvard Business School sweatshirt, and flip-flops. He squinted at us as we held up our badges and identified ourselves.
“Dad, I let them in,” the teenage girl said.
“And I’m glad you did,” her father said, attempting to smile at us. “What’s this all about, Officers?”
“Mr. Talbot, is there somewhere we can talk privately with you and your wife?” I asked.
The phone rang in the hallway. We heard Sue Ann Talbot answer it.
Will Talbot’s expression turned from defensive to uncertain. He looked at his daughter. “Stella, why don’t you go finish breakfast and ask Mom to come to my office for a second.” He turned to us and gestured to a room on his right. “We can talk in here.”
Before we could go into the office, his wife reappeared, looking stricken. “That was Lisa Howard. Abby’s in critical condition at GWU Hospital.”
I wished to God right then I had told Abby’s mother not to call Conrad’s family, but I nodded. “Yes, she is, ma’am.”
The implications registered with both the parents and their daughter at the same time.
“Conrad?” Will Talbot said in a voice that still held hope.
But Sue Ann knew even before I said, “I’m sorry.” Conrad’s mother looked stunned. She staggered, crashed against the wall, and slid down it, moaning, “No. No. No. No.”
Equally stunned, her husband looked past us and whispered, “Little Condor?”
Stella lost her sullen expression and started to cry, and right in front of our eyes, an innocent family crumbled and collapsed.