I’d already notified the Fourth District missing persons unit. They had Victims Services on the way over, but this part was all on me. I climbed the stairs and rang the bell.
Cory’s father answered the door almost right away. He looked a lot older than I would have expected, and had a cane hooked over his wrist.
“Can I help you?” he asked, a little warily.
“Mr. Smithe? I’m Alex Cross from the police department,” I told him. “I’m here to speak with you about Cory. May I come in?”
There are a few things you want to avoid in this kind of situation. One of them is mentioning up front that you’re from Homicide. Notifications need to unfold at the right pace—not too fast, but not too slowly, either.
“Come in,” he told me, and opened the screen door. “My wife’s in the back.”
He hobbled on ahead of me, and I followed him through to a screen porch off the kitchen. Mrs. Smithe was there, in slippers and a flowered housecoat. She clutched the neck of it closed and stood up as I came in. The cordless phone on her lap fell onto the floor, but neither of them seemed to notice.
“What is it?” she said. I could tell by her face that she’d already been contemplating the worst. I quickly reintroduced myself, and then got right to it.
“I wish there was an easy way to say this,” I told them.
“Oh Lord. No . . .”
“I’m so sorry, but Cory’s been killed. He was found this morning.”
It was like her voice cracked the air. There weren’t any words now, just a gut-wrenching expression of grief. Loss. Devastation. She sank down onto her knees and leaned against her husband, who was still holding the cane, trying not to go down himself, I think. He bent his head toward his wife’s with his eyes squeezed shut, the cane shaking between the two of them.
“Where?” Mr. Smithe choked out. “Where was he?”
“In the Potomac,” I said. “At the Georgetown waterfront.” There’s no sense holding back information at this point. It was better for them to get it from me than some other version on the news later.
“Killed?” he said. “As in—”
“Somebody did this to him, yes,” I said. “Again, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
I think a lot of people assume that’s lip service when cops say it, but the truth was, I could have cried right there with them. The loss of a child is a tragedy, whoever’s it is. You learn to keep it inside.
I waited until I felt like they could hear more from me, and then moved on.
“I know how hard this is,” I said, “but if you could give me a little information about Cory, it could be a big help.”
Mr. Smithe nodded, still on his feet. His wife was back in her chair, quietly weeping.
“What do you need to know?” he asked.
“The kinds of things Cory liked to do, where he hung out, the friends he spent the most time with. That sort of thing,” I said.
His mother looked up then. “Was he in some sort of trouble?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I told them honestly.
“He was a good boy,” Mr. Smithe said. “I know every parent must say that . . . or maybe they don’t. But Cory walked hand in hand with God. He prayed with us every night. In fact, he’s supposed to start at Catholic University in the fall. A theology major.”
Later I’d learn that Mr. Smithe was a deacon at the family’s church, and his wife had been a nun for twenty years. This had to feel to them like the cruelest possible blow from God.
I pressed them for as much as I could, and took down the names of Cory’s closest circle. There was a girlfriend, Jess Pasternak, they said. She lived only a few blocks away. That was as good a next stop as any.
Then I gave the Smithes my card with my cell number written on the back, and left them to grieve in private. The best thing I could do for them now was keep moving.
As usual, time was not on my side.
CHAPTER