Being this close, it’s easy to watch Ben’s family sitting just two rows ahead of me. Suzanne, Ben’s mother, started sobbing the moment the priest said his name and shows no signs of stopping. Ben’s dad died when he was in college, and his mom remarried a man named William Lynch just after Ben graduated law school. I think Ben liked William although he never really spoke about his family.
It’s hard to get a good look at Camille. Her head is tilted forward, her face mostly hidden behind her long hair. She’s also wearing big black sunglasses. I don’t have to see her face to know she’s tense, though. It’s obvious with the set of her shoulders and the effort to make herself as small as possible. There’s a good six inches of empty space on either side of her despite how overcrowded the pew is. The crushed tissue in her fist is used to wipe the fresh tears away at the beginning of each new prayer.
Camille.
I’ve had my share of guilty clients, and if I’m really honest with myself, I’ve suspected they did what they were accused of within minutes of meeting them. I think back to the second I saw her sitting on the front steps, and I would have bet every dollar in my bank account that her uttershock at finding Ben dead inside that huge house she shared with him was genuine.
The most honest reaction you can get from someone is in the first couple of seconds of them hearing new information, good or bad. No time to digest it, no time to school their reaction. It’s either shocking or it’s not. It’s why most detectives break the news of a death to a potential suspect in person.
If only I could have seenherinitial reaction when she discovered Ben’s body, but all I have to go off is what she shows me now.
We say our last prayer, then the priest tucks his rosary back into the hidden pocket in his robes before clearing his throat as if he’s trying to find his normal voice after speaking so long in that monotonous tone.
“Again, thank you for gathering here today to pray for Benjamin. The family and I invite you to the parish hall for a light refreshment.”
Father steps down from the pulpit and genuflects in front of the altar before moving to the front row where the family sits. He leans closer, speaking to them quietly, then the front row stands and follows Father into the aisle and toward the back of the church.
As soon as they pass, everyone makes their way to the parish hall. By the time I get there, the receiving line to speak with the family stretches through the room and out the door, probably weaving through the parking lot.
I debate leaving and heading back to work, but the entire office is here and it would look shitty if I bailed.
Suzanne and William are the first to greet people as they come through the door, then Camille, with Ben’s older sister and brother-in-law on her other side.
And then there’s Camille’s family. Her parents, Randall and Marie, and Silas and Margaret. Camille steps away when she sees me, giving mea quick hug, then her mom is pulling her back to introduce her to someone in the line. Randall gives me a firm nod, which I return. I’ve got no desire to speak with him again.
I drag a chair behind the receiving line, where I’m mostly hidden, and wait for this to end.
Even though Ben and Camille are from the same small town, their families couldn’t be more different.
Ben’s mom works as an aide in the small hospital there and his stepdad sells insurance. They live modestly in the same house Ben and his sister grew up in. A far cry from the behemoth of the house Ben and Camille restored. While William and Suzanne live a simple life, Ben seemed to strive to emulate the lifestyle Camille grew up with.
Most people here are friends and acquaintances of Ben’s and Camille’s from Baton Rouge, but there are a fair number from Corbeau. Based on the snippets of conversation I hear as people pass along the line, the people here from their hometown are in two very distinct categories—those who are connected to Ben’s side and those who are connected to Camille’s.
It’s interesting to see the differences and hard to ignore the lack of crossover between the two groups.
And then there’s the group of past and current clients, who have to introduce themselves to everyone. I’ve been studying Ben’s calendar and files for the past two days, making it easy to recognize their names. They are quickly passed from family member to family member since no one really wants to talk to a bunch of alleged criminals.
But the most fascinating thing to watch is Margaret Everett try again and again to tend to Camille, while Camille actively rebuffs her every time. Margaret has offered to get Camille something to drink, something to eat, suggested she take a break, and even tried to stand next to her atone point, until Camille moved nearer to Ben’s sister, making her the buffer between them.
There is obviously a problem between the two of them. Camille’s parents seem oblivious to this, but Silas is dialed in and watching every interaction. It’s also interesting that Margaret is matching Camille tear for tear.
My ass has gone numb in this metal chair, but there are enough of our clients still here helping themselves to free punch and cake that I’m staying in my hiding spot. AddWhat about my case? conversations to the list of those I’m trying to avoid. Hopefully, we’re almost at the end of this line and I can get out of here.
About thirty minutes in, Camille turns and looks at me. I wasn’t sure she was aware I was back here but it’s clear she was. She’s throwing me what I assume is a pleading look before turning back to the woman in front of her. I take it as a cry for help since the line still stretches out of the door. I think back on our phone call yesterday; it looks like she’s had all the condolences she can take.
I stand and come up behind her, making sure to speak loud enough that the other family members hear me. “Hey, I’m sorry to pull you away, but a few of our employees wanted to talk with you a moment and let you know how sorry they are.”
Ben’s mom squeezes her arm. “Oh, Camille, how nice of them to be here for this. You must go speak with them.”
That’s all the permission she needs as she jumps out of the line and attaches herself to my side. With my hand on her lower back, I steer her to the far side of the room, where I had already scoped out an easy exit to the parking lot.
“Thank you,” she mumbles as I push the door open.
The sun has almost set, leaving the sky washed in shades of orangeand pink and yellow. Even though she doesn’t need them, the sunglasses stay in place.
“You should have signaled me earlier. There’s no reason you had to greet every single person who came through that door.”
She lets out a frustrated laugh. “My mother would disagree with you.”
