“Let’s go.”
—
Lionel Hawkins was eighty or so, Black, short and stocky and white-haired and dressed in a starched blue shirt, pleated khakis, and shiny black oxfords. From the decorations on his wall, a man with dual devotions: the marines and the Dodgers.
Evidence of the former included aSemper Fibanner, stock shots of Iwo Jima and attack helicopters, and a photo of a young man in full dress. From the picture’s faded pigment, probably Hawkins himself, but maybe a son.
No food prep on his coffee table, no theatrics to his dress or décor. A well-kept, unassuming house with a vague aroma of tomato soup filtering from the kitchen.
Milo made the introductions.
Hawkins said, “I figured you’d be here once I told that lady officer. Don’t know what I can add, though.”
Both Milo and Alicia had their pads and pens at the ready.
Milo said, “No problem, sir, but if you don’t mind repeating?”
“Sure, but there isn’t much to tell,” said Hawkins. “Basically what I said was I haven’t seen her a lot but there’s this strange-type gal who sometimes visited her. I’m assuming a daughter because the age is right, about fifty, same as my two sons.”
“Strange, how?”
“Weird. Walks stiff, doesn’t look at you. Once I said hi, and she didn’t answer. Like in her own world, you know? And she always goes over to—Don’t know her name, your victim.”
Alicia said, “Martha Matthias.”
“Martha Matthias,” said Lionel Hawkins. “All these years and I never knew that.”
Milo said, “How long have you been living here?”
“Ten years after I retired from the corps, which makes it eighteen years ago. She was already living here. Martha Matthias. Okay.”
“How did the woman we’re assuming is the daughter act?”
“She didn’t,” said Hawkins. “Just walked. Like you didn’t exist. Like she’d walk right through you. Her body posture was all wound up—knees, head bunched up.”
He demonstrated.
Alicia said, “How was she dressed?”
“A dress,” said Hawkins. “I think. Don’t ask me colors. Not a pretty dress. A dress, that’s all I recall. Didn’t see her much. Either of them for that matter.”
“You figured this person was mentally ill.”
“Trust me, so would you if you saw her,” said Hawkins. “I mean you don’t need to be a psychiatrist.”
“Did she look homeless?”
“Was she dirty? No, can’t say that. Just weird. But maybe—andthey’reall nuts. I don’t truck with that woke stuff about un-homed or whatever they’re calling it nowadays. They’re nuts plain and simple.”
A pained expression took hold of his face. He touched a cheek hard. As if he’d been clawed without warning.
“I’ve got a nephew like that. Drives my sister and brother-in-law crazy.” Feeble smile. “So to speak.”
Milo said, “So this woman…”
“That’s all of it,” said Lionel Hawkins.
“How many times have you seen her at Martha’s?”
