“From the gym.” Loretta’s brow creased. “Andre used to box in the Marines. He was good at it, won some competitions on base. When he got out, he wanted to keep it up. Said it helped him clear his head, burn off stress after work.” A sad smile touched her lips. “He always did have too much energy. Even as a little boy, couldn’t sit still for nothing. I used to say he was like a firecracker looking for a match.”
“Do you know the name of the gym?”
“Iron something? Iron House, maybe?” She shook her head. “He didn’t talk about it much. Just said it was good for him, kept him focused.”
I hesitated before asking the next question. It felt intrusive, poking at a mother’s wounds while they were still fresh and bleeding. But we needed to know.
“Mrs. Washington, did Andre have any health issues? Anything he was being treated for?”
Her fingers stilled on the shredded tissues. Something crossed her face—a shadow of worry that had nothing to do with the news we’d just delivered. An older fear, one she’d been carrying for a while.
“He started having seizures about a year ago.” Her voice dropped, like she was sharing something shameful. “The doctors said it was from getting hit in the head too many times back when he was boxing. All those blows, they add up, I guess.” She stared down at her hands. “They put him on medication for it. Klonopin, I think it’s called. He’d been doing better—no episodes in months, he told me. But I still worried. Every time my phone rang, I thought…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
“Did anyone else know about the seizures?” I asked gently. “Friends, co-workers, his trainer?”
“No. Nobody.” Her chin lifted, a flash of her son’s pride showing through the grief. “He was embarrassed by it. Said it made him feel weak, like his body was betraying him. He didn’t want anyone to see him as anything less than strong.” The tears spilled over again. “My strong boy. He worked so hard to be strong.”
Jack gave her a moment, then asked, “Did Andre ever mention owing anyone money? Gambling debts, loans, anything like that?”
“Never. Andre was careful with his money. Responsible.” A watery smile flickered across her face. “He sent me a little every month, even when I told him I didn’t need it. Said it was his job to take care of me now. Said I’d spent enough years taking care of him.”
“What about anyone who might have wanted to hurt him? Any conflicts, disagreements?”
Loretta looked at Jack like he’d asked if the sun might rise in the west. “Andre didn’t have enemies. Everyone loved him. He’d give you the shirt off his back and apologize it wasn’t warmer.” Her voice splintered. “He held doors for strangers. Called his mama every week. Who could want to hurt someone like that? Who could do this to my baby?”
I didn’t have an answer for her. Neither did Jack.
We asked a few more questions—about his daily routine, his habits, whether he’d seemed different lately—but Loretta had given us everything she had. Her son had kept his life compartmentalized, showing her only the parts he wanted her to see.
Jack leaned forward, his voice softening. “Mrs. Washington, is there someone we can call for you? Family, a friend, someone from your church? You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
She blinked, like the question surprised her. “My sister. Gloria. She lives over in Fredericksburg.”
“Would you like us to call her?”
“I—” Her voice faltered. “Yes. Please. I don’t think I can… I can’t say the words again.”
Jack made the call while I sat with Loretta, holding her hand while she stared at nothing. Gloria answered on the second ring and said she’d be there in thirty minutes.
We stayed until she arrived—a woman who looked like an older, softer version of Loretta, with the same kind eyes and the same grief now carved into her face. She gathered her sister into her arms without a word, and Loretta finally let go, sobbing against Gloria’s shoulder like a child.
Jack left his card on the coffee table, along with the number for victim services. “We’ll be in touch,” he said quietly to Gloria. “If she thinks of anything else, anything at all, have her call.”
Gloria nodded, her hand stroking Loretta’s back. “Find who did this. Find them and make them pay.”
“We will,” Jack said.
We let ourselves out. The door closed behind us with a soft click, and Loretta’s muffled sobs faded as we walked down the stairs and into the parking lot, where the kids were still playing soccer and the sun was still shining like the world hadn’t just ended for a woman in apartment 2B.
Neither of us spoke until we were back in the Tahoe.
“She said nobody knew about the seizures,” Jack said. “He kept it private.”
“Somebody always knows.”
Jack started the engine. “Let’s go check out his apartment.”
