Excerpt Four

Boy Toy Boy Toy
Excerpt Four: From Chapter One, "Teen Play"

By Michael Craft

Friday, August 3

The Thrush residence was located in a pricey development of larger homes near the edge of town -- a rolling-knolls subdivision peppered with old oaks and the sort of shake-shingled mini-mansions that Neil often derides as "big dumb houses." Some looked like storybook castles, others like Mediterranean villas. A particularly ungainly specimen resembled the Alamo -- with a front-loading three-car garage. There were several examples of Disney-French, one of which, at the end of a cul-de-sac, was meant to pass for a cozy countryside stable, but it was just too damn big. The intended ambience was further contradicted by an assembly of police vehicles, hastily parked at jumbled angles, flashers flashing. I had never known exactly where Jason Thrush lived, but clearly, we'd arrived.

It was past eight-thirty, and dusk was slipping toward night. I got out of the car and waited for Pierce to finish on the radio. The conversation was sufficient to tell me what we'd find inside, but not a word was said that explained how it had happened. A sheriff's deputy came out of the house and jogged down the sidewalk to meet us as Pierce got out of the car.

Pierce quickly introduced us -- the man in uniform was Jim Johnson, the first officer to arrive on the scene.

"Who called it in?" Pierce asked him.

"The sister. She's a weird one -- named Mica."

"Who else is home?"

"Just the father." Johnson didn't need to mention the dozen cops, the crew of evidence technicians -- or the coroner.

"Let's have a look," said Pierce, and the three of us walked up to the house.

Though the exterior resembled a stable, the inside leaned, shall we say, toward the opulent -- nothing says "welcome home" quite so eloquently as that touch of Versailles. Louis-this, Louis-that, everywhere. Chandeliers, gold hardware, tasseled curtains, the works. Though our mission was grim, I couldn't suppress a wry smile, wondering how Neil would react to this place.

There didn't seem to be anyone around. Pierce asked Johnson, "Where?"

"Upstairs. Bedroom." And he led us up the curved staircase.

The upstairs hall was abuzz with hushed activity. Officers sidled in and out of a brightly lit room that I assume to be Jason's. Mica was on the far side of the hall, standing speechless next to a seated man who held his head in his hands. I assumed this to be her father, but he seemed far too old.

Pierce stepped to the bedroom door. "Could we have some room, please?" he quietly asked everyone, who filed out to the hall.

I followed Pierce inside. We were not alone. Dr. Vernon Formhals, the county coroner, was present -- as was the body of Jason Thrush.

The body of someone young, who has yet to hit his prime, is always a startling event. More than merely mourn the tragedy, we grieve at the loss of potential -- the victim represents promises unfulfilled and a life unlived. What's more, such death seems such a waste, and in Jason's case, this sense of forfeited opportunities was amplified by a perfect physique on the verge of manhood, lost. How easily I forgot my disdain for the living person, which had been home to a mean and arrogant spirit. That spirit had now flown, leaving only its handsome hull.

Jason lay prone on his bed, one leg dropped over the edge, his foot to the floor. He was dressed for a summer day in knit shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. The bed was neatly made, its pillows unrumpled. He looked as if he had just lain down for a nap. Or had he collapsed there? His face was turned towards us, eyes gently closed, like the frozen portrait of a beautiful sleeping child -- but the image was spoiled by a sizable gob of mucus that hung like molten, greenish rubber from his sagging mouth.

"God," I said, stepping close to stare into his blank visage, "what happened?"

Dr. Formhals answered, "No idea."

Pierce asked him, "Natural causes?"

"Can't tell yet." Stretching a fresh pair of white latex gloves over his massive black hands, Formhals explained the obvious need for an autopsy, the various tests they could run, the expected timetable for obtaining results.

As the coroner spoke, I remained at the bedside, crouching to study the body, weighing the mixture of attraction and revulsion I felt. There was no indication of trauma or struggle; Jason simply lay there, dead. Sniffing, I concluded that he could not have been there more than a few hours, as there was no foul hint of decay. Nor had his bowels discharged, perhaps due tot he position of his body. In fact, the predominant smell at close range was sweet and flowery -- the same "cheap perfume" noted by Kwynn Wyman at Wednesday night's rehearsal. He'd laid it on thick again. Inhaling the fruity scent, I was struck by a vague sensory memory, not from Wednesday, but from long ago. The fragrance was familiar. Had I known someone else who once wore it?

Rising (my knees cracked), I turned to ask the coroner, "Can you estimate the time of death, Vernon?"

He stepped next to me at the bedside. "This is preliminary, of course." He draped his palm over the thickest part of the boy's upper thigh, telling us, "The body is still slightly warm." He poked the leg with his index finger. "The skin still blanches when touched." Then, using both gloved hands, he gently lifted Jason's head and moved it about, observing, "The first signs of rigor are evident in the neck and jaw." Allowing Jason's head to rest again, Formhals paused to pat it, smoothing a still-lustrous lock of hair above an unhearing ear. Turning to us, he continued, "The room had been closed and air-conditioned, a steady seventy-two. The boy probably died between three and four hours ago."

Pierce checked his watch. "Nine now. That would put it between five and six."

Formhals nodded. "Close enough."

I told them, "That explains where Jason was at six-thirty. But Denny Diggins said he'd been trying to phone him all afternoon and could never get past the answering machine."

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