When The Bough Breaks

She sipped her coffee. "No. Some of them are very sophisticated. They live by their wits. Maybe it would have prevented the addiction if she'd followed through. Who knows? But she couldn't give him up. I wouldn't be surprised if she blames herself for what he's become. For everything."

The door to the kitchen opened. Mrs. Gutierrez came out wearing a black band around her arm and a new face that was more than just fresh makeup. A face hardened to withstand the acid bath of interrogation.

She sat down next to Raquel and whispered to her in Spanish.

"She says you may ask any questions you'd like."

I nodded with what I hoped was obvious gratitude.

"Please tell the senora that I express my sorrow at her tragic loss and also let her knew that I greatly appreciate her taking the time during her period of grief to talk to me."

The older woman listened to the translation and acknowledged me with a quick movement of her head.

"Ask her, Raquel, if Elena ever talked about her work. Especially during the last year."

As Raquel spoke a nostalgic smile spread across the older woman's face.

"She says only to complain that teachers did not get paid enough. That the hours were long and the children could get difficult."

"Any particular children?"

A whispered conference.

"No child in particular. The senora reminds you that Elena was a special kind of teacher who helped children with problems in learning. All the children had difficulties."

I wondered to myself if there'd been a connection between growing up with a brother like Rafael and the dead girl's choice of specialty.

"Did she speak at all about the child who was killed. The Nemeth boy?"

Upon hearing the question Mrs. Gutierrez nodded, sadly, then spoke.

"She mentioned it once or twice. She said she was very sad about it. That it was a tragedy," Raquel translated.

"Nothing else?"

"It would be rude to pursue it, Alex."

"Okay. Try this. Did Elena seem to have more money than usual recently? Did she buy expensive gifts for anyone in the family?"

"No. She says Elena always complained about not having enough money. She was a girl who liked to have good things. Pretty things. One minute." She listened to the older woman, nodding affirmation. "This wasn't always possible, as the family was never rich. Even when her husband was alive. But Elena worked very hard. She bought herself things. Sometimes on credit, but she always made her payments. Nothing was repossessed. She was a girl to make a mother proud."

I prepared myself for more tears, but there were none. The grieving mother looked at me with a cold, dark expression of challenge. I dare you, she was saying, to besmirch the memory of my little girl.

I looked away.

"Do you think I can ask her about Handler now?"

Before Raquel could answer, Mrs. Gutierrez spit. She gesticulated with both hands, raised her voice and uttered what had to be a string of curses. She ended the diatribe by spitting again.

"Need I translate?" asked Raquel.

"Don't bother." I made a mental search for a new line of questioning. Normally, my approach would have been to start off with small talk, casual banter, and subtly switch to direct questions. I was dissatisfied with the crude way I was handling this interview, but working with a translator was like doing surgery wearing garden gloves.

"Ask her if there is anything else she can tell me that might help us find the man who - you phrase it."

The old woman listened and answered vehemently.

"She says there is nothing. That the world has become a crazy place, full of demons. That a demon must have done this to Elena."

"Much as gracias, senora. Ask her if I might have a look at Elena's personal effects."

Raquel asked her and the mother deliberated. She looked me over from head to toe, sighed, and got up.

"Venga," she said, and led me to the rear of the house.

The flotsam and jetsam of Elena Gutierrez's twenty - eight years had been stored in cardboard boxes and stuck in a corner of what passed, in the tiny house, as a service porch. There was a windowed door with a view of the backyard. An apricot tree grew there, gnarled and deformed, spreading its fruit - laden branches across the rotting roof of a single car garage.

Across the hall was a small bedroom with two beds, the domicile of the brothers. From where I knelt I could see a maple dresser and shelves constructed of unfinished planks resting on cinder blocks. The shelves held a cheap stereo and a modest record collection. A carton of Marlboros and a pile of paperbacks shared the top of the dresser. One of the beds was neatly made, the other a jumble of tangled sheets. Between them was a single pine end table holding a lamp with a plastic base, an ashtray, and a copy of a Spanish girlie magazine.

Feeling like a Peeping Tom, I pulled the first box close and began my excursion in pop archaeology.