Who Are You? (9780307823533)

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he doorbell rings, but Mom, Dad, and I just stare at each other. We’ve been building walls of angry words, slathering them over with shouts of “That’s a completely unreasonable request!” and “You don’t even try to understand!” and “Use your brain, Kristi! Do you think we’re made of money?” and “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t care!”

The loud chime of the doorbell intrudes and suddenly we’re silent. The noise is a shock, like being caught naked in the shower room after gym class. Dad clears his throat, turns, and walks to open the door.

I can see a short, auburn-haired woman, wearing a plain navy blue suit and white blouse. She faces
Dad on the doorstep. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a craggy, weather-beaten face stands behind her. He’s wearing a dark blue suit and white shirt too.

“Are you Mr. Drew Evans?” the woman asks.

“Yes,” Dad answers.

She holds out a small leather folder. Now I can see the glint of metal. It looks like a badge. “Sergeant Janice Nims. HPD homicide detective,” she says. She nods toward the man with her. “This is Sergeant Jerry Balker, my partner. May we come in?”

“Why, yes,” Dad says as he opens the door wide. His voice cracks and gets strangely high and tight as he asks, “What’s happened? What’s wrong? Is something the matter?”

Mom and I come to life, bumping into each other, trying to make way as the detectives follow Dad into the living room.

“Please sit down. Here … no, here,” Mom says. She smoothes down her dark brown hair, fluffs pillows, and attempts to make a soft drink can disappear, while I scoop up a pile of my books and homework papers.

Dad has himself under control now, and he says, “Detectives Nims and Balker, this is my wife, Callie, and our daughter, Kristin.”

We shake hands and murmur greetings, perching on chairs while we wait for what will come next. Although Sergeant Balker has a kind, pleasant look in his eyes, Sergeant Nims studies me as though she’s trying to memorize me for a test, and it makes
me uncomfortable. Why should two homicide detectives visit our family on a Sunday morning?

Sergeant Nims leans forward in her chair. A notepad and pen appear in her hands. Did they suddenly arrive by magic, or haven’t I been paying attention? “Are you acquainted with a man named Douglas Merson?” she asks.

Dad and Mom look at each other blankly. “Mersome?” Mom questions.

“Merson,” Sergeant Nims corrects her. “Douglas Merson.” She glances at me, but I just shrug.

Dad shakes his head, and Mom answers, “No. Who is he?”

Sergeant Nims doesn’t respond to Mom’s question. Instead, she says, “We have reason to believe that he’s acquainted with your family.” Again she gives me a strange, searching look. Why? I never heard of this Douglas Merson.

“Merson? Merson?” Mom starts thinking aloud. “Maybe we met through our church? Or the high school? Is he in the booster club at Carter High? Tall man? Has a son on the football team?”

“No,” Sergeant Balker says. His words are a slow, comfortable drawl compared to Sergeant Nims’s staccato bursts. “Douglas Merson’s home is in River Oaks, and his son is no longer living.”

“Then I doubt if I’ve met his wife …”

“Merson’s not married now.”

Dad suddenly sits upright. “Wait a minute,” he says. “Douglas Merson. I knew that name sounded familiar. It was on the television news last night and in this morning’s
Houston Chronicle.
He was
robbed and shot yesterday evening at the front door of his house. Isn’t that right?”

Mom gasps. “He was murdered?”

“Fortunately, Mr. Merson didn’t die,” Sergeant Balker answers. “He was shot twice—once in the shoulder and once in the jaw. He’s in intensive care, but it looks like he’ll make it.” Balker turns to Dad, and for the first time I can see the intensity of his gaze. “Have you ever had any business dealings with Merson?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Dad answers. “He’s not one of my clients. I’m an accountant. My wife and I are both accountants. We have our own firm.” Dad tries a smile that doesn’t make it. “March … income taxes due soon. This is our busy season, you know.”

“We know,” Sergeant Nims says.
And we don’t care
, her impatient tone implies. She goes on to question Dad and Mom about the name and address of their company and how many employees they have. It doesn’t take long. There’s only Betsy, their secretary and receptionist.

Again Sergeant Nims looks at me as though she can see right into and through me. I can’t help squirming. I don’t like it. No one’s asked me any questions, but I blurt out, “We don’t know this Douglas Merson you’re talking about. We’ve never met him.” I try to ease the situation with humor, as I add, “And we certainly didn’t shoot and rob him, if that’s what you’re getting at.” After I’ve said it, I realize it didn’t come across as being funny.

Surprise flickers briefly in the sergeant’s eyes, but
she keeps her gaze steadily on me. “We have reason to believe he
does
know you,” she says. “Our officers were called to the house by a neighbor who heard gunshots. The door was open. It’s possible that Mr. Merson opened the door to someone he knew.”

I break in, irritated that she hasn’t believed us. Also, I’m a little frightened. Does she really think one of us shot Mr. Merson? “I sometimes read the newspapers,” I tell her, “and I nearly always listen to the evening news on TV. There’s often something about Police report that there was no forced entry, so the victim must have opened the door to someone he knew.’ But it’s not true. People open doors to salesmen or repairmen or other people they don’t know. Just because he opened the door doesn’t mean—”

“Kristi, please.” Mom touches my arm, and I close my mouth, damming up the spill of words.

Sergeant Nims continues. I listen carefully, even though I can’t stand her calmness. I hate her for frightening and upsetting us, then acting so cool about the whole thing.

“Mr. Merson was lying in the entry hall. His watch was gone. We were told he was in the habit of wearing it. After the paramedics took him to Ben Taub Hospital, we searched the immediate vicinity of the house for evidence connected to the crime. On the table in the living room was an open folder. We assume Mr. Merson had been going through the items in the folder, so we intend to follow up. We’re very much interested in the contents of the folder.”

As she pauses, Dad waits patiently. I clamp my
lips together, refusing to ask the obvious question, but Mom’s curiosity gets the best of her. She asks, “What was in the folder?”

“Newspaper clippings,” the detective says. “A birth announcement from the
Chronicle
in September 1983. There were a number of small items about school awards, a fourth-grade school play, an honorable mention in a citywide art show in middle school, art shows and awards in high school …”

As she speaks a shiver creeps down my neck and along my backbone. I hold my breath. It’s hard to breathe.

Mom doesn’t have a clue. “Were the clippings about Mr. Merson’s son?” she asks. Her voice is low with concern. “You said that he’d had a son who’s no longer living.”

Sergeant Balker suddenly speaks, his voice low and quiet. “They’re not about Merson’s son,” he says. “The clippings all have to do with your daughter. The file is labeled ‘Kristin Anne Evans.’ ”

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