Capital Crimes (24 page)

10

G
oogling
Briar Lane Academy Sheralyn
pulled up a review in the girl school’s campus paper,
The Siren Call.
Last October, the Thespian Club had presented a “post-modern version of
As You Like It.
” The reviewer had loved the show, singling out Sheralyn Carlson’s portrayal of Rosalind as “mercilessly relevant and psychologically deep.”

They traced the girl to an address in Brentwood—Nashville’s other high-priced spread. Five miles south of Belle Meade, Brentwood had a higher concentration of new money than its cousin, with rolling hills and open land a magnet for music types who’d cashed in. Faith and Tim and Dolly had Brentwood spreads. So did Alan Jackson and George Jones. Homes ranged from horse estates to sleek ranch houses. Ninety-four percent white, six percent everything else.

Sheralyn Carlson might’ve posed a problem for the census taker, with a Chinese radiologist mother and a hulking, blond radiologist father who would’ve looked fine in Viking duds. The girl was gorgeous, tall and lithe with long, shiny, honey-colored hair, almond-shaped amber eyes, and a soft-spoken disposition of the type that tended to reassure adults.

Drs. Elaine and Andrew Carlson seemed like quiet, inoffensive types, themselves. They briefed the detectives on the fact that their only child had never earned a grade lower than A, had never given them a
lick
of problem, had been offered a spot in the Johns Hopkins gifted writer program but had turned it down because, as Dr. Elaine phrased it, “Sheralyn eschews divisive stratification.”

“Our view as well,” added Dr. Andrew.

“We try to maintain family cohesiveness,” said Dr. Elaine. “Without sacrificing free expression.” Stroking her daughter’s shoulder. Sheralyn took her mother’s hand. Dr. Elaine squeezed her daughter’s fingers.

“My daughter—our daughter,” said Dr. Andrew, “is a fabulous young woman.”

“That’s obvious,” said Baker. “We’d like to talk to her alone.”

“I don’t know,” said Dr. Andrew.

“I don’t know, either,” said Dr. Elaine.

“Know,”
said Sheralyn. “Please.” Flashing a brief, tight smile at her parents.

The Drs. Carlson looked at each other. “Very well,” said Dr. Andrew. He and his wife left the stark, white contempo living room of their stark, white contempo house as if embarking on a trek across Siberia. Glancing back and catching Sheralyn’s merry wave.

When they were gone, the girl turned grave. “Finally! A chance to express what’s been on my mind for some time. I’m extremely concerned about Tristan.”

“Why?” said Baker.

“He’s depressed. Not clinically, at this point, but dangerously close.”

“Depressed about his father?”

“His father,” she said. Blinking. “Yes, that, of course.”

“What else?”

“The usual post-adolescent issues.” Sheralyn turned her fingers like darning needles. “Life.”

Lamar said, “Sounds like you’re interested in psychology.”

Sheralyn nodded. “The ultimate questions always revolve around human behavior.”

“And Tristan’s behavior concerns you.”

“More like lack of behavior,” she said. “He’s depressed.”

“Going through rough times.”

“Tristan’s not what he seems,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard. She had the refined good looks of a beauty queen, but aimed for edgy. Floral minidress, combat boots, henna patterns banding the tops of her hands, four pierces in one ear, three in the other. There was a tiny little dot above her right nostril where a stud had once rested.

“What do you mean?”

“At first glance,” she said, “Tristan comes across as Mega Jock From Planet Testosterone. But he’s preternaturally sensitive.”

“Preternaturally,” said Baker.

“We all have our masks,” the teen remarked. “A less honest person might have no trouble donning his. Tristan’s soul is honest. He suffers.”

Neither detective was really sure what she meant. Lamar said, “Is he going through an identity crisis of some kind?”

She looked at him as if he needed tutoring. “Sure, why not.”

“Changing his ways,” said Baker.

Silence.

Lamar said, “We know he took a leave from Brown. Where is he?”

“At home.”

“Living with his mother?”

“Only in a physical sense.”

“They don’t get along?”

“Tristan’s home is not a nurturing place.”

“Conflict with his mother?”

“No-o,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “For conflict, there needs to be involvement.”

“Mrs. Poulson’s not involved.”

“Oh, she is.” The girl frowned. “With herself. Such a cozy relationship.”

“You don’t like her,” said Baker.

“I don’t think about her enough to dislike her.” A second later: “She represents much that repels me.”

“How so?”

“Have you met her?”

“Sure have.”

“Yet you ask,” said Sheralyn Carlson, working at looking amused.

Baker said, “What’s her problem, besides being a distant mom?”

The girl took several moments to answer. Twisting those fingers. Playing with her hair and the hem of her dress. “I love Tristan. Not as a sexual lover, there’s no longer that spark between us.” She crossed her legs. “Words don’t do it justice but if I had to encapsulate, I’d say brotherly love. But don’t take that as a Freudian hint. Tristan and I are quite proud that we’ve managed to transition our relationship from the realm of the physical to idealistic companionship.” Another long pause. “Tristan and I have both taken on the mantle of celibacy.”

Silence.

Sheralyn Carlson smiled. “So-called adults shudder at the notion of so-called adolescent sexuality but when the s.c. adolescent eschews sexuality, the s.c. adults think it’s bizarre.”

“I reckon that’s not too foreign a concept in these parts,” Baker said. “Churchgoing people every Wednesday and Sunday like clockwork.”

She frowned. “The point is that Tristan and I have opted for a more internal life. Since his senior year.”

“Art and music,” said Lamar.

“The internal life,” the girl repeated.

“Well, that’s fine, Sheralyn. And now he’s living at home. You see each other much?”

“At home and about.”

“About where?”

“He tends to gravitate toward Sixteenth Street.”

“Looking for a record deal on Music Row?”

“Tristan is close to tone deaf, but he loves to write. The obvious choice is lyrics. For the last month, he’s been attempting to sell his lyrics to the philistines on Music Row. I warned him he’d encounter nothing but crass commercialism, but Tristan can be quite determined.”

“From jock to songwriter,” said Baker. “How’d his mom take that?”

“She would have to care to take.”

“Apathetic.”

“She would have to believe that others exist in order to fit into any sort of category such as ‘apathetic.’”

Lamar said, “Mrs. Poulson lives in her own little world.”

“Little,” said Sheralyn Carlson, “being the operative word. She did break out of it long enough to tell Tristan that he was too good for me.” Crooked smile. “Because of this.” Touching the side of one eye. “The epicanthic fold trumps all.”

“She’s a racist,” said Baker.

“Well,” said the girl, “that has been known to exist in various civilizations over a host of millennia.”

Aiming for breezy, but recalling the slight had tightened her voice.

One of those high-IQ types who hid behind words, thought Lamar. That rarely worked for any length of time.

He said, “Tristan couldn’t have been happy with that.”

“Tristan laughed,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “I laughed. We shared the mirth.”

The detectives didn’t answer.

“She,”
said the girl. Letting the word hang there for a few seconds. “She—okay, let me fill in the picture with an anecdote. When Tristan started at Brown, he was the epitome of Mega Jock with his shaved head and fresh-faced optimism. By the end of his first semester, his hair had reached his shoulders and his beard was full and woolly; he grew a lovely, masculine beard. That’s when he began suspecting, but
she
denied everything.”

“Suspected what?” said Baker.

“His true paternity.”

“He doubted that Mr. Poulson was his—”

“Detective Southerby,” said the girl, “why not be honest? You’re here because of Jack Jeffries’s murder.”

Baker had mentioned his own surname once, when first meeting the family. Most people never bothered to register it. This kid missed nothing.

He said, “Go on.”

“Throughout Tristan’s childhood,
she
had always talked about Jack. Rather incessantly, at times. Tristan knew that her relationship with Lloyd was sexless and he noted the sparkle in her eye when Jack’s name came up. He wondered as anyone with a brain would wonder. Then, when the inner world began exerting its pull and he began to write, wonder turned to fantasy.”

“About Jack Jeffries being his real dad,” said Baker.

“Every adolescent has them,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “Escape fantasies, the certainty that one has to have been adopted because these
aliens
one finds oneself living with
can’t
be linked to one, biologically. In Jack’s case, a rather dramatic physical resemblance kept the fantasy alive.” Another crooked smile. “And wouldn’t you know.”

She crossed the other leg, exposed some thigh, tucked down her dress and ran a finger under the top of a boot.

Lamar said, “Tristan felt he looked like Jack Jeffries.”

“He did, I did. Anyone who saw pictures of Jack Jeffries when he was young did. Two things happened that further fed his fantasy before it became reality. Before Tristan left for Brown, I came across a picture of a boy in a magazine. In
People
magazine, an article about sperm donors.”

“Melinda Raven’s son by Jack Jeffries.”

“Owen,” said Sheralyn, as if recalling an old friend. “He could’ve been Tristan’s twin. The similarity in age made the resemblance undeniable. That’s why the first thing Tristan did when he got to Brown was grow his hair and beard. To compare himself to pictures of Jack taken back in the Hairy Days. The result was beyond debate. Tristan experienced a crisis of sorts. We spent long hours on the phone and decided he needed a paradigm shift. He took a leave of absence, came home, moved into the guest house of Mommy’s manse and prepared to confront her. We had strategy meetings beforehand, devising how to approach her, finally settled on simplicity: tell her you know and request verification. Tristan took some time to build up his courage, finally did it, when she was on her way to her country club. We expected initial denial, then confession, then some sort of emotion.
She
didn’t bat an eyelash. Told him he was crazy and that he’d better clean up if he intended to ever have lunch with her at the club.”

“What did Tristan do?” said Lamar.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Ergo, depression.”

“Did he try to contact Jack Jeffries?”

“He did more than try. He succeeded.”

“They met?”

“In cyberspace.”

“E-mail,” said Baker.

“Tristan contacted Jack Jeffries’s website, introduced himself, sent a j-peg of his senior photo, as well as a later, hirsute version, and some lyrics. He expected nothing, but Jack answered, said he was happy to hear from Tristan. Said Tristan’s lyrics were ‘awesome.’”

“How’d Tristan react to that?”

The girl turned away. Placed her hand on a small, white abstract carving resting on a glass and chrome table.

This place is like an igloo,
thought Baker. “How did Tristan take that?”

The girl gnawed her lip.

“Sheralyn?” said Baker.

“He cried,” she said. “Tears of joy. I held him.”

Ten minutes later, Drs. Andrew and Elaine peeked in.

Sheralyn said, “I’m fine,” and waved them away and they disappeared.

During that time, she’d verified that the lyrics Tristan had sent were “Music City Breakdown.” But she denied knowing about any face-to-face meeting between Tristan Poulson and Jeffries. Nor was she willing to pinpoint Tristan’s whereabouts beyond the guest house on his mother’s property.