The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.31 Saint Howie

June 13, 3:30 pm

In the cafeteria of the Court House, Abigail Gunderson had finally controlled her tears. Carla could tell that the woman wasn't a big weeper. She was one of those Mormon women who suffered silently. But even the strongest of women had their limits, and Abigail Gunderson was not the strongest of women. What had happened to her only son was enough to break the heart of any mother.

"I'm sure you must hear this from every mother whose son has ever been accused of a crime," the woman said, dabbing her nose with her already soggy handkerchief. "But Detective, I'm not some mother trying to be tough, or believing in her child no matter how horrible the things he has done may be. I'm only speaking God's truth when I tell you that Howard would never hurt a fly. He has to be innocent of this. He was such a good boy growing up, that my husband and I called him 'Saint Howie.' I don't know how, but this all has to be some kind of mistake!"

"I wish it was, Mrs. Gunderson," Carla said, hating the sound of her own voice. "But the facts in the case are irrefutable. There is so much evidence. We have the statements of the boys in the truck. They'll testify he's the one that made them drive to that house, and that they saw him jump out, walk across the lawn, and fire the shot into the house. We have the gun. The police were there within seconds, and Howard was sitting on the lawn, right next to it. His fingerprints were all over it, and there was gunpowder residue on his hand and shirt."

"But this is not something Howard would ever do! If he did, then there has to be something we don't know. Maybe somebody was blackmailing him. Maybe he didn't know what he was doing. Or maybe he's suffered some kind of psychotic break."

"Do you believe that?"

"I don't know what to believe. But Mr. Offret says he thinks he can get him off with some kind of insanity defense." She put down the cup, and her hand went instinctively back to the handkerchief. "I don't know what else we can do. Detective Grayson, I can't lose my only son!"

Carla took the woman's hand and slowly detached her grip from the soggy handkerchief. "Mrs. Gunderson, if I may ask, where is the boy's father? As far as I can tell, he's never been to visit his son in detention. I know when I interviewed him, he seemed very cold and angry. But I think Howard needs you both by his side."

"Frank's not going to come here."

"Why not?"

"Well, Detective..." the woman paused, struggling to find her words. "My husband is a good man. But he also cares very much about what people think. What people say. He's afraid that somebody will photograph him either going into or coming out of the prison, and that it will end up in the newspaper." She laughed a humorless laugh. "I know how pathetic that sounds, but he's hardly left the house since all this began. He's gone into a deep depression, and it's only gotten worse, now that all of our friends have abandoned us. The Bishop is a good friend, and even he has even stopped coming by. It's like we're being ostracized from all of our friends, and even the Church. Frank is talking about moving us out of Salt Lake when this is all over."

Abigail Gunderson detached her hands from Carla's grip, picked up the handkerchief, turned away, and blew her nose into it.

Noiselessly and politely, Carla noticed. Just like a good Mormon housewife should.

"I guess at this point the best I'm hoping for is that they find Howard not guilty by reason of insanity, and he gets committed somewhere. Maybe we could get him transferred to a hospital out of state. Somewhere that nobody knows us. And then maybe we could both visit him from time to time." She found a clean corner of the handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. "I just know I'll never get Frank to visit him here. Not while he's in Salt Lake."