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Sophie Dunn spun away from the doorway and cried out, “No, no, no. That can’t be right. She can’t be dead. She can’t be.”
The door swung open, and we walked Millie’s distraught daughter through the entranceway to a sitting room with a brick fireplace, wall-to-wall bookshelves, and a large window onto a high city view.
She circled the room, still crying out denials.
“This isn’t right. I don’t believe this. How did this happen?” Then she stopped circling and, with tears streaming down her cheeks, said directly to me, “I always hoped that one day I would have my mother back. Do you understand?”
And then, wiping her face with her sleeve, Sophie Dunn collapsed into a chair.
When we were seated across from her, I told her again how sorry we were, that we had known Millie and why.
I said, “Ms. Dunn, I’m confused as to why your mother was living as though she was homeless.”
Sophie got up, paced some more, and eventually got her thoughts and words together enough to confirm what Conklin had learned at the shelter. Millie’s street life had begun after her husband’s death. By the time Sophie was in her teens, Millie was on the street more than she was home.
“I haven’t seen her in over a year,” Millie’s daughter told us, “but when we last spoke, she seemed happy. She liked the people. She would give anyone her last nickel. I can’t even imagine who could have anything against her. But as I’m sure you know, a lot of street people have mental illnesses. My mother included.”
She got up, went to the bookshelf, and came back to her chair with a framed photo taken in front of this fireplace.
I got a glimpse of a family of four: mom, dad, two kids. Normal as could be.
Conklin asked, “Sophie, did your brother stay in touch with your mom?”
“Michael? He hardly stays in touch with me. After he moved out, he got married, got divorced, and kind of lives a small, quiet life. Mom wasn’t at the wedding. He never mentions her.”
“We’ll need to speak to him,” Rich said.
Sophie began crying again. She apologized, left the room, and returned a minute later with tissues and a Post-it note.
She said, “Here’s his number. Good luck getting anywhere with him, though. Michael is a professional introvert.”
Sophie asked when she could see her mother. I gave her the information as well as my card, and we said our good-byes.
Conklin called Michael Dunn from the car and got him on the first try.
He agreed to meet us at the Hall.
CHAPTER 83
THREE HOURS AFTER leaving Sophie Dunn, Conklin and I were sitting at a small table in Interview 1 with her older brother, Michael.
Conklin took the lead, and I used the opportunity to look Michael over.
Dunn was about thirty, of medium height and build, with dark hair, a five-o’clock shadow, and his mother’s kind hazel eyes. He was wearing office-job attire: a dark-gray sports coat, blue button-down shirt, standard striped tie, gray slacks, and, notably, a wedding band. I wondered about that. Sophie Dunn had said her brother was divorced.
Conklin was telling Dunn where the shooting had taken place and the results of the autopsy. I looked at Millie’s son for signs of grief or shock, but Michael was showing very little emotion.
“She put herself in danger,” he said, “but why would someone kill her? She was harmless and not confrontational.”
“When was the last time you spoke with your mother?” I asked.
“Three years ago maybe? I don’t exactly remember. She doesn’t carry a phone—or maybe she didn’t give me the number. I stopped by the house a few times, but I never caught her at home.”
He shook his head.
“She wasn’t right in the head after my dad died. She left school, moved back home, but she detached from me, Sophie, the house. For her it was all about being with the homeless.”
I said, “That must’ve felt pretty bad.”
