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Gasping, Emilie slaps a hand over her mouth as tears spill onto her cheeks. “No. I thought…” She shakes her head. “I thought you were going to say one of our boys got into trouble. One of the teens—” She stops. Breathes until it almost turns to hyperventilation. “Paul is…” Her jaw wobbles. “He’s gone?”
“Yes.” I set my elbows on the counter and work to soften my tone. “Detective Fletcher and I are investigating his death, so I was hoping we could ask you a few questions as we try to piece together Paul’s final days.”
“I just…” Slowly, as though in a daze, she lowers her hands and carefully selects a long shoot of celery. Setting it on a chopping board, she picks up a long knife that makes Fletch’s brows shoot high, then begins cutting. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t…” Stopping her hands, she brings her attention back to us. “You’re investigating?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Which means his death was not…” She looks between us. “He did not die by accident? Or from a heart attack?”
I shake my head and pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “We’re from the homicide division, Ms. Elenora. That means Paul was murdered.”
“Oh god.” She sets the knife down and buries her face in her hands. “That can’t be right. Itcan’tbe. Paul was a good man, Detective. He was a godly man. He was kind and generous. He was sensitive and intuitive.” She drops her hands and brings her desperate gaze back to me. “If not for this center, many of Copeland’s youth wouldn’t have survived adolescence. He can’t…” Her breath catches with emotion. “Who did this to him? Who hurt him?”
“It’s our job to find out,” I murmur. “Ms. Elenora, could you help Detective Fletcher and me? We don’t know Paul the way you do, so it would be beneficial if you could help us understand who he is. Help us paint a picture, so we can find the person responsible for hurting him.”
“Was it…” Tears spill over and plop onto her cheeks. “Did Paul suffer?”
I’m certain he begged for death before it was done, but I don’t tell her that. “What does a normal day look like for Paul, Emilie? Oh, and,” before she can speak, I reach into my pocket and take out my recorder. “Can I record this?”
With her fingers wrapped around her hand towel and her eyes focused on the device in my hand, she works to still her trembling jaw as she nods. “Yes. That’s okay. And Paul spends most of his time here.”
“What time would he normally arrive for the day?” Fletch asks.
“Well…” Strengthening herself, Emilie straightens her shoulders and goes back to slicing celery. “His days were not uniform, so he maintained flexibility to let him come and go as needed, but I could usually expect him to be here by around seven, perhaps seven-thirty.”
“That’s an early start to the day,” I muse. “Why so early?”
“Because some of the boys come to us before school, Detective. They’re hungry, and most of them have nowhere else to go for breakfast, so Paul created the Three Meals A Day program for anyone who wants to eat.”
“Generous of him,” Fletch murmurs. “Did Paul help cook the breakfast?”
Considering, Emilie shrugs. “Sometimes he would help in the kitchen. Other times, he would play basketball outside with the kids. He had paperwork to do, too, or maybe he would simply sit in the rec room and watch television or play games with the kids.
“It was common for them to come to Paul for guidance, too, Detectives. Those who come from particularly rough homes who don’t wish to succumb to the same circumstances would seek Paul out, and he would tell them the world is there for the taking. They couldn’t see the world from their vantage points inside cramped apartments, or homes filled with violence, you understand. So when they came to speak to Paul, he would show them more. He would show them they canbemore.”
“Alright.” Pulling Emilie’s gaze back to me, I ask, “So he was here in the mornings. Working, or counseling, or playing. But no matter what he was doing, he was an active and constant face?”
“Yes, Detective.” Clearing her throat, Emilie lifts the chopping board and empties the sliced celery into a bowl. “He was here, and though the administration side of Chapel Hill could be a nine-to-five job, if Paul worked standard hours, he would never see the children he helps.”
“That was important to him?” Fletch asks. “That he be with them? That he speak to them?”
“Extremely important,” she nods. “So after the morning rush of kids, when we feed them and comfort them, maybe provide clothes for them, too, since some come from the streets… perhaps we’ve helped them with their homework, or some of the better-off children have tutored those who need it… Once the rush is over and the majority of our flock has gone to school, I come back here and begin cleaning, and Paul usually retires to his office and does whatever is on his to-do list.”
“Does he typically stay in the office until the end of his day, then?”
She nods again. Then shakes her head. Finally, Emilie settles on a shrug and a soft exhalation of air. “We have another rush around noon. It’s not as busy as the morning, but presses us enough to know we need more food laid out. These tend to be the kids living in squalor. Their family doesn’t care enough to put them in school, and chances are, they would never eat if not for Chapel Hill.
“Many of them have spent years coming and going. They can’t break free of their situation, so they come here for comfort. For somewhere safe and warm to spend an hour. They come here for Paul, Detective. And then they head out again and hope to live until tomorrow.”
“What comes after the breakfast and lunch rushes?” Fletch asks. “And is Chapel Hill for boys and girls, or just boys?”
“We welcome anyone.” Emilie sets down her chopping board and wipes her hands on her apron. “But I often saythe boys, since that’s predominantly who walks through here. As for your question about what the day looks like after the mealtime rushes, Paul usually heads out around three. He goes to the bank, to the post office, things like that. He takes care of business around that time, and often has engagements in the public. To show the city his work. To show them we exist.”
“For notoriety?” I wonder. “He wanted the appreciation?”
Immediately, Emilie shakes her head. “No. For the funding. We cannot feed these children with hopes and dreams, Detective. We must raise money somehow.” Her eyes burn, intensity pulsing in them, as though pleading me to understand. “We must keep our doors open no matter what. Which means we need the money.”
“So, Paul is the face of Chapel Hill? He raises capital, and he’s hands-on with the children?”
