Page 9 of Obsessed

The house where the Schrades lived sat at the end of a cul-de-sac on a hill. The second story was nestled in a cluster of elm trees. The yard was perfectly manicured. The circular driveway had a Cadillac SRX and a Chevy Volt with the spare donut tire on the front driver’s side.

I said, “You know the difference between a dead-end street and a cul-de-sac?”

Terri gave me a look. She knew me, so she tentatively prompted, “No, what’s the difference between a dead-end street and a cul-de-sac?”

“About a hundred thousand bucks.”

Terri let out a laugh. She said, “That’s clever. Did you just now come up with that?”

“I wish. I read it in aMAD Magazineages ago and I’ve been waiting to use it ever since.”

Terri let out a whistle as we stepped out of the car. She said, “I’ve been here three times. Each time it feels like this place is bigger.”

“It’s a relative shack compared to the neighbors.”

“You telling me you couldn’t raise your ten kids here?”

“I could raise my kids anywhere. But you’re right—they’d have fun up here. If you know anyone who wants to give me a house, I’ll consider it.”

Terri knew our apartment had been inherited by my first wife. She even knew about the trust in place to pay the taxes on our Upper West Side apartment. The chances of getting a deal like that twice in a lifetime seemed pretty slim.

We stood on the front porch for a moment as I checked a few notes. Someone inside the house was playing the piano. They were good. Just as Terri was about to push the doorbell, the door swung wide. A woman wearing a light-blue blouse and dress slacks with running shoes said hello to Terri, who in turn introduced Dr. Lisa Schrade to me.

She said to Terri, “I’m on shift in about an hour.”

“This shouldn’t take too long. Is your husband home as well?” Terri asked.

“Let me see. Middle of the week, middle of the morning, of course Robert’s here,” Dr. Schrade said over her shoulder as she led us down a long, tiled entryway. Each tile had a hand-drawn image of nature. There were birds, deer, and some of the tiles were just trees.

“Who’s playing the piano?” I asked. “It’s lovely.”

Dr. Schrade said, “That’s our youngerdaughter, Lauren. She hopes to get into Juilliard just like her sister.” She added, “Emma was the first student from her school to get into Juilliard in more than ten years. She had an excellent GPA and had very high SATs.” Clearly, Dr. Schrade was proud of her daughter’s accomplishments.

I realized this was how I must sound talking about my kids. With ten, I had a lot of choices of what to brag about. But Juilliard was a huge accomplishment. My stomach fluttered at the thought of one of the younger kids wanting to attend Juilliard. I wasn’t certain, but I guessed my entire annual salary might barely cover tuition.

At the end of the entryway was a small music room to one side. A girl of about sixteen, with long, light hair, didn’t look up from her practice. We followed Dr. Schrade to a pleasant patio at the rear of the house. Ferns spilling over narrow planters gave the patio a wilderness vibe. Robert Schrade sat at a small, round table, sipping a glass of iced tea. Dr. Schrade’s husband was almost the complete opposite of her. Long hair drooped over the collar of his stained polo shirt. Streaks of gray shot through his shaggy beard. I remembered reading that he was some sort of part-time acting coach in the city. I guess it was Dr. Schrade’s salary that paid for this nice house and the tuition at Juilliard.

We all sat around the glass-topped patio table with a pitcher of iced tea. Terri got right to our questions as soon as both of the Schrades were sitting comfortably.

The family may have been coping with the death of their olderdaughter, but there were obvious strains in the marriage. I didn’t know what Mr. Schrade had been like before his daughter was murdered, but he seemed lost now, while Dr. Schrade clearly forced herself not to roll her eyes every time her husband spoke.

After all these years talking to the families of homicide victims, I understood their pain. The homicide may have occurred two months ago, but it was still an open wound for these poor parents.

My quick assessment of the emotional state of the Schrades was that Dr. Schrade seemed like she was using work to occupy herself. Her husband was a different story. He shambled along and didn’t add much to our interview. He would be the one to worry about. Mr. Schrade looked like he’d been knocked for a real loop.

We went over some of the earlier questions Terri had been asking. The parents had paid Emma’s bills, and she had earned a little extra money singing at weddings and other events.

Throughout the interview, I listened to the haunting piano music from inside the house. I glanced over at a table with some photos of the sisters. I picked up the first one.

Mr. Schrade said, “I was just going through a few old photos. That was Emma when she was about fourteen.”

Dr. Schrade said, “You can see she had pretty bad acne back then. We finally got it under control, but she had a few scars. I would tell her she wore too much makeup as she got older, but I realize she was just trying to cover her old scars. That acne really bothered her. Funny what affects each of us the most.” Her words trailed off as she thought about her daughter.

Mr. Schrade added, “You’ve seen the more recent pictures of her. She really blossomed once she got to Juilliard. She was a striking girl and no one ever noticed a few blemishes.”

Terri tactfully said, “I know we’ve talked about this, but now that you’ve had time to think about it, did Emma ever mention a boyfriend or relationships?”

Both of her parents shook their heads in unison.

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