His Mother Obviously

The patrolman was deferential as he opened the door. “Kept it just as we found it, sir. Nothing disturbed. Made sure meself.”

Inspector O’Neill nodded and stepped in and glanced around the small living room.

Soft eyes, he called it, this way of simultaneously seeing everything and nothing.

First impressions: masculine, almost to the point of parody.

Military clean. Leather chairs, glass table, a framed reproduction of Bird’s Death of General Braddock on the wall.

In the hallway to the bedroom, two portraits: the Virgin Mary, eyes skyward. A lady with heavy eyebrows and a stern mouth.

His mother, obviously.

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