“Does John have any tattoos?” she asked me.
I knew by the tension in her voice that something was terribly wrong. “No,” I told her.
“Are you sure, Matthew? Are you sure that your brother doesn’t have any tattoos?” She was pleading with me now, while rushing forward before I could answer. A body had been found, she said, a body without a distinguishing tattoo. The police were sure it was John, but my mother had convinced herself otherwise, that he had at least one tattoo on his body. I, however, knew better. I had tattoos, as did my brother Mark, but John?
“I’m positive,” I told her.
My brother had been stabbed numerous times, his throat slashed. The crime occurred in a park in South Phoenix. An ex-con from Oklahoma was later found guilty of first-degree murder.