by Jeff Lindsay
“No housekeeper, cook, nothing like that?” Sanders said, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe a butler—or a majordomo?” Melnick smiled and turned to his partner. “Really rich people go for that one. Majordomo. Very regal,” he said.
“Did you have a majordomo, Mrs. Hobson?” Sanders asked blandly. “A regal majordomo who knew the pass code?”
Katrina could only shake her head numbly.
“Well then, see, that’s the thing, Mrs. Hobson,” Sanders said, leaning forward and lowering his voice confidentially. “The two cops that got there first say the alarm was on—you turned it off to let them in. Is that right?”
Again, Katrina nodded, trying to fight down the sick feeling that was growing in the pit of her stomach.
“And the cameras,” Melnick said. “Somehow they got turned off for a few minutes—while your husband was getting killed.”
“So you see the problem,” Sanders said. He leaned back and shook his head. “The alarm is on. Nobody can get in. Only two people in the house, and one of ’em ends up dead.” He spread his hands.
“Which is really only a charming puzzle if you’re Agatha Christie,” Melnick said. “Which we are not.”
“I think Agatha Christie is even dead,” his partner added.
“That’s right, she is.”
“So you see what we have to think here, Mrs. Hobson?” Sanders asked, again politely—but this time that bland and even tone seemed harsher than a snarl of rage.
“With the whole alarm thing, you know,” Melnick said mildly.
And then they both just looked at her.
Katrina fought for air. The inside of her mouth felt like sandpaper and she couldn’t swallow. And her brain seemed frozen. She fought for something to say—anything. There had to be a few simple words, some elementary phrase, that would make them see how ridiculous this was—how totally impossible—to think she had killed Michael. But she couldn’t think of anything, and her head was throbbing, and the room seemed to be getting dim and wobbly. And the two detectives just looked at her with matching expressions of mild and patient curiosity. And just when she thought her head would explode, the room’s door popped open.
A woman in uniform stuck her head in. “Detective Sanders?” she said. She held up a file folder. “They said you should see this ASAP. Uh, forensics?”
Sanders nodded and got up. As he stepped over to take the folder, Katrina felt a small trickle of relief. She’d seen CSI enough times to know what forensics was. And the ASAP part—it was obvious that they’d found some kind of evidence that implicated the real killer. So now they would have to let her go. She was innocent, for God’s sake—and they had to know the kind of political pressure her family could bring; it could make things very unpleasant for the detectives. She took a deep breath and waited while the room steadied a bit and reminded herself not to be too harsh on them—after all, they’d made an awful mistake, but they were just doing their jobs, and really, they’d been very polite to her.
Sanders was showing the contents of the folder to his partner. The two of them looked at her, and Sanders smiled. Here it comes, Katrina thought. Now they apologize and let me go. And I will be gracious.
It didn’t quite go that way.
The two detectives settled back into their chairs and exchanged a glance. “Where were we?” Sanders asked innocently.
“Mrs. Hobson was about to explain that she didn’t kill her husband,” Melnick said with the same fake blandness.
“That’s right, she didn’t do it,” Sanders said, looking at Katrina.
“No, I didn’t!” Katrina said. “And I have no idea who did do it—but whoever it was, they’re getting away while you waste time playing games with me!”
“This isn’t a game, Mrs. Hobson,” Melnick said.
“Nope, we don’t play games,” Sanders said.
“Then let me go—and find the real killer!” Katrina snapped.
Sanders shook his head. “See, that’s the problem,” he said reasonably. “We think we found the real killer.”
“We think it’s you,” Melnick said.
“That’s just plain stupid!” Katrina said.
Sanders nodded. “Sure, why not. After all, we’re just stupid cops. But here’s the thing, Mrs. Hobson.” He held up the folder in his hand. “This is the preliminary lab report,” Sanders said. “They found some fingerprints on the knife.”
“Very good prints, too,” Melnick said. “Very clear.”
“Your fingerprints,” Sanders added.
“On the knife,” Melnick said.
“You know—the murder weapon?” Sanders added. And they both looked at her expectantly.
The room began to wobble again. “That’s not . . . I didn’t—”
“The prints show up so nicely because whoever made the prints—”
“Your prints,” Melnick added happily.
“—they had cocoa powder on their fingers,” Sanders said.
“Cocoa powder that’s an exact match for the cocoa powder we found in the dish beside your bed,” Melnick said.
“Your bed where forensics says that last night you had sex with somebody. They also say your husband did not have sex in the last twenty-four hours,” Sanders said.
“Who was he, Mrs. Hobson?” Melnick asked, and he was definitely emphasizing the “Mrs.” “And what time did he leave your house?”
Sanders nodded at her. “We kind of need to talk to him, too.”
“Just so it all kind of fits together,” Melnick said.
“Motive, means, and opportunity,” Sanders said. “Plus the prints and the DNA evidence.”
“This is really the kind of case that makes the DA love us,” Melnick said. “She doesn’t like to work too hard?”
“She won’t have to work very hard at all with this. Open-and-shut case,” Sanders said.
“Open-and-shut,” Melnick agreed, and they nodded at each other.
“So it might be a good thing to let it all out now, Mrs. Hobson.”
“Confession is good for the soul,” Melnick said.
“It’s also good for reducing your sentence,” Sanders said. “You may want to think about that.”
And the two of them just looked at her, with matching expressions of mild and patient amusement.
Once again Katrina was unable to breathe. She just stared back at them as they swam in and out of focus and the room seemed to tilt to one side. When at last she could get a little air into her lungs, Katrina closed her eyes for a moment and tried to steady herself. When she opened them again, nothing had changed. She was still in an interrogation room, and the two detectives were still looking at her with mild interest. She took one more breath. “I want my lawyer,” she said.
CHAPTER
18
Sergeant Fraleigh had seen pretty much everything in his years as a cop—a lot of things over a lot of years. Nowadays, only seventeen months before mandatory retirement, most of what he saw just made him tired. Especially when his sciatica was kicking up, which it definitely was right now. And his acid reflux. Between the two, his patience had dissolved, and he was in no mood for bullshit. Of course, since he had the desk today, he was bound to get some. But when it finally came, he wasn’t happy about it.
Still, he’d kind of known something was coming. So he didn’t actually roll his eyes at the young man standing in front of him at the precinct desk. And thanks to his long years of practicing that special cop technique for suppressing his emotions, he did not say any of the filthy, blistering things that he wanted to say. But he did, most definitely, put on an expression that left no doubt to those thoughts, and he also let out a long-suffering sigh. “Say that again . . . sir?”
The young man swallowed visibly and shifted his weight. But he also jutted his chin and repeated what he’d just said. “I want to confess,”
he said. And then he just stood there.
“You want to confess,” Sergeant Fraleigh said wearily. “And you couldn’t find a priest, so you came to me?”
“No, I— It’s murder,” the guy stammered. “I killed Michael Hobson.”
Fraleigh was well aware that there had been a murder, and the vic’s name was Hobson. A rich guy. It was already getting a ton of coverage on the news. And every time that happened, the wackos came out of the woodwork to confess. Real killers never strolled in and confessed. The guys who did were after attention, and they were always out of whack in some sad way. Maybe they didn’t get breastfed, or they never learned proper self-esteem in middle school. Whatever; one or two nutjobs always wandered in and confessed after a splashy murder.
This guy wore a nice suit, looked clean and respectable—he didn’t look like a wacko, but who did nowadays? They were all raised to feel special, entitled, and nobody gave a shit about responsibility or anything else, and eventually, it seemed to the sergeant that they all flipped out, one way or another.
“You killed Michael Hobson,” he said, in a voice that was flat—but would still peel paint at ten paces. “You’re sure it was him?”
The young guy flinched, but he stood his ground. “Positive,” he said.
Sergeant Fraleigh closed his eyes for a moment. He did not actually pray. He wasn’t a religious man. But he did ask for strength, if anybody was listening. Of course, nobody was listening. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t feel any stronger, and nothing had changed. The guy was still standing there, fidgeting. And even then, no sudden strength came flooding into the good sergeant’s veins.
Sergeant Fraleigh knew very well Hobson’s wife had killed him. The evidence was strong, and the detectives were sure it was her. So this guy was definitely a mental case. “All right, citizen,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “And why did you kill Michael Hobson?”
“I—I was sleeping with his wife,” the guy said. “He—he came home early, and, uh . . . so I killed him.”
That got Sergeant Fraleigh’s attention. He knew the detectives were looking for some guy who had been in bed with the widow when it happened. Fraleigh looked the guy over a little more carefully—could this be wifey’s sex toy? He wasn’t bad-looking. And the suit was a really good one. That usually meant a little money—which didn’t guarantee the guy was sane. But it was possible. This could be the guy—maybe. In any case, the detectives would want to talk to him. If he was telling the truth, they had their man. If he was a wacko, it was their problem. Either way, Sergeant Fraleigh would be done with him.
Fraleigh half turned to his left, keeping his eye on the young guy, and said, “Bender?”
Bender, a chubby young African-American cop, came right over. “Sergeant?”
Fraleigh nodded at the young guy. “Take this guy down to holding.”
“Sure thing. Uh—you want me to cuff him?”
Fraleigh shook his head. “No. We’re not booking him yet. But frisk him—and keep an eye on him ’til the detectives get there, okay?”
Bender nodded. “You got it, Sergeant.” He took the young guy by an elbow and steered him toward the hall. “Please come with me, sir,” he said, and led the young guy away.
Fraleigh watched them go until he was distracted by a loud rumbling sound—his stomach. He glanced up at the wall clock. It was almost time for lunch—Chinese or Mexican? His stomach rumbled again, and he felt his acid reflux flare. That settled it. Chinese, he thought, rubbing his gut regretfully. Definitely Chinese—and no Szechuan.
* * *
—
Randall sat quietly in a small room, at a table that had more scars than a pincushion. The room had a full-size mirror along the back wall, he noted with wry amusement. Presumably he was supposed to think it was there in case he wanted to touch up his hair before the interview. Surely every living person in America had seen enough TV and movies to know that it was one-way glass so the detectives could watch him undetected. But there was nothing else to do while he waited, so he looked at his reflection in the mirror and tried to imagine who might be on the other side watching him. And if they were merely watching him, why? To see if the long wait would soften him up? For what? He had already confessed to the sergeant out front.
Randall fidgeted nervously, tapping his fingers on the tabletop and rubbing his face. If they really were watching, they’d see how nervous he was. Did that make him look guilty or innocent? He folded his hands on the tabletop and tried to calm down, but that lasted for less than a minute, and he began to fidget again.
He stood up, took a step toward the door, and hesitated, then turned around and stared at the room as he ran a hand over the top of his head. He’d shaved it yesterday, and a very faint stubble had already grown out. He wondered where Katrina was. He was certain she would be treated well, even arrested for murder. But she had to be very upset.
Randall looked over his shoulder at the door. It didn’t open. He looked at the big mirror again, rubbed his beard, and then went back to the chair and sat again. He glanced at his watch; he’d been sitting here almost half an hour.
Randall spent a few more minutes fidgeting. Then he stood up again, walked jerkily around the room, pausing at the door, and then sat and fidgeted again, drummed his fingers on the table. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. That didn’t work, either.
A few minutes later the door finally opened. A guy with a face like an old catcher’s mitt walked in, sipping from a chipped mug in his left hand. The mug was almost as battered-looking as the man holding it. He stood just inside the door and looked Randall over carefully without blinking. “Randall Miller?” he said mildly.
“Yes. That’s me,” Randall said.
The man nodded and went to the opposite side of the table, sipped some more without looking away from Randall, and then hooked the chair out with one foot and sat in it. He put the cup on the table. “Hello, Randall. I’m Detective Sanders.”
“Hello,” Randall said.
The detective raised one eyebrow in question. “So you killed Michael Hobson, did you,” he said.
“That’s right.”
He nodded again. “Why?”
“I was having an affair with his wife,” Randall said, looking down at the table. “He came home early.” He licked his lips, looked up, shrugged. “I didn’t mean to kill him, but . . .”
Detective Sanders just kept looking at Randall, watching impassively, not even blinking. It was oddly unsettling because the detective kept a mild, even sympathetic look on his face—but his eyes were reptilian, predatory, and half the time he had that battered old coffee mug up and covering the lower half of his face. “How did it happen?” he said.
Randall cleared his throat. “Like I said, he came home early,” he said. “While we were . . .” He looked away, embarrassed, then went on. “I, um, I heard something and went downstairs, and . . .” He shrugged.
“And what?” he said.
“And he came at me, really angry,” Randall said. “I mean, it was pretty obvious why I was there so early in the morning, right?”
“Uh-huh. What time exactly?”
“Um, like I said, it was early morning. About 7:15?”
Sanders nodded. “Okay,” he said. “So he comes at you—where was that? In the front hall?”
Randall licked his lips and hesitated. “Yyyes,” he said at last. “In the hall.”
“And how did you get him into his office?” Sanders asked mildly.
“I, uh—” Randall swallowed convulsively. “I said, ‘Let’s talk.’ You know, be reasonable? I—I didn’t want Katrina to hear us and worry? And so we went into the office. To talk?”
“Okay,” Sanders said. He sipped. “And then?”
“And then, so, uh,” Randall said. This was not going smoothly. Something about Detective Sanders and his unmov
ing old-leather face was truly intimidating, and Randall began to sweat. “So he started to get mad again? And he came at me swinging.”
Sanders raised both eyebrows. “And what, you just grabbed up the fire poker and swung back?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s right,” Randall said. “See, he just kept trying to hit me, and I—I mean, I didn’t know what—I mean, I just reached behind me and felt the handle? And he hit me again, and, and I just . . .”
“You hit him with the poker,” Sanders finished for him.
“Yes. Yes, that’s right.” Randall nodded vigorously.
“Okay,” Sanders said. “That makes sense. I guess it was an accident. Maybe even self-defense.” He sipped again and looked thoughtful. “Except for one thing. How many times did you hit him, Randall?”
“How many . . . ?”
“Yeah, you know. One good swing and he goes down? Two smacks, just to be sure? Or it felt real good and you just kept swinging?” And he looked expectantly and unblinking at Randall.
Randall swallowed loudly. “I—I’m not sure exactly . . . ,” he said.
“But more than once?” Sanders said.
“Yes, I—I’m pretty sure it was more than once,” Randall said. He didn’t actually sound sure of anything.
“Uh-huh. Okay. I guess that makes sense.” Sanders slurped loudly from his cup and then set it down on the table—hard. Randall jumped, startled by the sudden loud noise. “Except for one thing,” Sanders said—still mildly, in spite of banging down his mug. “However many times you hit Mr. Hobson—with a fire poker—it didn’t show.” He shook his head slowly. “No bruises, no broken bones, nothing.”
“That—that isn’t possible,” Randall said.
“Sure it is,” Sanders said. “Because Mr. Hobson wasn’t killed with a fire poker. There’s no fire poker in his office. Because there is no fireplace in his office.” Sanders smiled, and it was neither a happy nor a reassuring smile. “He was stabbed to death, Randall. With his letter opener.”
Randall’s mouth moved a few times. It looked like he was trying to say something, probably starting with the letter O, judging from the shape of his lips. But nothing came out.
