by Jason Starr
“It was an abusive marriage—she was scared of him. I’m telling you, you have to check out her husband.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have an address or phone number?”
“No, but check her cell phone, I’m sure you can find it there.”
He made a note in his pad as he asked, “So tell me again how you discovered the body, Mr. Harper?”
I told him what had happened. Although I was still in shock, I managed to explain exactly what had happened since I’d left my apartment to go meet Sophie. I was very forthcoming and factual and to the point. I needed them to arrest her husband, or whoever had killed her, as soon as possible. Maybe if there was a quick arrest the whole story would go away and Maria would never find out that I had been involved. I was praying that there wouldn’t be a lengthy investigation and that the police didn’t have to talk to me again.
While I was answering Jimenez’s questions, an ambulance and a few other police cars pulled up in front of the townhouse. One was snazzy and black; it looked like a Charger, and a youngish guy with slicked hair in what looked like a designer suit got out. I figured he was a detective. He was chomping on gum and looked arrogant as hell. Something about him reminded me of Rob McEvoy.
I was explaining to Jimenez how I came right downstairs and called 911 when he cut me off in mid-sentence, saying, “Hold on,” and went over to talk to the guy in the suit. As Jimenez talked to him, I saw the guy look over in my direction a couple of times. Then the guy came over to me and said, “Your name’s Jack Harper.”
He said this as a statement and, although he was staring right at my eyes, I felt like he was looking through me.
“That’s right,” I said.
“And you were fucking the victim,” he said.
Again, not asking. Again, reminding me of Rob.
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
“Then what was it like?”
“I just explained it to—”
“Explain it again.”
I felt like I was being interrogated. My lips were quivering and it was hard to speak.
“We just met … online.”
“What were you doing here?” He was already losing patience.
“We arranged to meet, but I wasn’t going to go through with it. I swear to God. I was planning to call the whole thing off.”
He couldn’t care less, probably wasn’t even listening to me. “How did you get into the building?”
“We arranged it … She left the door open for me.”
“You got here before her?”
“What? No, she was already here. I told you, she was dead when I got here.”
Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I saw a sarcastic smile crease his face. Then he said, “Can you come with me, please?”
“Where am I going?”
“Can you come with me, please?” He meant it.
I followed him to the Charger. He opened the back door and asked me to get in.
“Why?” I asked, and he said, “Just get the fuck in.”
When I got in, he slammed the door and headed back toward the townhouse. Now I was officially scared shitless. Did he actually think I killed her? This was insane. I wondered if I should ask, hell, insist on calling a lawyer. But if I got a lawyer involved, it would cost money and how would I keep it a secret from Maria? I felt like everything was spiraling out of control, going from bad to worse. I imagined glimpses of the possible scene at home—Maria screaming and cursing at me, Jonah hiding in his room, terrified. The scene was so vivid; it felt like it was already happening.
I told myself, Relax. Okay, just relax.
I was probably exaggerating, jumping to a lot of conclusions. I was still in shock, too, which had to be skewing things. Maybe this was all routine. Just because he’d asked me to get in the car didn’t actually mean anything. He was a cop, just doing his job. I discovered the body so of course he had to clear me as a suspect. Once he found out more information, got all the facts, he’d let me go home and that would be the end of it. In a few minutes he’d probably return, ask me a few more questions, or maybe just tell me her husband had been arrested and I was free to go.
Crime-scene workers and more cops came and went. Neighbors and news crews had congregated on the street in front of the house. When the EMTs carried the body, covered by a sheet, out of the house, the horror of the situation slammed me again. The vision of the red tie around that poor woman’s neck, how it had contrasted with her pale skin, already felt permanently imprinted in my consciousness, and I knew I’d be haunted by it for a long time, maybe for the rest of my life.
I watched the ambulance with her body pull away toward 2nd Avenue until it was out of view. Detective Prick was back in the townhouse. How long had he been here? It seemed like at least an hour. I wondered what he was doing, if he was still investigating, or if he was just trying to make this as difficult as possible for me. Maybe he was planning to keep me waiting all night. It was already almost eight o’clock. If I came back after midnight, Maria would get suspicious, or at least ask me where I was. I’d need to coordinate with my friend Roger from A.A. to back up any explanation I came up with. Maybe I could say a bunch of us went back to his place to watch a movie, or movies. That seemed somewhat plausible. But what if Prick was planning to take me back to a precinct? Couldn’t he legally hold me for questioning for twenty-four hours or longer? I had no idea how the law worked in these cases and I didn’t want to have to consult with a lawyer to find out. I just wanted to get out of here, go home, and try to put this whole nightmare behind me.
At around eight fifteen, Prick finally left the townhouse, exchanged some words with Jimenez and another officer, and then returned inside without even glancing in my direction.
A few minutes later, when Jimenez was within earshot, I knocked on the window.
When he opened the door, I asked, “How much longer do I have to stay here?”
“Just stay where you are, okay?” he said.
It was clear to me now that they were treating me like a criminal. Prick went in and out of the house a couple of more times and didn’t bother to even glance in my direction, acting like he’d forgotten about me. Jimenez passed me again, got into his squad car with the female officer he’d come with, and drove away.
It was nine o’clock and I’d been in the car for almost two hours. I had to piss badly. I was about to ask another officer how much longer I’d have to wait when Prick appeared again and headed in my direction. He opened the car door and said, “Get out.”
As I got out, I said, “Look, I really don’t understand why—”
“Shut up,” he said.
Two officers came over to me and the older, graying one said, “Okay, let’s go.”
“Where am I going?” My pulse was pounding.
“Manhattan South, 35th Street,” the other cop said. He was younger, had a thick Brooklyn accent.
I looked back toward Detective Prick—yeah, like I’d get any support from him—but he was gone, probably back in the house.
“This is crazy,” I said. “I discovered the body, that’s it.”
Gesturing with my arm, I accidentally hit the officer on the side of his shoulder.
“We gonna have to cuff you?” the younger officer asked.
I noticed all the neighbors, watching me being taken away. Afraid someone would recognize me or, much worse, photograph or videotape me, I pressed my chin against my chest and stared at the ground. I’d never felt more humiliated.
They put me in the back of the squad car and drove me to a precinct across town on 35th near 8th Avenue. I knew I could, or even should, call a lawyer, but I was still most concerned about the possible consequences with Maria. If I had to wait for a lawyer, I would get home late, even tomorrow morning, and how would I explain that? I didn’t want any drama; I just wanted this to blow over. With any luck, there would be an arrest soon and I�
��d be released with no hoopla. I didn’t care if I had to stay in an unhappy marriage for the rest of my life. I just wanted the cops to find Sophie’s killer, and I wanted my old life back.
Like a mantra, I whispered to myself, “Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.”
Maybe I was whispering louder than I realized because the younger cop, not driving, looked back over his shoulder and glared at me.
At the precinct, I finally was allowed to pee, then they took me right to an interrogation room. I asked how long this was going to take, and the older cop said, “I’d make myself comfortable.”
They left me alone in the room. There was a table, two chairs, nothing else. I sat in one of the chairs for maybe twenty seconds, then got restless and started pacing. Shit, it was past nine o’clock. For all I knew they were planning to keep me here all night. I wondered if they’d found Sophie’s husband yet. Once they did, it wouldn’t take long for them to figure out that he’d killed her. What had I been thinking, getting into the middle of this mess? She’d obviously been in a crazy, volatile situation with her husband. Any sane person would’ve run away, but I’d sprinted right toward her.
I waited for about an hour and no one came into the room, even to give me an update on how long I had to wait. At one point, I opened the door and peeked out to the hallway. A cop saw me and said, “Back into the room, please.”
Finally, at about ten thirty, Detective Prick strolled in. There was no hello or apology. He didn’t even make eye contact.
This time I decided not to speak until I was spoken to. I was sitting in the seat facing the door, and he commanded, “Sit in the other seat.”
I switched seats. I had to pee again badly, but this was the least of my concerns. The small room already reeked of his cologne.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, “from the beginning.”
“Why am I being interrogated?” I asked. “All I did was find her body and call the police. I should be commended.”
He smirked, as if he found that amusing, then said, “Look, I just want to know what happened. At this point you’re a witness, not a suspect.”
At this point. What was that supposed to mean?
“Fine,” I said.
As calmly as I could, I summarized what had happened over the past several days, from meeting Sophie online, to discovering her body tonight in the townhouse. Prick was looking at his phone as I spoke, occasionally tapping the keyboard. He seemed like he was taking notes, but for all I knew he could’ve been texting with his girlfriend. Meanwhile, I was focusing on my tone. I wanted to sound calm, logical, forthcoming, and I thought I was doing an excellent job of it. I didn’t see how he could possibly think I was a suspect. After I finished talking, I expected him to ask me a few follow-up questions and then tell me I was free to go. Instead, when I was describing how I’d called 911, he cut me off, saying in a very gruff tone, “Did you touch the body at all?”
“Yeah, I already told the cop,” I said. “When I saw her, I rushed over and loosened the tie around her neck and tried to, you know, revive her. I did mouth-to-mouth, but she was already dead. I mean, I did my best, but it was clear she was dead. That’s when I called 911.”
“You own a red tie?” he asked.
“What?” I said.
“It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”
“If you think I—”
“I asked if you own a red tie.”
“No, I don’t own a red tie, and I had absolutely nothing—”
“Are you sure?”
Was I sure? I was so anxious I couldn’t be sure of anything.
“I feel like you’re interrogating me again,” I said.
“I think we both want the same thing,” he said, “a fast arrest in this case. So the more you cooperate, the faster we can get to the truth.”
“I have a tie that’s mostly red,” I said, “but it wasn’t the tie around her neck. If that’s what you think, you’re—”
He cut me off with: “According to your story, you were only in that room for, what, about a minute? Less? You were panicking, adrenaline out of control. But yet you’re telling me you took a good look at the tie.”
“It wasn’t my tie,” I said firmly.
“There were actually four ties,” Prick said. “We found three more in her pocketbook.”
“So if she had three ties in her pocketbook doesn’t that seem to indicate that the fourth tie was hers?”
“Somebody could have put the ties there,” he said.
“I only saw the one tie,” I said.
“I didn’t say you, I said somebody. Do you have any idea why she would’ve brought four men’s ties to a meeting with you?”
Remembering our chat last night about bondage, I said, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
“What make sense?”
“The ties were probably to …”
I really didn’t want to get into this, make it part of the official record of the case, but I didn’t know how to avoid it.
“To …” he asked.
“To be tied up with,” I said. Then added quickly, “It wasn’t my idea, it was hers, and we weren’t going to actually do it. I told you I was planning to—”
“Go home, I know.” His tone oozed sarcasm.
“Seriously, what’re you trying to do here,” I asked, “question me or humiliate me? You should get her husband down here. He’s the one who did this.”
“So this is a kink of yours,” Prick said matter-of-factly. “You like to tie chicks up when you bang them.”
“That was her idea, not mine.”
“You pick up chicks online all the time on these sites?”
“I didn’t pick her up.”
“Then what do you call meeting a married woman for a booty call? Maybe you’re the type of guy who leads a double life, Mr. Harper. You’re this normal guy on the outside, dark as hell on the inside. You like rough sex, but sometimes it gets too rough. Sometimes you lose control.”
“What? This is insane.”
“Maybe she wasn’t into it. She panicked, wanted to leave, but you had a problem with that. So you grabbed a vase, hit her over the head with it. Maybe you didn’t mean to kill her, but she wound up dead. So you wrapped a tie around her neck and—”
“This is bullshit.”
“—and called nine-one-one. Figured you’d frame her husband for it.”
“I didn’t kill her,” I said. “I’m telling you the absolute truth. And I’m not gonna sit here and get interrogated for something I didn’t do.”
I had to calm down. I knew how desperate and defensive and, yeah, guilty I must’ve sounded.
“How do you know she was murdered?” Prick asked.
Was he serious?
“What do you mean?” I said. “I told you, I found her body.”
“So, I didn’t tell you she was murdered,” he went on. “When you walked into the room and saw her on the bed, why did you think murder right away?”
“She had a tie around her neck,” I said. “I knew she didn’t strangle herself. And then I saw the blood.”
“I thought you said you saw the blood later, after you gave her CPR.”
“I did,” I said. “But I saw the tie. It looked like someone had done it, so I tried to save her.”
“Were you arguing?” he asked. “She threaten to call your wife? ’Cause, you know, you’re better off telling me the truth up front. Because we’re going to talk to the people at this website you hang out on …” He smiled with one corner of his mouth then spewed, “… Discreet Hookups. We’re going to get a hold of every word you two wrote to each other.”
I flashed back to our sexting, the things I’d written to Sophie about wanting to tie her up and slap her in the face. She’d prodded me to make these requests, but I’d still made them. Could the police really try to use this as evidence against me?
“Did you talk to her husband yet?” I asked.
“We will,” Prick said.
“Well you should, right now, instead of wasting your time talking to me. She said she was in a bad marriage … abusive.”
“She told you her marriage was abusive?”
“She told me he’d hit her. I could tell she was afraid of him. Look, that’s why I was planning to call the whole thing off. I didn’t want to get in the middle of something.”
This wasn’t really true—I’d chickened out because I didn’t want to mess up my own marriage—but I thought I sounded convincing.
“So you were planning to break up with her, but you showed up at the townhouse anyway because …”
“Because I realized it was a bad idea,” I said. “Look, I’m being honest with you about everything, I swear. Just talk to her husband. Maybe somebody saw him coming into the townhouse with her. You can solve this case in two seconds instead of wasting your time talking to me.”
He glared at me, with a suddenly venomous look, then said, “You want to talk about wasting time? Keep telling me how to do my job, I’ll waste a whole shit load of your time. I’ll put you in front of a judge, book you for obstruction.”
I didn’t want to argue with him—I just wanted to go home. So, as calmly and as patiently as I could, I answered all his questions—new questions and questions I’d already answered. At first, I felt like he was just living up to his name, and was trying to make things as difficult as possible for me, just for the hell of it. But then the questions started to seem more perfunctory, and I started to think that he was just doing his job, trying to be as thorough as possible, and he didn’t necessarily believe I was a suspect.
At eleven thirty, he stood and said, “That should do it … for now.”
“Can I leave?” I asked.
He left the room.
I knew this was a total power trip. He wasn’t out there working. He was probably out in the hallway bullshitting with other cops about their fantasy football teams or whatever.
When he finally returned, about forty-five minutes later, he said, “You can go now, but I need all your numbers and don’t leave the city. I might need to get back in touch.”
“I just want you to know,” I said, “this whole night has been devastating. I never met Sophie, but she seemed like a great person. I hope you find whoever did this … fast.”
