else lives here? Anyone else in the apartment?” she asked.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone else at home right now,” I said. “His partner and their daughter are probably out to dinner. They usually go out on Tuesday nights when the writing group comes in.”
“So you’re part of a group? I thought you said you had a meeting with him, this Neville?”
“Yes, I did, I was meeting with him privately, before the group, so we could talk about my project. Sometimes we did that. Have private meetings. It wasn’t unusual.” Shut up, Cassie, I told myself.
“Uh-huh. So, who called the police?” she asked.
“I didn’t, not yet, I mean. I just realized he was dead and then I was sick and, you know, you two showed up, so I hadn’t even had time to process things…”
There was a racket behind me as a crowd of officers barreled up the stairs and into the apartment. Obvious medical personnel were yet to appear, but many feet trampled the paper-covered floor to take a look at the “stiff” and make a comment about his demise as well as the little pile of vomit I’d left behind. Let me just say that police humor leaves a lot to be desired.
Officer Orlosky, my interrogator, turned to give a summary to someone from Homicide whose eyes never stopped taking in the room. When she was finished, he nodded and said, “Canvas the building.”
His cold blue eyes locked onto me. “I’m Detective Friday, from Homicide. You do this?”
I shook my head.
“Know who did?” Another shake. “See anybody coming or going?” he asked.
“No, but the lights in the stairwell were all out when I came into the building, and that was odd.”
“Okay, we’ll look at the lights. Anything else you have to say?” He looked down at the notes. “Phone number?”
I recited my contact numbers to him. “All right. Jerry here is going to take you over to the station and print you, just so we can rule out your prints, since you say you touched things when you came into the apartment, and then we’ll have a little chat.” He turned to the cop. “Got that? Don’t talk to her until I get there.”
“Am I being charged with something?” I said. “Should I call an attorney?”
“Why, did you do something?” he asked.
“No, of course not. I just happened to be the unlucky one who found the body,” I said. “So, if I’m not being charged, can you take these handcuffs off me?” I asked, trying a little smile. “I’d appreciate that very much.”
“Certainly. Jerry—uncuff the lady here and take her in for some prints, all right?” He turned to me, pinched my shoulder between his fingers. “You’re not going to make a run for it, are you? Pull a fast one on us and knock ol’ Jerry out with your purse?” He looked deep into my eyes while I shook my head. “Okay, you can go. And if she cooperates, give her something to drink while she waits for me. Do we have a deal, Miss Thornton?”
“Oh, it’s doctor,” I said. He glared at me. “Yes, that sounds fine. But there is one other thing. There are going to be about fifteen people coming here for a meeting in a few minutes, so you might want to wait downstairs, you know, to let them know what’s happened.”
“Sure, doctor, we’ll get right on that. Jerry? Why don’t you put up a little note on your way out?”
He reeked of sarcasm, but I wasn’t done with Detective Friday.
“Sorry, sir, I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job…”
“Then don’t.” He turned away.
I took a step towards his back. “If I were you, I’d be downstairs to break the news to the group myself, and see their reactions. There’s a pretty good chance your killer is one of them.”
“Fortunately for all of us, you are not me,” he said, stopping to face me again from the middle of the room. “If you have some information about a possible suspect or motive for this murder, you can share it with me when we have our discussion at the station. Later. Jerry? I thought I told you to get her out of here.”
“You’re making a mistake…” I began. Jerry pulled my arm and I stumbled backwards toward the door. “Hey, what about taking off the cuffs?” I protested.
Jerry cast a look back at his superior.
“Leave ‘em on,” Friday said. “Nobody likes a smart-ass.”
I sat in the back of the patrol car while Officer Jerry had a gab session with his buddies. I could see some of my colleagues from the writing group gathered on the opposite side of the street, but no one dared to approach the car to speak with me. I thought I saw Gabe in the middle of a group of onlookers, but I couldn’t be sure. He was the only real friend I had in the group, but then I remembered he’d quit abruptly a couple of weeks ago, so he wasn’t likely to be congregating on the street. A group of photographers did appear, however, and while I tried to look dignified, I’m certain dignity probably wasn’t the prevailing image that they captured.
Eventually Jerry decided we should mosey along to the precinct, and several hours later, Detective Friday appeared opposite me in the interrogation room. It was well past midnight, my stomach was growling and ice picks tapped into my head from a migraine brought on by the fluorescent lights that buzzed and flickered above me like a sputtering kerosene lantern.
“We have a problem,” he said, sitting heavily in a wooden chair that creaked under his weight.
I looked at him under the shade of my hand.
“What’s with you?” he asked. “Cat got your tongue?”
I squinted at him, waiting to hear what his problem might be.
“All right, I’ll do the talking then. It seems that your fingerprints are not readable…legible…whatever. How exactly do you explain that? A person with no fingerprints is a person that raises suspicions.”
I waited. He waited. The lights flickered. I closed my eyes.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Migraine.”
“What? You have a headache?” He leaned back in his chair. “Well, lah-di-dah. When you answer some questions, you can go home and take some aspirin. But until then, too freaking bad.”
I waited for a spike of pain in my left eye to ease, then opened the right eye and said, “Lawyer.”
“Son of a bitch.” He got up and left.
I slid under the table to get away from the light, my jacket rolled into a pillow. The constant noise from outside—shouting, scraping of chairs, sirens, and objects banging the walls—as well as the buzzing of the fluorescent lights conspired against getting rest, but I focused on my recent yoga instruction to concentrate on breathing and was able to achieve some degree of relief before the door crashed open again.
“Where
