Go ahead.
I now had to purge myself of the last traces of affability. Not a big job, some would say. Tobe might say it, for instance. A police works a suspicion into a conviction: That’s the external process. But it’s the internal process also. It is for me. It’s the only way I can do it. I have to work suspicion into conviction. Basically I have to get married to the idea that the guy did it. Here, I have to become Colonel Tom. I have to buy it. I have to want it. I have to know the guy did it. I know. I know.
Trader, I want you to take me through the events of March fourth. This is what I’m doing, Trader. I want to see if what you give me measures up to what we have.
To what you have?
Yes. Our physical evidence from the crime scene, Trader.
From the crime scene.
Trader, you and myself live in a bureaucracy. We have some bullshit to get through here.
You’re going to read me my rights.
Yes, Trader. I’m going to read you your rights.
Am I under arrest?
This amuses you. No, you’re not under arrest. You want to be?
Am I a suspect?
We’ll see how you do. This sheet—
Wait. Detective Hoolihan, I can end this, can’t 1.1 don’t have to tell you anything. I can just call a lawyer, right?
You feel like you need a lawyer? You feel like you need a lawyer, hey, we can whistle one up. Then that’s it. This case binder goes to the assistant state’s attorney and I can’t do a damn thing for you. You feel like you need a lawyer? Or you want to sit here with me and straighten this whole thing out.
Again Trader bares his teeth. Again the look of difficulty, of impediment. But now he gives a sudden nod and says,
Begin. Begin.
This sheet is headed Explanation of Rights. Read and sign and initial each section. There. And there. Good. Okay. Sunday. March fourth.
Trader lights another cigarette. By now the small interrogation room is split-level with smoke. He leans forward and begins to speak, not dreamily or wistfully but matter-of-fact, his arms folded, his eyes dipped.
Sunday. It was Sunday. We did what we always do on Sunday. We slept late. I got up around ten-thirty and made breakfast. Scrambled eggs. We read the Times. You know how it is, Detective. Bathrobes. Her with the Arts, me with the Sports. We did an hour’s work. We went out just before two. We walked around. We had a beef sandwich at Maurie’s. We walked around. Around Rodham Park. It was a beautiful day. Cold and bright. We played tennis, indoors, at the Brogan. Jennifer won, as always. The score was 3-6, 6-7. We got back around five-thirty. She made lasagne. I packed a bag—
You’re damn right you packed a bag.
I don’t understand you. We always spent Sunday nights apart. It was Sunday. I packed a bag.
You’re damn right you packed a bag.
Because this was no ordinary Sunday, was it, Trader. Had you felt it coming? For how long? You were losing her, weren’t you, Trader. She wanted out from under you, Trader, and you could feel it. Maybe she was already seeing somebody else. Maybe not. But it was over. Oh, come on, man. It’s everyday. You know how it is, Professor. There are popular songs about it. Get on the bus, Gus. Drop off the key, Lee. But you weren’t going to let that happen, were you, Trader. And I understand. I understand.
Untrue. Not the case. False.
You said her mood that day was what?
Normal. Cheerful. Typically cheerful.
Yeah, right. So after a typically cheerful day with her typically cheerful boyfriend, she waits until he leaves the house and puts two bullets in her head.
Two bullets?
That surprises you?
Yes. Doesn’t it surprise you, Detective?
In the past, I have come into this interrogation room with damper ammo than I had on me now, and duly secured a confession. But not often. Men accused of wholesale slaughter, and not for the first time, proven killers with rapsheets as long as toilet rolls: Such men I have coated in sweat with nothing more than a single Caucasoid hair strand or half a Reebok footprint. It’s simple. You do them with science. But science was what Trader was a philosopher of. I am going to go in hard now. No quarter.