I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kiss those lips. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to touch this man.
“I want you to tell me everything you remember,” Berger says to him. “The truth, sir.”
Chandonne sets down the Pepsi and I am slightly jarred when Talley’s sleeved arm enters the picture again. He lights another Camel for Chandonne. I wonder if it occurs to Chandonne that Talley is a federal agent, that he is one of the very people who Chandonne says have been following him and ruining his life. “Yes then, I will tell you. I don’t want to, but I’m trying to be cooperative.” Chandonne blows out smoke.
“Please go on. In as much detail as you can remember.”
“We kissed for a while and it quickly progressed.” He says
nothing more.
“What do you mean, it quickly progressed!”
Ordinarily, it is enough for someone to say he had sex and leave it at that. Ordinarily, the officer or attorney conducting the interview or the direct or cross-examination doesn’t find it relevant to ask for explicit details. But the sexual violence done to Susan and to all of the women we believe Chandonne murdered makes it important to know the details, all the details of what his idea of sex might be.
“I am reluctant,” Chandonne says, playing with Berger again. He wants coaxing.
“Why?” Berger asks him.
“I don’t talk about such things, certainly not with a woman present.”
“It would be better for all of us if you would think of me as a prosecutor and not a woman,” Berger tells him.
“I can’t talk to you and not think woman,” he says softly. He smiles a little. “You are very pretty.”
“You can see me?”
“I can barely see, not really. But I can tell you are pretty. I’ve heard you are.”
“Sir, I’ll ask you to make no further personal references to me. Are we clear on that?”
He stares at her and nods.
“Sir, what exactly did you do after you began kissing Susan? What next? You touched her, fondled her, undressed her? Did she touch you, fondle you, undress you? What? Do you remember what she was wearing that night?”
“Brown leather pants. I would describe them as the color of Belgian chocolate. They were tight but not in a way that was cheap. She had on boots, brown leather half boots. She had on a black top, sort of a leotard. Long-sleeved.” He looks up at the ceiling. “A scoop neck, rather low scooped neck. The kind of top that snaps between the legs.” He makes a snapping motion. His fingers with their short, pale hair remind me of cacti, of bottle brushes.
“A bodysuit,” Berger helps him out.
“Yes. I was a bit confused at first when I tried to touch her and couldn’t pull out her top.”
“You were trying to put your hands under her top but couldn’t because it was a bodysuit that snapped between her legs?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“And what was her response when you tried to untuck her top?”
“She laughed at my confusion and made fun of me.”
“She made fun of you?”
“Oh, not in a mean way. She thought I was funny. She made a joke. She said something about Frenchmen. We are supposed to be such skilled lovers, you know.”
“Then she knew you’re from France.”
“But of course,” Chandonne blandly answers.
“Did she speak French?”
“No.”
“She told you that or did you just assume it?”
“I asked her at dinner if she knew French.”
“So she teased you, then, about her bodysuit.”
“Yes. Teased. She slid my hand down her pants and helped me undo the snaps. I remember she was aroused and I was a little surprised that she had gotten aroused so quickly.”
“And you know she was aroused because… ?”
“Wet,” Chandonne says. “She was very wet. I really don’t like saying all this.” His face is animated. He loves saying all this. “Is it really necessary for me to continue in such detail?”
“Please, sir. Everything you can remember.” Berger is firm and unemotional. Chandonne may as well be telling her about a clock he took apart.