“How long’s your sister been living with you?”
“Last year she and her husband separated. She wanted a change, time to think. I told her to come here. Told her she could live with me until she got settled or went back to him. That was fall. Late August. She moved in with me last August and started her job at the university.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Friday afternoon.”
Her voice rose and caught. “She drove me to the train station.”
Her eyes were welling.
Marino pulled a rumpled handkerchief out of a back pocket and handed it to her. “You have any idea what her plans for the weekend were?”
“Work. She told me she was going to stay in, work on class preparations. As far as I know, she didn’t have any plans. Henna wasn’t very outgoing, had one or two good friends, other professors. She had a lot of class preparation, told me she would do the grocery shopping on Saturday. That’s all.”
“And where was that? What store?”
“I have no idea. It doesn’t matter. I know she didn’t go. The other policeman in here a minute ago had me check the kitchen. She didn’t go to the grocery store. The refrigerator’s as bare as it was when I left. It must have happened Friday night. Like the other ones. All weekend I’ve been in New York and she’s been here. Been here like this.”
No one said anything for a moment. Marino was looking around the living room, his face unreadable. Abby shakily lit a cigarette and turned to me.
I knew what she was going to ask before the words were out.
“Is it like the other ones? I know you looked at her.”
She hesitated, trying to compose herself. She was like a violent storm about to break when she quietly asked, “What did he do to her?”
I found myself giving her the “I won’t be able to tell you anything until I’ve examined her in a good light” response.
“For God’s sake, she’s my sister!” she cried. “I want to know what the animal did to her! Oh, God! Did she suffer? Please tell me she didn’t suffer . . .”
We let her cry, deep, heaving moans of naked anguish. Her pain carried her far beyond the realm where any mortal could reach her. We sat. Marino watched her with unwavering, unreadable eyes.
I hated myself at times like this, cold, clinical, the consummate professional unmoved by another person’s pain. What was I supposed to say? Of course she suffered! When she found him inside her room, when she began to realize what was going to happen, her terror, which would have been that much worse because of what she’d read in the papers about the other murdered women, chilling accounts written by her own sister. And her pain, her physical pain.
“Fine. Of course you’re not going to tell me,” Abby began in rapid jerky sentences. “I know how it is. You’re not going to tell me. She’s my sister. And you’re not going to tell me. You keep all your cards close to your vest. I know how it goes. And for what? How many does the bastard have to murder? Six? Ten? Fifty? Then maybe the cops figure it out?”
Marino continued to stare blandly at her. He said, “Don’t blame the police, Miss Turnbull. We’re on your side, trying to help-”
“Right!”
She cut him off. “You and your help! Like a lot of help you were last week! Where the shit were you then?”
“Last week? What are you referring to, exactly?”
“I’m referring to the redneck who tailed me all the way home from the Newspaper,” she exclaimed. “He was right on top of me, turning everywhere I did. I even stopped at a store to get rid of him. Then I come out twenty minutes later and there he is again. The same goddam car! Following me! I get home and immediately call the cops. And what do they do? Nothing. Some officer stops by two hours later to make sure everything’s all right. I give him a description, even the plate number. Did he ever follow up? Hell no, I never heard a word. For all I know, the pig in the car’s the one who did it! My sister’s dead. Murdered. Because some cop couldn’t be bothered!”