Choke On Your Lies Part 21

The detective named Marvin walked over, took a good look up and down, my gaping boxers and thin t-s.h.i.+rt, then mushed his lips together like he disapproved.

"Mick Thooft, you're under arrest for the murder of Stephanie Heder. We also need to ask you about the disappearance of your wife."

This had to be a joke. "Stephanie's...dead? Frannie? What?"

"Let's go."

I started crying, overwhelmed. A world without Stephanie? And Frances, too? "But...I saw her yesterday. I don't understand." Nothing was sinking in except that the only person who had given me any joy this past week as my world had come apart at the seams was now dead. Not just dead, but murdered.

Marvin took me by the arm, led me towards the house. He spoke softly to me, like a friend. "Come on, we'll get some clothes on you and read your rights. It'll be okay. If you're innocent, there's nothing to worry about."

As I pa.s.sed Octavia, wet gra.s.s clippings clinging to my feet, she said to Jennings, "On second thought, how about you take Alice home instead?"

THREE.

We've all seen enough television shows, so we think you know how it's supposed to go. The cops drag the perp into a drab, industrial room, a two-way mirror on one end, and they sit across the table from him-one sitting and rather sympathetic, actually, while the other paces and gets in his face, trying to be all clever and sarcastic. It's supposed to break the guy down, detour around his defenses.

However, it's far from that. It's much...nicer.

I mean, Detective Marvin Fitzgerald and Officers Larson and Dubois were very sympathetic, polite, and helpful. I was uncuffed and allowed to dress on my own, even though both uniformed officers had their guns out as I did, but it was for their own safety, I understood. And I was allowed to call Pamela from the car on the Detective's cell phone.

She, of course, started yelling at me immediately. "You have to sit tight! Jennings just called, and I'll get to you after we deal with...where the h.e.l.l are you calling from?"

"The back of the police car."

"Aren't you cuffed?"

"Yeah, but Detective Fitzgerald is holding the phone up so I can-"

"Jesus, Mick! Shut up. Just shut up. Don't say another word. Are you insane?"

She hung up on me.

I told Fitzgerald, "She hung up on me."

He closed the phone, put it back in his pocket. "Yeah, I heard."

Oh, right. That's why I should've shut up. Piece of advice: always listen to your lawyer. One more: keep your mouth shut around the cops.

But...that's really hard to do.

"So," Fitzgerald said. "You're a poet, right? What's that like?"

Of course I was hooked, and I gave him a good spiel about how I consider it just like painting, only harder. Poetry is supposed to stimulate all of our senses through words alone. A good poem has you swearing that you smell the morning air at the lake, feel the breeze coming off, and hear the birdsong...while you're on the light rail going downtown. And you'll keep the picture in your mind all day. I finished the thought with, "I just have to find a way to get those sights and smells and feelings across to you as clearly and uniquely as possible."

He nodded. "And you worked with the victim's husband, right? Ashton Heder?"

"Yes, for quite a while now." Opened my mouth before I'd even realized what was going on. Just chit-chat. But if I volunteered info, and the officers in the car corroborated his account...s.h.i.+t. What made it difficult was how they just seemed to be filling time. When I lapsed into silence, they opened you up again with fluff.

Like, "So how about that Michael Jackson? Weird how he died."

Or, "I mean, the guy's past his prime. Why the h.e.l.l should we pay that much for a quarterback who's only got, what, a year left? Two or three, tops, on the outside."

Not answering felt rude, but they always found a way to bring it back around to Stephanie and Frances.

At the station, they put me into a narrow room without a two-way mirror. A video camera in the high corner, though. And the table wasn't between the detectives and myself, but rather pushed against the wall. Several chairs bunched together around it. They unshackled me, let me have some coffee and a cream-filled roll, and gave me a few minutes alone. The first time I'd really had a chance to process any of this. Stephanie, murdered. I kept seeing her body all sorts of different ways-shot, strangled, drowned, stabbed-but I couldn't imagine her dead, really. I'd just seen her face alive, flushed, and happy (if a bit emotionally confused) the night before, her skin hot and slick against mine, and her voice low and gruff when she made love, and now I'm supposed to believe all that's gone and replaced by pale, cold, and stiff? Even when she slept, she sent out waves of heat from her naked body, and she slithered from side to side throughout the night.

I kept my eyes squeezed shut remembering that, because opening them meant facing the harsh florescent lights and fake wood paneling of the police interrogation room. Even sadder than the cement bunker I'd imagined they would stick me in because of the mundane normalcy of it all. I'd prefer the fantasy of Stephanie-or, h.e.l.l, even Frances, Alice and Octavia in one big orgy-than the truth.

Octavia. She had to be in one of these rooms, too. I wonder if they would somehow try to tie our two cases together. Could I get a lighter sentence than murder for squealing on her about the weed? Or worse, could she walk free simply by saying, "Yes, he did it. He killed her. He threatened to slice me if I told anyone..."

Surely she wouldn't. No. Really. But with Octavia, always a little bit of doubt.

So I tried thinking about something else, like my alibi. Not an "alibi", for G.o.d's sake. It was the capital T Truth. Spent until late afternoon with Stephanie, came back to Octavia's after a trip to the office to pick up some remaining books, then I ate alone and read in the sunroom while Octavia and Alice watched p.o.r.n in the screening room. Not kidding. Because of the surround sound theater speakers I heard the moans rumbling through the walls of the house. Then I went to bed early because, well, I was exhausted from the s.e.x and from moving boxes. And because I had drunk an entire bottle of Spanish Malbec.

Yes, I was definitely home because Stephanie needed me to leave for the night so she could talk to- Wait. Ashton.

Why me? Why not him?

Just then, the door to the interview room opened and Detective Fitzgerald stepped inside, followed by a thin guy with rolled-up sleeves and a cheap-looking tie worn loose. Fitzgerald started to sit in a chair directly in front of me, thumbing over his shoulder and mumbling "Detective Labat" on the way down.

I nodded at the new guy. What else was I supposed to do? He closed the door and leaned against it. Not playing "bad cop" so much as "bored cop".

Detective Fitzgerald tossed a manila folder, a legal pad, and a pen on the table. "Mick, we need to talk to you about what you've been up to and how all this mess came about. I'm so sorry about Stephanie. From what I understand, you two had really hit it off."

I nodded. Even that felt like giving up too much information.

"It would really help everybody out if we can clear this all up and get you on your way. I'm sure there's been a misunderstanding. That's all. It was really a horrible crime, and whoever did it won't be able to live with themselves for long before confessing. I promise you that."

Labat chimed in with, "Mm hm."

"I'm sure you understand why we have to do this, right?"

I knew better. All I had to do was tell them I was waiting on my attorney, and that I couldn't answer any questions until she arrived, but no one had mentioned Ashton. If they weren't mentioning him, then maybe they didn't know about it. He could have come home, killed her, and then left. He had plenty enough time to plan it, in hotel purgatory on a city where he'd just had a job interview, waiting for Stephanie to decide when he could come home again.

So I said, "Where is her husband in all this?"

Fitzgerald's eyes grew one size larger. "Excuse me?"

"The reason I was back at my friend's house last night is because Ashton was coming home. They were going to talk it out, you know, all this, and so I...I came home. Where is Ashton, then?"

Labat shook his head a little, cleared his throat. Fitzgerald eyed him over his shoulder before turning back to me. "What you're saying is that you thought Stephanie's husband was coming home, and that you couldn't be there anymore."

"I mean last night. Just last night. No, they hadn't seen each other since...um." Did they already know about our connection? How could they? "Since she found out he was cheating on her, and well, that's kind of how she and me...and I, I mean, ah, got together."

"Because he cheated."

"Yes."

"So she cheated. Now she was going back to her husband."

I rolled my eyes. Jesus how stupid were they? "Not going back. Not like that. They just had to sort things out. Their marriage was over."

Fitzgerald grinned. "I keep telling that chick I'm f.u.c.king the same thing. But she keeps right on f.u.c.king me."

Labat nodded. "True."

"Please, listen, it's important. It's Ashton. It's not me. You've got to find Ashton."

"Because he was supposed to be home."

"Didn't I say that three times already?"

Another look over his shoulder at Labat. I reached for the coffee cup. Anything to look relaxed, normal and as far from desperate as possible. But the moment I lifted it, my fingers burned and shook and coffee dribbled down the side of the gla.s.s all over the legal pad. I set it back down.

Labat was the one who answered. "He's the first one we looked for. His flight was canceled and he spent the night in Denver. She knew it, though. Had a note on the refrigerator. Did you miss that on your way out after you cut her stomach open?"

The chill went through my body like electrical current, an eel wrapping itself around my brain. I coughed. Swallowed. Coughed again.

Fitzgerald said, "Was that before or after you went after your wife?"

Finally I said, "I'll wait for my lawyer now, if you fellas don't mind."

FOUR.

First thing Pamela did when she finally showed up three hours later was slap me on the back of the head with her own legal pad.

She said, "I thought I told you to shut up."

I shrugged. "They were nice guys. I was trying to help."

"One, they are never nice guys. If they weren't G.o.dd.a.m.ned sure already about your guilt, they wouldn't have arrested you. They would've asked you to come in for questioning. A friendly chat. Except that they haven't booked you yet, right?"

"No, not yet."

"So they're still looking for something else. Not quite sold on it yet." She was calming down, putting a plan of action together. She came around and sat in Fitzgerald's seat, took a look at the camera. "That's supposed to be off. If it is or not, I have no idea. a.s.sume it is, though. What did you tell them? No, wait, tell me everything that happened, leaving out anything about our mutual friend."

"How is she? Is everything alright?"

She made like she was going to hit me with the pad again, then shushed me.

"Let's go. Everything the cops said or did."

I told her about my morning as best I could remember. Sorry to say that the sudden surprise of it hampered my memory. That and the wine.

As I spoke, I realized that she wasn't so much doing this because she needed the timeline, but rather as a show for the cops who might or might not be watching and listening. When she stopped me to ask for more details, it was always about what one of the officers said or did, in excruciating detail. I caught on early and began giving her what she wanted without being prompted. She still prompted me, though. Better to sell it to the higher ups later.

After all, this was a murder charge we were talking about. It was finally beginning to sink in. I was clueless as to what had happened, except that I was sure it had to somehow be related to our dinner party the week before. Something now told me the compromise hadn't been enough. Octavia's secret garden had been rooted out of hiding, and I had been framed for cold-blooded murder.

The only hope I had was that it was all too obvious. We could unravel this one just like we did the last one.

Pamela scribbled a few more notes. "And while you were waiting for me here? Did they get anything out of you?"

After my fumbling right into their hands, I had been able to finally keep my trap shut in spite of Fitzgerald still trying to open me up with small talk, more about how bad he was at Literature in school, but how he really had a crush on his English teacher. And then later, Fitzgerald leaving while Labat told me that the case was bulls.h.i.+t and all of the evidence was circ.u.mstantial. All I had to do was give them my side, and everything would go away a lot faster. Tempting, but I held fast.

Eventually Fitzgerald came back, grim-looking, telling me that they'd found a witness, one of Stephanie's neighbors. Then he went into some fairy tale about how the witness saw me come back that night. It was a bit over the top, but it was intended to make me say, "It didn't happen like that!"

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I mean myself, not the cops. They had played this game and won hundreds of times before. I could see why.

I shook my head.

Pamela mushed her lips around and tapped a pen on the table. I didn't like this at all. The only other times I'd ever been arrested involved a DWI that I fought and eventually won, and a one-night lock-up after we demonstrated outside the Republican Convention in St. Paul. That latter one was more like a party than jail. This time, my chest hurt and I couldn't stop shaking.

I said, "I didn't kill Stephanie. I don't know what happened to Frances. Oh G.o.d."

Pamela eased her eyes closed. "Would you shut up already?"

Pamela told me I would have to stay the night, and that arraignment would be in the morning. She was going to try for bail, but that in a case like this it was highly unlikely unless the prosecutor knew the cops were on thin ice. She didn't tell me one word about Octavia.

It was a mostly sleepless night, even though I was alone in the cell-too valuable a suspect to risk putting anyone with me. Hard to sleep in jail because I ended up thinking of prison. Then of Stephanie, flas.h.i.+ng back and forth between her dead and her alive. I would never see her again in either condition, as I was certain my presence at the funeral would be awkward at best. When I tried to cry, my throat closed up and burned. I ended up gulping breath, trying to clear my eyes.

And Frances, oh, well, the roiling cauldron of mixed emotions when her face popped into my memory, it was hard to describe. Anger, pain, melancholy. I kept thinking she would realize her mistake and come back to me. Well, actually, she did last week once the fireworks were over. But it didn't feel right after I'd just learned she had aborted Ashton's baby. Not that night.

But in the back of my mind all week, I played through various scenarios where Frances and I, after a year apart-or two, or three-somehow b.u.mped into each other while shopping for wine or at a used bookstore. I would help her select a bottle or a volume, and we'd both grow quiet in the awkward closeness, both of us wanting to say it, but neither having the courage until our eyes would meet, and we would laugh. Might even quote a line from one of our mutual favorite poems.

The first step that would lead us back-gently, after many hours of intimate talking-to where we were before. All of our itchings and curiosities satisfied, now it would be time to move forward together as we had always planned.

From the drunk tank down the hall, I heard a guy throw up.

I didn't have a window, so I wasn't sure when morning actually arrived in full. The station was active late into the evening and even more so at night, but at some point everything quieted down and I drifted along, not quite asleep but definitely not awake, until my natural clock told me it was time to shake the cobwebs out and prepare myself for the day. I only had one wish, and that was to not come back to jail after the arraignment. I crossed my fingers and tried beaming good vibes to Pamela.

Breakfast was bare there. I was handed a squirt bottle of soap and told to put myself into decent enough shape for court. I washed my armpits, chest, and neck, slicked my hair back, and barely touched my slimy eggs and cold toast. It was the first morning in quite a while that I didn't get to stick with my routine coffee, pastries, and shower. I felt greasy, and that made me feel guilty.