sagging to one side, his face was waxy, and he must have dressed in the dark or in a blind frenzy, because he was wearing a red velour jacket with a pink, candy-cane-stripe button down. It even had pink piping along the collar and the cuffs. Aniya Thompson sat at his side, her hand on his arm, and even the hardened lawyer’s eyes had a pink tinge.
Wesley had obviously been crying, and his voice was rough as he said, “Is she really dead? Is Susan really dead?”
“I’m sorry,” Somers said. “Yes. She is. I’m so sorry, Wesley.”
Instead of more sobs, though, Wesley straightened in the chair, dashing at his eyes. “Oh my God. This isn’t possible, right? This is totally impossible. I just saw her. John-Henry, you were with us on Sunday. You saw us. We were—everything was fine.”
Dropping into a chair, Somers folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Wesley, I need you to think really carefully. Everything is going to move fast now. I’m going to ask you some questions you won’t like. Are you ready?”
Wesley nodded.
“You’ve been informed of your rights?”
Another nod, but this time, Wesley glanced at Thompson. She nodded in confirmation.
“This is a mistake, right?” Wesley said. “I’m not under arrest. I can’t be. I didn’t do anything.”
“Do you understand your rights?”
“Yes, I—John-Henry, this is me. Wesley. Come on!”
“Did you kill Susan Morrison?”
Wesley ran the heel of one hand under his eyes and looked away. “This is unbelievable.”
“Wesley, did you kill Susan Morrison?”
“No.”
“Were you involved in any way in the killing of Susan Morrison?”
“No. God. Of course not.”
“Did you have any part in transporting Susan Morrison’s remains?”
“They moved her? Mother of Christ, where? What happened?”
“Wesley, please.”
“No. I didn’t have anything to do with this. I don’t know anything about it. I barely even know Susan’s dead, and that’s because they woke me up and dragged me out of bed to tell me, and then they arrested me, and now I’m here. John-Henry, you know me. I’ve been to your house. I’ve watched your little girl. You can’t possibly believe I had anything to do with this.”
“Where were you last night?”
“What?”
“Last night.”
“I had dinner with some parishioners—the Lindauers, Chris and Anne. Do you know them?”
“What time?”
“Six.” Wesley glanced at Thompson again; the lawyer nodded.
“Until?” Somers asked.
“Eight.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Another glance at Thompson. “The Lindauers put their kids to bed at eight. I left right around then. You can check.”
Somers nodded. “And after that?”
“It was a Monday night. I went home.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“No, I was alone.”
“We believe Mr. Wesley’s phone and internet records will corroborate his location,” Thompson said. “I’ll be working with his providers to get that information.”
“That would help,” Somers said.
“Easy to fake,” Dulac said. “Leave your phone at home. Access the computer remotely. Make it look like you’re in the house, reading Mother Jones, when really you could be anywhere else.”
“Gray,” Wesley said in a tone of wounded shock.
“As a reminder,” Thompson said, “the burden of proof is on the state. My client was home; he says he was home. If you have reason to believe he wasn’t, we’ll be happy to hear it.”
“His girlfriend was savagely murdered,” Dulac said, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. “How’s that for a reason?”
“Gray,” Wesley said again, shaking his head. “We’re friends. Why are you—we’re supposed to be friends.”
“Did you leave the house after you got home from the Lindauers?” Somers said.
“No.”
“Not even stepping outside? Not even for a minute? Maybe you didn’t pick up the morning paper, so you ran down the driveway to pick it up?”
“I don’t get the paper delivered. Nobody gets the paper delivered anymore.”
“So you were in the house all night?”
“My client has already answered that question,” Thompson said.
“How was your relationship with Susan?” Somers said.
Wesley’s mouth dropped open, and he spread his hands, glancing around, like he was playing to an invisible audience. “Great. I mean, fantastic. We love each other. She’s kind, smart, funny, patient. She’s—” He stopped, ran his fingers around his mouth. “She’s dead.” The words sounded like a test run, just trying them out.
“What about Sunday?”
“What about it?”
“Don’t do that,” Somers said.
“You’re . . . you’re using your personal relationship against me,” Wesley said. “You can’t do that.”
“On Sunday, you were seen in an altercation with Susan Morrison.”
“We had a tiff. You son of a bitch, I can’t believe you. You fucking son of a bitch.”
“What were you arguing about?”
“Nothing. It was nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing,” Dulac said, stretching as he pushed