“But you don’t know he did it. No one found even a trace of blood on any of the kitchen knives.”
“They were solid steel German knives. All he had to do was wash it off good. There was no wood on them. There were no little crevices in them, just a solid steel blade and handle. All one piece. It would have taken only a minute to do a good job cleaning it, and he had probably ten minutes total.”
There was no getting around it. Wilson was convinced Steele was guilty. Finally, I asked, “But what about the boyfriend? Why couldn’t he have done it?”
“He had an alibi. He was home with his family.”
“But what if they were lying?”
“You mean, what if he wasn’t home?” I nodded. “Jesus Christ, son, even if he wasn’t home, it doesn’t mean he was down the street killing someone. That’s a goddamned big assumption to make. Don’t you think?”
Wilson watched me sitting there. He cocked his head to the side, cracking his neck, and then rolled his head back on his shoulders. “Look,” he said. “Just think about it. Sharon Steele had at least three big gashes in her neck.” He leaned forward. “Have you ever seen how much blood comes out of a jugular vein?” He knew I hadn’t, just from the way he asked it. “Let me tell you something. You couldn’t be close enough to cut one and not get blood all over you.”
Wilson hunched over his plate and shoveled fried rice into his mouth. Between bites, he added, “The only bloody footprints in the house belonged to Steele. At the time, Matt Bishop was a scrawny fifteen year old punk who wasn’t much bigger than Sharon Steele. He wouldn’t have been able to slip in, overpower her, and get out without a scratch or a drop of blood on him. No way.” Wilson shook his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“But what about the daughter? She called Matt’s house the next morning and she said—”
“You’re not listening, son.” He scraped the last of his food into his mouth and talked as he chewed. “Proving Matt Bishop wasn’t home doesn’t prove he killed Sharon Steele. There’s nothing there. Unless you can put him in the house, there’s nothing to talk about.”
Wilson took a long drink of water and leaned his chair back on two legs. “Look son, you seem like a nice kid. Smart, hard-working. What are you doing on a case like this? I realize it’s popular to think all cops are dirty. Hell, I’m an enlightened guy. I’ll even admit some are dirty. But goddamn it, most of us do a good job. In almost every case, the right guy goes to jail. And that’s especially true in this case. You’re concerned with motive? Steele killed his wife. I don’t know why. I don’t need to know why. Murder doesn’t always make sense, son. Hell, it never makes sense.”
Wilson scraped at his plate with his fork again, as if somehow more food might appear. He was thin but muscular, and had the energy and cynicism of a guy who needed a lot of fuel just to deal with each day. But when he spoke again, he had an exhausted tone. “I just want this case to go away. To be over. I’d like to save you some time, son, so you can save some of mine. I’m tired of testifying. I’m tired of dealing with reporters. I just want it to end.”
There wasn’t much else to say. I resented Wilson’s sense of confidence, the self-assurance in his voice. He was used to being right all the time. He was used to having things his way and having what he did matter in the world. I half-suspected that people questioning the Steele case struck him as a personal attack.
Finally, I said, “You keep saying you wish everyone would stop asking so many questions. I’m just curious. Who else is asking besides me?”
Wilson groaned and pulled a file out of the bag by his feet. “Shit, it happens every time Steele appeals. People come out of the woodwork. Calling in, asking all kinds of stuff.” He flipped through the file. “Let’s see. This time it’s some guy named Ray Gee.” He turned the page so I could see his notes. “Said he was a reporter. Calls up with some theory that Steele wasn’t acting alone. He asked me all kinds of