for my BMW before remembering I had the rental and that I’d parked in a different spot than usual. I took the stairs up two levels and had to try to remember exactly which car it was. I pressed the alarm button on the key chain and the lights of a white four door Chevy blinked halfway down a row of cars facing the concrete wall of the parking structure.
I could hear my own footsteps echo in the early morning garage as I crossed the pavement. I opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat and reached to drop my briefcase on the floor, but instead recoiled in horror at the sight of Ed Snyder’s severed head, set upright and staring at me from the passenger’s seat. The white cloth seat cushion was stained a dark black and most of his fluffy curls were matted with dried blood. I flailed backward through the open door and up against the neighboring car, setting off the wailing shriek of its alarm.
But I heard none of it. I sat alone on the cold pavement, wide-eyed and mouth agape, staring into dead, but frightened eyes. Ed Snyder’s face wore the expression of a man who knew his head was being cut from his body. A face aware that what it felt in its final moments was the flow of its own blood draining from its brain, down through a massive and irreparable hole. A face already dead when the words “watch out” were carved into its forehead.
Twenty minutes later I was sitting in a conference room full of cops. Ten minutes after that, Detective Wilson walked back into my life and started grilling me.
The two officers who found me in the parking garage took me to a conference room, and tried to calm me down. They stepped to the rear of the room when Wilson walked in. I recognized him, of course, but I didn’t say anything to him. I just stared at him. He stared right back.
He said, “You sure know how to fuck things up, don’t you, Olson.” Then he took a seat across from me. “The boys tell me you found a little surprise in your car this morning. What can you tell me about that?”
“What?” I looked him in the eye. Everything in the room seemed artificial, like a bad joke, including Wilson.
“Nice watch,” Wilson said with a sneer.
“Oh, thanks.” I spoke vaguely and looked at the watch, almost surprised to see it. By the time I took my eyes off of it, I’d already forgotten what Wilson had asked me. He could tell, so he tried again.
“How did you know Ed Snyder?” Wilson asked. This time his voice was softer. He was shifting gears, trying various tactics to see what would get me to talk. It was a logical place for him to start, so I couldn’t fault him for that, but the answer couldn’t begin to tell the story.
Wilson leaned forward on his elbows, resting on the table, waiting for my answer. I started telling him about Snyder and then backed up. “We might as well start at the beginning,” I said.
Wilson leaned back and shrugged. “I’m all ears.”
I rubbed my head and tried to focus. I was exhausted. Where was the beginning? When had it all started? Three days ago? Three months ago? Twelve years ago? How had I become involved? That was the question I was trying to answer for myself. The beginning of the summer felt like a lifetime ago, almost unimaginable now. Had I really changed so much in such a short time? Somewhere along the line I’d sold out everything I thought I believed in for a shot at something I never really wanted to be.
But Detective Wilson wasn’t interested in any of that. He wanted to know about the body. They’d found the rest of Ed Snyder in the trunk of my rental car, so they actually had the whole thing now. He kept asking me questions and I kept answering them. I went through the story, every detail, for the fourth time in two days. Wilson listened attentively, asked questions, and interrupted now and then, but he took no notes. The note taking was someone else’s job. When silence fell over the conference room, I could hear scribbling behind me as Wilson and I exchanged stares through the sterile fluorescent light.
Wilson went page by page through my file. Each document, each phone call, each line of notes, and for each one