Wilson asked me when and why, as well as what I was thinking at the time. It was slow, methodical, and grueling. No one suggested I killed Snyder. But each question rested on a hint of suspicious caution. I knew Wilson wasn’t the kind of man who trusted people, at least not people who found severed heads in their cars. And when Wilson asked me questions like, “Why did you ask your girlfriend to get the credit report?” — answers like “I don’t know” didn’t sit too well with him.
After every significant event, Wilson ordered people around like MacArthur lording over Japan. There was a sense of urgency in the air. Everything was important, everything had to happen immediately. Wilson dispatched people to go through Ed Snyder’s office, to fingerprint the rental car and review security tapes, to talk to Murdock, to search my apartment for clues of any kind, and to check out the house in Topanga. People rushed in and out of the room.
At one point Wilson asked me when I first suspected something was wrong. I thought about it for a minute and then smiled. All I could think about was Morgan, and the way she whispered in my ear on her couch. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the pressure of the interview, or just being surrounded by all those cops, but I leaned back in my chair, snorted a little, and then started to laugh and laugh. I slapped my hand on the table and then held the edge to steady myself. I could see her and hear her in my head and, for whatever reason, it struck me as the funniest thing in the world.
29
Six hours of cops and questions later it was over and I staggered back up to my office. I still had not eaten anything and I thought I might pass out. I rummaged through the break room and found half a bagel. It was gone in seconds. As I plodded around the floor I could feel the buzz in the air. Everyone knew, everyone had heard. How could they not? There had been cops and flashing lights everywhere when they arrived at work. There had been hushed talk in the halls and the short, static filled bursts of police radios in the common areas. By the time I got back to my desk, the news was everywhere. Which I found funny because Wilson had asked me not to talk to anyone. He wanted to keep a lid on things until they had all of the evidence collected. Only then would they move in on Steele, and possibly Andersen.
As I sat there, numb from the day’s events, Carver strolled in with a concerned look on his face.
“My God, are you okay?” he asked, and then continued, “What are you doing here? You need to go home and rest.”
“Can’t.” I laughed, and put my feet up on the desk. “My apartment’s still a crime scene.” I was getting punchy, delirious. Carver seemed unsure what else to say. I went on. “They said they’d call me when they were through. Should be any time. They’re gonna give me protection though. Post a guy outside. Them’s my tax dollars at work.”
Carver seemed to struggle with his words, for once his overwhelming confidence appeared to be overcome. He took off his glasses and turned them over and over in his hands while he talked. “I just can’t believe this. If there’s anything we can do, anything I can do, let me know.”
I could feel his next words coming, even before he started to speak. I suppose a guy like Carver can’t help himself, but it still struck me as sad.
“I just wish you’d come to me before any of this happened.”
As if Carver could have done anything. I felt like laughing at him, but stifled it. “Ah, well, everything happened so quick. It was all very confusing.”
“Hmmmm.” Carver raised his eyebrows and nodded his head, as though appreciating a well-made point. “Well,” he began quickly, slapping the doorjamb as he backed out of the room. “Get some rest and let us know if we can do anything.” He spoke as though I had a bad case of the flu, instead of a price on my head. I said nothing in response but merely watched him go, receding back into the hallway and a world he understood and could control.
I got up and closed the door. Then I unlocked the file cabinet that held the chest