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Sanders leaned in and looked at the screen. For a moment he was speechless again. “Shit,” he said at last. He looked around the room slowly, then back at the screen, then at the knife. “I think I wanna talk to the wife,” he said.
* * *
—
Katrina had seen enough cop shows on TV to know that it was never good news when the detectives asked you to “come down to the station and answer a few questions.” It usually meant they thought you were guilty. But of course, she was not guilty, so really, what was there to worry about? There wasn’t really any point in calling Tyler, her lawyer. This was just a formality, probably taking no more than an hour. And in all honesty, Katrina’s kind of wealth—enormous and inherited—has an insulating effect. Even if you are a very good person, a vast fortune makes you tend to believe, consciously or not, that you are protected against being arrested or otherwise inconvenienced.
So Katrina was a little bit alarmed to receive the invitation to answer a few questions, but not really worried. And the two detectives were so polite, asking if she was comfortable several times as she rode to the station in the back seat of a patrol car. She told them she was, thank you. But Katrina was not comfortable. Not at all. Not because the car’s seat was lumpy. Her discomfort came from her thoughts. First, because her husband was dead from a violent murder. Of course, that would make anybody uncomfortable. Even if they didn’t really like their husband.
But far worse was wondering if somehow Randall was the killer. He certainly had a motive—and she had heard Michael yelling at Randall! Right before the front door slammed. He could easily have killed Michael and then hurried out.
But then the alarm had gone back on—after Randall left! Only Michael knew the code, so he had to have been the one who turned it back on. Randall couldn’t possibly have done it—and so he couldn’t possibly have killed Michael. But that meant the killer was already in the house—except how and when did the killer leave the house? After the place was swarming with cops?
Katrina could not make sense of it. And the two detectives with their constant fake concern for her comfort didn’t help. And it didn’t stop. They were even polite when they took her fingerprints—“Would you be willing?” and it was “just a formality.” Katrina agreed, thinking it would help prove her innocence when none of her prints were found in Michael’s office.
The politeness continued when they took her to an interrogation room. They even gave her a cup of coffee. True, it was really terrible coffee. But it was not at all the kind of rough treatment she’d seen on TV shows, and for that, at least, she was grateful, and she sipped from a Styrofoam cup as they all sat at the table.
“Mrs. Hobson,” the older detective said in a kind of sympathetic way—although he did emphasize the name a little, as if to remind her that she was married—had been married—to a person who had just been murdered. “I’m Detective Sanders. This is Detective Melnick.” They both nodded courteously. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”
“Awful,” Melnick agreed.
“And I’m sure you’re not a violent person, not normally.”
“But seeing something like that?” Melnick said, shaking his head sorrowfully.
“It might have turned anybody violent,” Sanders agreed.
“Even Mother Teresa,” Melnick said. Sanders glanced at him, eyebrow raised. Melnick shrugged. “She was a nun?”
“I’m pretty sure even the DA would understand,” Sanders said, turning back to Katrina. “It’s called ‘extenuating circumstances.’”
“It means you had a reasonable motive for what you did,” Melnick said. “They take that into account.”
“Of course, it is still murder, isn’t it?” Sanders said.
“It is, no question,” Melnick said. “Murder.” And the two of them looked at her solemnly, just looked, and let the silence grow.
Katrina looked back. Her mouth had gone dry, and she felt like all the air had gone out of the room. “What . . . what are you . . . ?” she stammered. She knew perfectly well that they were accusing her of killing Michael, but it seemed like such a stupid idea that she couldn’t think of any response that made sense.
“I guess you never had a clue about Mr. Hobson,” Sanders said. “Until just a few hours ago.”
“And when you found out like that? Had to be a terrible shock,” Melnick said.
“So you snapped,” Sanders agreed. “Understandable—I mean, your own husband.”
“A pedophile,” Melnick said, shaking his head. “Terrible.”
Katrina felt her jaw drop, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. “He was— Michael didn’t . . . What . . . ?” she managed at last.
“You see?” Sanders said to his partner. “She didn’t know.”
“No wonder she was so angry,” Melnick said. Then he turned back to Katrina. “But you must have noticed something? Some little quirk of behavior that made you suspicious? Not even once?” They both looked at her expectantly, but she could only shake her head numbly.
“So you didn’t know he was a board member of True Mentor, did you?” Sanders asked.
“Of True—of, of, what?”
“True Mentor,” Sanders said. “It’s an organization that believes having sex with young boys helps them grow up right.”
