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Things worse than being questioned in a small, stuf
fy, dimly lit room with a lead investigator that looks like she’s barely a day out of college.
She apologizes for my loss and then she says, “It can’t get any worse for you, Ms. Channing, can it?”
You wouldn’t think anything could be worse than this. “I don’t know,” I tell her. But I do know. Prison would be worse.
She blinks several times. I don’t know if this is a tactic, only that it works. Her rapid blinking, it makes me want to talk. “I can imagine how you must be feeling.”
I offer a nod. It’s the best I can manage. She flip-flops so much it makes me dizzy. One second she’s warm and compassionate, the next it’s like she’s taunting me. It’s like she’s poking at a bear in a cage. “Hm.”
“This has to be really hard for you.”
“Yeah.” But again, like I said, you wouldn’t understand.
I expect her to continue, to say something, to say anything, but she doesn’t. Not for several minutes. She just sits there stoically, blinking and not saying anything, and I don’t understand. What is she doing? Is she trying to wait me out?
“Is there someone I can call?”
“No.”
I watch as she crosses and uncrosses her legs. She does some more blinking, and I wonder what her family is like. I wonder what led her to a job like this. “Is there anything I can do to help you feel more comfortable?”
“No.” It’s not you. I tell her there isn’t anything she can do, though I’ve said it all before. I’ve told the story. One way and then another, and still, she isn’t satisfied.
“You think I don’t understand?”
I shrug. I hope you’re not offended. I’m not saying you're stupid or anything.
“Wait.” She holds up one hand. “I know,” she says, right before she repeats what I’ve told her, word for word. “Most people wouldn’t understand.”
I shrug again. Bingo.
The less I speak, the better.
She empties her foam cup, slurping every drop. When she places the cup on the table, she jiggles it as though coffee might manifest from out of thin air. Not that I blame her. She’s making a point.
I’m wasting her time. I figure she’s getting paid either way, and at the moment, I don’t exactly have gainful employment to go back to. All I’ve got is time.
“You’re not under arrest, Ruth. You don’t have to answer my questions.”
This, I know. I’m also not falling for this good cop, bad cop shtick, either. I remember what Cole said to me, standing outside my house as they strung the crime scene tape. He looked at me and he placed his hands on my shoulders. Then he leaned in like his life depended on it and he said, “You’ll think you're too smart to fall for their routine, but you're not. You'll be upset and you'll want to talk, especially to anyone who appears sympathetic. Law enforcement officers are not necessarily your enemy, but they're not your friend either. Shut up. Talk to your lawyer—clear it with Mike—before you make any statement of any kind.”
“Okay,” I told him.
He searched my face. “Promise me.”
“I’m terrible at promises. You know that.”
I look at the young woman seated in front of me and I say, “I’m terrible at promises.”
“How so?”
“I promised Mama and Daddy that I’d take care of them. And now one is under arrest and the other is dead.”
She looks at me like she understands, but she doesn’t.
“Do you have any brothers?”
