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"But we do," Benjamin said.
He offered a slight smile as he said it, but there was no joy in that smile. There was, however, a sizable helping of anger, and that encouraged Faith. If he had enough strength left to be angry, then he could muster the strength to recover.
“Yes,” she agreed. “We do.”
“Mr. Montgomery,” Michael said, “I know you’ve already been cleared by the police department, so I’m not asking you this because you’re a suspect, but can you please tell me where you were the night your wife died, leading up to your discovery of her body.”
Benjamin took a deep, steadying breath, then a deep, steadying sip of his coffee. “I was at a poker game with friends. I would play poker every Sunday night after church. Amanda hated it. She said it was a devil’s game. She would purse her lips and give me the silent treatment all day. I still played. I thought I needed something to do that didn’t involve her or I’d go crazy. I wish to God I had never touched the game. Can’t imagine I’ll ever play again.”
“Did you and your wife fight over the game?” Faith asked.
“No, we never fought. Amanda never fought with anything. She would express her disapproval and leave it at that. Most of the time, that was enough. Poker was the only thing I put my foot down on. I would always stop by the convenience store on my way home for a chocolate bar to placate her.” He chuckled. “It never worked, of course. It’s funny the things you do to make up for those little transgressions. You know they won’t work, but you do them anyway because it makes you feel better even if it doesn’t make them feel better.”
“I’m sure she appreciated the gesture,” Michael said, “even if she didn’t let on.”
“Yeah,” Benjamin said, nodding. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“What time did you arrive home?” Faith asked.
“Uh, that night, umm … I think it was after midnight. Yeah, it was. Close to one in the morning, I think. I drank a little more than normal, and I had to wait a while to drive home. It was bad enough I was spending every Sunday gambling. If I had come home smelling like booze, I would have had real hell to pay.”
He smiled, no doubt imagining his wife’s reaction if she had caught him driving drunk. His smile faded as he remembered once again that his wife would never react to anything ever again.
“I just don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head in a confusion that was devoid of anger. “Why would someone kill her? I just don’t get it. I don’t know what reason they would have had to just kill her like that.”
“If you feel comfortable,” Faith said, “can you tell me what exactly you found when you walked into the house?”
“I’ll never feel comfortable,” he said, “but I can tell you exactly what I found. I’ll never forget it. If I live to be as old as Methuselah, I’ll never forget the sight of it. Thesmell.”
He folded his hands in front of him and gripped them tightly until his knuckles turned white. Having experienced the smell, Faith could relate. She couldn’t relate to that smell belonging to someone she loved. An unpleasant image of David’s body lying in a pool of blood came to her. She blinked, and the image changed to Michael’s body. She took a breath and said, “Did you realize right away that she was dead?”
“I think so,” he said. “I didn’t admit it to myself right away, but that smell is unmistakable. My uncle was a butcher back in the day. When I was seven years old, my parents thought it would be fun for me to see him work, so they brought me to his butcher shop and had me watch him slaughter a pig. When I was a kid, I thought the squealing was the worst part. It’s a different sound, you know, when a living thing dies. It’s different from anger, from grief, from shock, even from fear. I’ll never forget that sound, but the smell … the smell is worse.”
Faith and Michael remained silent, allowing Benjamin to ramble. They knew he was talking slowly to give himself a chance to recount the events without collapsing.
After a moment, Benjamin took a shuddering breath and continued, “I walked in, smelled that smell, and knew right away what it was, but I couldn’t allow myself to believe it. I walked through the whole house, calling her name. I called and called and searched every room but the bathroom.” He laughed bitterly. “That’s how badly I didn’t want to believe it. I knew right away where the smell was coming from, but I didn’t want to believe it. I walked through every room calling her name. I even checked the garage and the backyard before heading to the bathroom.”
He took another breath and said, “Well, eventually, I had to go check the bathroom. The door was open, and I remember being angry about that, because I couldn't even allow myself a moment to keep hoping before I opened the door. I remember, I walked upstairs, and I thought, ‘Seriously? You have to have the door open, and the goddamn red carpet rolled out for me?’”
He fell silent again, and then said, “Then I found her. She was sprawled across the floor with her foot—her right foot, I remember—hooked over the edge of the bathtub. She had one hand stretched out in front of her and the other crooked at the elbow next to her. They think—the police—that she was trying to lift herself up and reach for the door handle, probably so she could reach the phone and call 911.”
A thought struck Faith suddenly. “Did you notice any footprints?” she asked. “Inside the house, I mean?”
He shook his head. “Cops think the killer escaped through the window. I found it open, I forgot to mention. They checked for footprints outside, but there weren’t any, at least, not any that were recognizable. They think he covered his shoes with plastic bags and made them thick enough that they couldn’t even guess what size shoes he wore.”
“I’m so sorry to have to ask this,” Faith said, “but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your wife?”
“You mean kill her?” Benjamin said. “That’s what happened. It doesn’t help to try to pretend it was any less than that.”
“No, I really do mean hurt,” Faith explained gently. “Oftentimes, murders are accidental. The perpetrator only means to hurt the victim and things go too far.”
That wasn’t the case in this instance. Amanda Montgomery was the second victim, and the perpetrator had lain in wait with a knife. This wasn’t in any way an accident, but she needed him to give her as much information as possible.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Everyone loved her. She was so sweet and kind and giving. She was never angry; I think I told you that. Fifteen years together, I never once heard her raise her voice. Not to me or anyone.”
“Did your friends know that she disapproved of your weekly poker game?”
Benjamin blinked. “You don’t think one of the guys did this, do you?”
