AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I also worried that all of this would make me look guilty.
I couldn’t help it, though. I was now certain the murdered man was my husband. Despite the hurt I’d endured from his letter and his admission he no longer loved me, it didn’t change my feelings toward him. I loved him deeply and always would—no matter what. He was my family as much as Trudy was. I’d never been open to allowing many people into that exalted circle known as family, whether that be defined by choice or by blood.
I expected to spend the rest of my life with him—sharing the good times and bad, growing old together. I thought of how we’d always planned to leave the cold and snow of Chicago winters behind when we retired. We’d move together to the sun and heat of the desert—Palm Springs.
When informed that I was here to see Detective Cawood, the uniformed officer on the front desk, a young guy with a blond buzzcut and piercing brown eyes, looked me up and down. He lifted the phone, spoke into it too softly for me to hear, and hung up.
He didn’t smile. “She’ll be right out. You can wait over there.” He gestured toward the plastic seating near the front doors.
I barely had time to sit before Detective Andrea Cawood came through a pair of double doors behind the front desk. She was unusually tall, at least six feet, and her figure was one my mom once referred to as “womanly”. Her hair was a bleached-blond halo with dark roots, cut short and framing her face. She wore a pair of navy polyester slacks, blue button-down, and a sport coat with a subtle gray and blue pattern. When it opened as she moved, I spotted a gun in a holster at her side, which made me even more nervous.
She isn’t going to shoot you.
“Mr. Blake?” She called from across the room. I stood, feeling eyes on me, and followed her back. We went down a hallway and she led me to what she referred to as an interview room.
Inside, the room was pretty much like the ones I’d seen on TV in countless crime dramas. Linoleum floor, pale gray walls, a chrome-edged, Formica-topped table and two black metal folding chairs. The big picture window/mirror upped my anxiety level. Was there someone behind the glass, watching?
“I’m going to record this, okay?” She asked after we’d sat down. There was no fancy recorder, just her phone. I knew I wasn’t really being asked for permission, so I nodded.
“Could you answer verbally, please?”
“Yes. I consent to being recorded.” I looked up on the wall near the ceiling where a video camera was mounted. I knew my tone was dead.
Andrew Cawood sensed my nerves, I figured. She smiled and leaned closer. “I just want to ask you some questions, that’s all. It’s a simple process of elimination.”
“Okay.” I couldn’t go on, though, not without knowing. “Was it him? Marc? He was the guy who was found, wasn’t he?”
She licked her lips and drew her gaze away. Those simple movements told me everything. I steeled myself for the words I knew would follow. At the moment, though, I felt nothing but numb.
“I wish I had better news, Mr. Blake, but yes, the victim was your husband, Marc. They found a driver’s license on the beach this morning with his name on it. His parents made a positive ID just an hour or so ago. I’m very sorry.”
I wanted to feel more. I needed to break down in sobs—to shake, to scream. This awful nothingness inside was less tolerable than any histrionics I could imagine.
“I’ll try to make this as brief as possible, but it’ll help us with our investigation so much if we could get your recollections. The sooner you give them, the more reliable they’ll be.”
“Can I see him?” I blurted out.
“What do you mean? He’s not here. He’s at the morgue.”
“I figured that.” I shook my head. “You must have crime scene photos, right? They always take pictures. I don’t think that’s made up for TV.”
“It’s not,” she replied. “But I’d advise against it. The images will be very disturbing. You won’t want to remember him like that. He’s gone, Mr. Blake.”
“I understand that, but I just need to see for myself. Does that make sense?” Without seeing him, even though all the evidence in the world pointed toward the contrary, my heart wouldn’t be able to accept or even believe my Marc was gone without some form of visual proof.
She closed her eyes, whether in disgust at my morbid needs or because she pitied me, I wasn’t sure. A black canvas bag rested on the floor at her feet. I hadn’t paid much attention to it before, although she’d had it with her when she led me back to this room. She leaned over and rummaged around in it. She pulled out a gray folder. She held it close. “Now, are you sure?” She forced me to meet her gaze and, in her eyes, there was pity and a need to protect.
“To be honest, I’m not sure at all, Detective Cawood. But if I don’t, I don’t know if I can ever believe he’s gone.” I gasped a little at the wordgoneand forced myself to just breathe. I motioned with my hand. “Not really, not deep down. Does that make any sense?
“Please. Let me see.”
She rifled through the photographs. I guessed she was looking for one that wasn’t too gruesome. But with a murder, how could such a distinction exist?
At last, she slid one of the eight-by-tens toward me, face-down. “When you’re ready.”
I put my hand on the photo, but wasn’t sure I could turn it over. Despite the stunned and shocked state I was in, my hands trembled above the back of the photograph.
This was a moment from which I could never turn back. Marc was dead, murdered, and the pain and terror of that happening was beyond my imagination. I let out a shaky breath and looked at the detective. “Could you turn it over for me?” My voice sounded weak and childish. I didn’t care.
