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Apparently, I had the right to be escorted in the back seat of a police car, and since I wasn’t being charged, they assured me no lawyer was needed. I had my doubts about that. So I insisted, to which they said, “Call one.” As if I had legal counsel on speed dial. When I advised them that I couldn’t afford a lawyer, it led to the cops offering me public legal counsel, but waiting for one would take hours, hours I could spend sitting in a cell or talking to the detective. The same detective I’d already spoken to, who seemed determined to pin the murder of my neighbor on me.
Detective Williams entered the gray room, and my annoyed ass sassed, “You know, if you’re interested in me, there’s better ways of flirting.”
Rather than rise to my bait, he slapped a folder on the table before sitting across from me. “Ms. Butler—”
I interrupted. “This is our third meeting. Pretty sure you can call me by my given name.”
“Very well, Sadie. Some questions have arisen regarding your involvement with your neighbor. Your fingerprints were found in her apartment.”
“Well, duh.” I rolled my eyes. “I told you she asked me for help a few times.”
“Did you have a key to her place?”
“No.”
He made a note. “How did you enter her apartment the night of her murder?”
“By opening the door. It was unlocked.” I probably came across as sassy, but better than giving in to the trembling of my limbs and sobbing.
“Did Mrs. Fitzgerald usually leave it unsecured?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think so. Honestly, I didn’t really pay attention. I mean, the times I carried in groceries, she had it locked. I remember because I’d stand there hoping I didn’t drop the stuff while she went through her keys. She kept all of the ones from her old house even though she sold it.” Sad, endearing, and annoying all at once given she often took several attempts to slot the right key. “The times she called me to come up and give her a hand, she was expecting me and so the door wasn’t locked.”
“And did that happen often?”
My lips pursed. “Sometimes once a month. Sometimes twice in one week. It really depended.”
“The night of the murder you were at home?”
“Yes.”
“Any visitors?”
I hesitated before saying, “I had one.”
The detective lifted his head to fix me with his vivid eyes. “Could I have their name and the exact time they spent with you?”
“Name of Cain. He came around early evening. I’m not sure of the timeframe. He didn’t stay long.”
“I’ll need his contact info.”
“Um, that I can’t help you with. He and I aren’t actually friends. He just showed up at my door.”
“Why?” Williams fixed me with a stare.
How to explain without coming off as crazy? “He mistook me for someone and followed me home. I set him straight.”
More notations had me curious to see what the detective wrote on the paper in front of him.
“Are you sure this Cain person left the building?”
“Nope.” Then because the detective opened the door, I added, “He was there the night of the bus murders.”
“Oh.” The detective leaned back in his seat. “And why am I just hearing this now?”
“Because the first cop I talked to thought I was nuts. See, Cain likes to wear this long coat—you know, gunslinger style—and he has this scythe, a great big one.”
“Are you saying this Cain person killed the passengers?”
