Starzyk: What did you talk about?
Laura: Our son. David’s work. My work. A normal conversation on a normal night.
Mooney: And he seemed perfectly okay to you? Perfectly normal?
Laura: He seemed a little overworked. A little tired. But he puts in long days.
Mooney: Okay. So he’s a little tired, you’re talking. Any drinking?
Laura: Like I said in my statement, we each had a glass of wine with dinner. That’s it. I went upstairs and gave Tom a bath, read him a story, and put him to bed. If David drank more, I don’t know. It’s really just amazing how little you’ve—
Mooney: Did you go back downstairs at any point?
Laura: Yes! Also like I’ve said, multiple times. I came down in my pajamas. I finished the dishes. David was outside, having a cigar, talking on the phone.
Mooney: A good conversation? Bad conversation?
Laura: My God. Do you think I’m going to change my story? He was blowing cigar smoke into the air and laughing. And that’s the last time that I saw . . .
[Indistinguishable noises.]
Mooney: I know this is hard for you, but you’re doing well. Can you keep going? For the tape, the witness has nodded yes. He came upstairs, though, at some point?
[Indistinguishable noises.]
Mooney: Mrs. Bishop, I know this is hard, but I need you to answer.
Laura: I . . . I heard the floor creak. He went into Tom’s room. To kiss him good night. I was so tired. I just . . . fell asleep.
Mooney: And then you were awakened . . .
Laura: I heard a noise. A thump. It sounded like . . . at first I thought I was dreaming about a gym. Someone playing basketball. Shoes squeaking. Breathing hard. But then there was another . . . another noise. It was sickening. A living thing being hit with something . . . bludgeoned . . . a cracking . . . oh God . . .
[Indistinguishable speaking. Chair scrapes.]
Mooney: It’s okay. Take a couple of deep breaths. That’s it. It’s going to be okay, Mrs. Bishop . . .
Starzyk: We’re almost done, Laura. We know what you saw when you came downstairs. You don’t have to go through that again. Your husband was there on the floor. The side door — the door to the mudroom off the kitchen — was ajar. You said the cold air came in. You said that beside your husband on the floor was a hammer. Covered in blood.
[Indistinguishable speaking.]
Starzyk: Can you answer again for the tape?
Laura: Yes.
Starzyk: Yes, you saw a hammer?
Laura: Yes.
Starzyk: What did you think when you saw it?
Laura: Wh . . . What?
Starzyk: Among other things. Everything is going through your mind. But did you think — ‘I know that hammer’? Or ‘What’s that doing here?’ Or — ‘Whoever did this left the murder weapon’? Anything like that?
Laura: No. I didn’t think anything about the hammer.
Starzyk: Except that it had been used in this awful thing. You must’ve thought that, with some part of your mind.
Laura: I guess.
Mooney: For the tape, images K1a through K1g are being shown to the witness.
Starzyk: Mrs. Bishop, we took inventory of all the items in your garage, and in the small outbuilding — the shed — where your husband kept the lawnmower and other things. Here is a picture of the hammer. Please take a look. Now, would you say, is it your best recollection that this hammer belonged to your late husband, David?
Laura: Yes.
Starzyk: Would you say you had an idea where it was located?
[Silence.]
Starzyk: Mrs. Bishop—
Laura: I think I need a lawyer. Not because I did anything, but because you seem determined to paint a certain picture. I could say something completely innocent and have it used against me.
Starzyk: You can retain counsel. Absolutely. That’s your right. But just so you know, my question sought to affirm aspects of the crime scene. Like tracks in the snow leading to the garage. Accessing the garage, which was unlocked. Our belief that the hammer was kept in the garage.
Laura: Sure. Yes. And the man my son saw outside the house, the man who I heard fighting with my husband in the kitchen, he was the one who walked up our driveway, went to the garage, found a hammer, came into the house and beat my husband to death. But you don’t have anything on that, do you? Nothing you can use. That’s why you’re still talking to me. Okay? I’m leaving.
[Chair scraping.]
Mooney: For the tape, Laura Bishop has left the room.
Starzyk: I think we touched a nerve. And who knows where to find a hammer in someone’s garage? I don’t even know where my own hammer is.
Mooney: That wasn’t right.
Starzyk: What? We have it all right here. United Artists Management is on the edge of bankruptcy. She’s suspected of cheating on him. Witnesses saw her hit him in the face at that restaurant. That’s motive, plus motive, plus violent tendencies. So someone was in a car outside? Who gives a shit? Crime scene wasn’t able to determine if—
Mooney: Because the crime scene got contaminated.
Starzyk: Bullshit. We didn’t — the tape is still running, Rebecca. Shut it off. Roll back the last minute and erase it. For God’s sake. That’s not my fault. Not my fault some tech fucked up the scene. Listen, I’m going for a cigarette. If we’re going to get done with paperwork by ton—
[Recording ends.]
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO | Sunday
It’s late, and I can’t sleep. I keep hearing Michael’s childlike voice in my head. Or picture him writhing on the bed, grunting with impotent fury. It’s just past three a.m. I get up and decide to use the downstairs bathroom to pee, so as not to wake anyone. Afterward, I run the tap for a glass of water.
Now I’m really awake.
I get a couple of things from upstairs as quietly as I can. While I’m in the closet, Paul mumbles something in his sleep. He sounds like he’s having a bad dream. After a moment, he rolls over onto his side and mumbles something.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Go back to sleep.”
Back downstairs, I slip out into the night air — cool now, after the rain, everything wet and shining in the moonlight. The lake has calmed and softly laps the shore. I sluice away some water from one of the Adirondack chairs and sit down.
I light a cigarette. It’s one of Joni’s, and it seems to help me think.
Two minutes later, I text Frank Mills.
You up?
The squiggles pop up almost immediately. Then: No.
Smiling, I peck out the next message: Detective Rebecca Mooney . . . Retired? Where?
I puff the cigarette. Mills responds: That’s an easy one. She’s up near you.
I text: ?
Frank’s response: Lake George.
Okay, well, she’s in the general vicinity, but over an hour away. I don’t think Frank’s ever been north of the Bronx, so to him, everything past Riverdale is in proximity to everything else.
But that’s interesting: Rebecca Mooney took her retirement in a similar touristy-but-rural town. I suppose more people than you’d first think migrate up here in later years, where life moves a little slower.
I ask Frank, Anything controversial about her retirement?