“And this was unusual?”
“Very. But not that he was going to LA, since he had an adjunct appointment at UCLA for the academic year and was there twice a month for a few days at a time.”
“So what was unusual?”
“The disruption to our routine. He was very regular, and hated any disorder in his schedule. I wasn’t allowed . . . well, he preferred . . . that I didn’t surprise him with social events, or spontaneously suggest outings. That sort of thing made him extraordinarily anxious. He thrived on routine. He did travel, but everything was always meticulously planned ahead of time.”
“What did he consider spontaneous?”
“He needed to know a full week in advance,” I tell her. “His rationale was that he needed that time to process any changes to his plans.” I realize how strange that must sound. And how foolish (and downtrodden) I must seem for catering to such unreasonable demands. I quickly elaborate. “When we first started dating, I would make the mistake of asking people over for drinks on the spur of the moment. You know, you run into friends at the grocery store, you don’t think about it, you just invite them round. But it upset John terribly.”
“Didn’t that strike you as odd?”
“No. Yes. Maybe.” I curse myself. “Well, John was odd.”
“What was his reasoning?”
“The nature of his work with trauma victims was such that he led a very unpredictable professional life. He often didn’t know what was waiting for him when he showed up at work in the morning. He demanded utmost regularity in the rest of his life as a result.” I pause. “So he said.”
The detective nods. I’ve told her all this before, why is she going over the same ground? She even has it on videotape. Did the reading of my rights make some sort of difference in how she can use what I say? I suddenly feel chilled.
“And then you didn’t see him again,” she says.
“No.” Despite myself, the tears well up. Those first few days after John’s death I’d been inexplicably calm. Since then, I haven’t stopped crying. My boss told me to take a week off, but what would I do with that time? Sit in the house alone? Much better I’m with my precious financials, making order out of chaos. John and I weren’t so different in some respects. We both thrived on routine.
“And you didn’t talk to him either, after that 11:07 call on Thursday morning?”
“No. That was unusual, too. We’d talk every night whenever he was in LA. He made a point of it. He said . . .” and here I break down again. The detective wordlessly hands me a Kleenex. “He said he didn’t want us to get in a pattern of not communicating.”
“What did you make of that?”
“Of course it made me wonder about his previous relationships, about whether he’d had communication problems. It made me wonder if that was why he hadn’t married. He had always explained it away by the demands of his job, by never finding the right woman. And I . . .”
“And you wanted to believe him.” The detective smiles sympathetically. Really, she is a pretty little thing. No wedding ring. Then she is so awfully young. But it’s clear I’m the simpleminded one in the room. My na?veté must seem preposterous.
I take another Kleenex and begin systematically shredding it into long thin strips. Another stress-reducing act. But the detective doesn’t seem to notice. Although she has a notebook and a pen on the table, she isn’t taking notes, is letting the video recorder do all the work. She is winding up her hand again. Another question is coming.
“What about the text John Taylor sent to your cell phone Friday evening?”
I try to keep my voice steady. “What about it?”
“At 6:47. Perhaps the last thing John Taylor did before he died was send you that urgent text. Come to the Palo Alto Westin, room 224. But you didn’t respond until 7:45. Then you started calling his cell phone at frequent intervals—every twenty minutes or so well into the night and the next day. We tallied forty-three calls total between 7:45 Friday night and 11:30 Saturday night. You also called the Westin thirteen times during that same time period. Then all the calls stopped. What was going on?”