I tell her again that although she’s flown in from San Francisco, I have very little time. It was hard enough finding this half hour. When she says that she might need more, perhaps tomorrow, depending on how this goes, I shake my head firmly. She also says I can have my lawyer present—a suggestion I disregard.
She removes a stuffed lion and a plush brown bear from one of the chairs in my office, and sits down, turns on the recorder. “First of all, I’d like you to again give me a complete statement of where you were and what you were doing on Friday afternoon and early evening, May 10, 2013,” she says. She places the recorder on the chair next to her, but then, like one of my patients, sees something interesting on the floor and pounces. It’s my office mascot, a stuffed replica of a huge horny toad, so realistic in color and expression that everyone—adults as well as children—is drawn uneasily to it. The only thing not authentic is its size. It’s as large as a basketball, and nearly as round. She places the thing on her lap and strokes it, appears delighted with its softness.
“As I told you before, I was home alone. Not feeling well. I’d even canceled my afternoon appointments to go home early,” I say, while she makes the toad hop and trill and laughs to herself. She’s quite charming, really. Certainly not coplike. I bring up my calendar. “Yes, I saw my last patient of the day at 11:45.” The detective nods, I know she’s already verified this with my admin assistant. “I then drove back to my condo. Spent the rest of the day and night in bed.”
“Can anyone verify that you were home at that time?” the detective asks.
“No,” I say. “I live alone.” I stop for a moment before continuing. “I suppose another resident might have seen me enter the building. But if you’re asking if I can prove I was home that evening the answer is no.”
I hate canceling appointments. I can’t remember the last time I’ve done such a thing. I remember that afternoon and evening. But I don’t share all of it. I’d been nauseated and vomited until my stomach was empty. Then I continued with the dry heaves well into the night. Not pleasant.
“Thank you, that’s helpful,” says the girl. She has finally abandoned the toad, it is back on the floor. She is writing in her notebook. She looks up and smiles, and it is a genuine smile. “I’ll need to follow up on this,” she says, almost apologetically. The criminal element in Palo Alto must have an easy time of it. “But I’m afraid that until I do some investigating, you’re still on the hook.”
“What kind of hook am I on?” I ask. “Just curious.”
She hesitates. “As you’ve probably gathered from the media reports, we’re not completely satisfied about John’s . . . your husband’s death,” she says.
“And I’m naturally one of the suspects,” I say.
“Naturally,” the girl agrees. I’m amused to see that she blushes when she says this.
“And what motive would I have?” I ask. I’m curious to hear what she comes up with. Probably something banal, like jealousy. But she surprises me.
“That’s what we’d have to determine,” the girl says. “Your husband was a complex man. He probably died for complex reasons. When we understand why he died, we’ll have a good handle on who did it.”
I am impressed by this. I try to look serious despite the fact that this girl, this woman in a position of authority, is again playing with the toad, pressing down on its cloth eyelids to make them close over its ominous black plastic eyes. She catches me watching her and blushes again. She puts down the toad firmly, at a distance, as if trying to avoid temptation.
“Do you mind if I ask you some more questions?” she asks. “I’d like you to fill in some pieces of the puzzle.”
“Not at all,” I say, with what I hope indicates my respect and willingness despite my suspicions that the interview is being modeled on those she’s seen on television. “Although at most I have twenty minutes left today. I may be able to squeeze you in tomorrow if you’re not finished.”
She nods, picks up the recorder and points it toward me. “What was the state of your relationship with John Taylor?” she asks in a slightly louder voice, I assume for the benefit of the recording.
“Very amicable. Very . . . harmonious,” I say. The latter word is not quite appropriate, but I want to communicate the solidity of my relationship with John. I feel surprisingly calm talking about him. I’ve been avoiding the subject, worried about flailing emotionally in public. But I feel grounded and logical speaking on the subject today—that could be because of the hospital setting, the fact that in no time I will have to go back to reviewing charts and lab results of dying children. I’ve put myself in self-protective mode.
“When was the last time you saw John Taylor?”
“Two weeks prior to his death,” I say. It had been a bittersweet visit, or perhaps I’m only remembering it that way because of all that has happened since. I’ll never know, now. My most precious memories, corrupted by events beyond my control.