“And what did you tell her?”
“I’m not a suicide hotline. I haven’t been trained or coached in what to do in such situations. I didn’t offer her any false comfort, if that’s what you’re asking. I told her, yes, John is dead and he isn’t coming back. I told her that if she had anything to do with his death it made sense that she was experiencing despair.”
“Cutting words,” the detective says. She isn’t looking at me, but is fiddling with her hands the way I’ve seen her do before. A nervous habit.
“I wasn’t patient or encouraging, that’s true,” I say. “But I wasn’t sure she meant it. I thought it was just her hysteria.”
“People do rash things when they’re emotionally out of control.”
“I truly thought she was bluffing. A way to get sympathy.”
“And so you presented a hard front.” Her voice is cold.
“I told her to go ahead and do it if she felt that way,” I finally erupt.
The silence in the room is absolute.
“I think that’s all for now,” the detective says, still not looking at me. She gets up to leave.
“Wait a minute,” I say. She stops.
“Why are you continuing to hassle me about this case?” I ask. “I understand from my friends in Palo Alto City Hall that the precinct is satisfied with the outcome.”
The girl appears to be calculating something. She decides, clearly, to not play straight with me. You can always tell when people with these open, honest faces are trying to lie.
“Yes,” she says. “We’re completely satisfied.” And she leaves. I don’t believe her for one minute.
68
Samantha
I’M STANDING IN FRONT OF Susan in her office at the station house. Her face is stern. “We”—she doesn’t say who is included in that we—“have gotten complaints again from Mrs. Deborah Taylor that you continue to harass her. Samantha, what game are you playing? My ass is fried from the heat I’m getting from the mayor’s office. I gave you permission for one more interview. Yet I understand you went back to her again after that. For a surprise home visit, no less.”
“I’m not satisfied that we fully understand what happened,” I say with bravado, but I suspect Susan sees right through my loud voice, my upright posture.
“You’re not satisfied?” The sarcasm is palpable.
“No,” I say, more loudly. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“And it won’t make sense. It’s a frigging mystery what those people were up to. I’d be surprised if you could understand it,” Susan says. “That doesn’t mean you keep wasting time and resources on trying to work out the kinks in human nature, Sam. Sometimes you just accept that things are the way they are.”
“It’s not that I don’t understand the situation,” I say. “If anything, I understand it too well. Hell, if I’d known Dr. Taylor I probably would have been the fifth wife. ” Susan looks at me strangely, but I continue. “It’s the circumstances of the death that don’t add up. How could MJ both overpower John Taylor enough to manage to inject him with the potassium? Even if she had been able to get hold of the potassium herself?”
Susan’s voice is calmer now. “Sam, those might have been good questions before we got the statement from MJ’s brother. But the fact is, he did give us a statement making it obvious that MJ had both motive and opportunity.”
“No, he never directly asked MJ if she killed John Taylor, and she never directly admitted as much to him,” I say.
“But asking her brother to dress up! Isn’t that damning enough for you? Why would anyone bother to establish an alibi like that unless they were guilty?”
Something nags at me. “What did you just say?” I ask. “About establishing an alibi?”
“Sam. Enough. I want this to stop. For the next three days, you’re on administrative leave. I can’t have my detectives running amok on me.”
As I walk out of her office, my phone goes off. A text from Peter. Odd—he rarely texts me, preferring what he calls old-fashioned conversations. And I find the text makes no sense. Tell Peter to call James. Why would Peter text me such a thing? It’s not like he asks me to remind him to do things, the way some couples remind each other not to forget birthdays or parents’ anniversaries. So I give him a call on his cell.
“Hey,” I say, when he answers with an uncharacteristically abrupt yeah? “What’s up with the text?”
“Hi, Sam, it’s James,” says the voice, which I now recognize as belonging to Peter’s best friend. I just wanted Peter to know he left his cell phone at my house last night.”
“I didn’t know Peter was at your place yesterday,” I say. As usual, I’d stayed late at the station, and didn’t ask Peter about his day when I got home after 8:30 PM. We haven’t been communicating all that well.