The Executor Part 18

"HOW COME you didn't call the police before?"

"He said he would tell them it was my idea."

"Was it?"

I recoiled. "No."

"All right."

"Absolutely not."

"Hold up, now."

"And frankly, I find it offensive-"

"Hold up."

"I took care of her. I made her food, I spent hours-"

"They're just questions."

"Okay, well, I don't like what your questions imply."

"They don't imply anything," he said. "I'm just asking."

"And I'm answering, aren't I?"

"Excellent," he said. "Then we're both doing our jobs."

Silence.

"Keep going," he said.

Silence.

"Alma didn't want me to say anything, either."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. To protect him, I think."

"From ..."

"He's had trouble with the police before."

"That seems like a good reason to let someone know."

"That's exactly what I told her."

"But ..."

"She didn't think he was serious."

"But you did."

I paused. "It was hard to tell."

The policeman raised his eyebrows.

"If you heard him, you'd understand."

"Tell me again what you were doing out of town."

"I was home for a family event. I told you. You can call anyone; there were fifty people there. Call the church. Father Fred Hammond. Call my parents."

"Mm-hm."

"Look, he's the one you need to talk to. Him. Eric. Not me. If anyone did anything to her, he's the one responsible."

"Is that what you think? Someone did something to her?"

"I don't know. How should I know? I don't know. I'm saying if." if."

"Okay, fine. So, you don't know if something happened. But if it did, then you didn't do it. Right?"

"Right."

"And it wasn't your idea, this thing that may or may not have happened."

"Correct."

"Okay, well. Glad we've cleared that up." Zitelli rubbed his nose. "Now, let's go over this for a second. Cause first I come in here, you're telling me she's in pain-"

"She was."

"She's in pain, she's depressed, she leaves a note. Fine. But then you want me to think he killed her-"

"I don't want you to think one way or the other, I-"

"So which is it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, but you must have an opinion."

"I don't. I'm speaking hypothetically. I'm-please, this is hard enough as it is."

He held up his hands. "I'm just repeating back what you said."

"That's not what I said. I said to look into it. Look: I'm trying to help."

"I appreciate that, I do. Now, let's say I do talk to him-"

"Are you?"

"Am I what."

"Going to talk to him."

"That depends."

"On?"

"Lots of things. But let's say I do talk to him. What's he going to tell me?"

"... that it was my idea."

"What was."

"Whatever happened."

"But you don't know what happened."

"Isn't that the whole point of this process? To find out what actually happened?"

The detective stared at me. "It sounds pretty important to you."

"I-"

"You seem pretty wound up."

"It is important to me. Of course it's important to me. I care about her. And no, I'm not wound up. I mean, I'm wound up, I'm just, I'm not, wound up." wound up."

"... all right."

"I mean, you'd be like this, too, if you had to endure this."

"Endure what."

"Being interrogated."

"Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it?"

"Let's say this," he said. "Let's say, for argument's sake, something didn't didn't happen...." happen...."

Around and around we went, two hours' worth of dizzying ontological games, until I put my head in my hands.

"Can I take a break, please."

"No problem." He walked around the room, browsing. "Nice stuff," he said.

Something occurred to me then.

"What happened to the thesis?"

"Come again?"

"Her thesis. She left it on the bed for me. It was with the note."

"Oh, that thing. I'm gonna have to take a look at it."

I sat up sharply. "Why."

"I'd like to give it a look-see."

"She left it for me."

"Don't worry, you'll get it back."

"When?"

"When we're done with it."

"It's a philosophy paper," I said. "That's all it is."

"Then I should be able to give it back to you soon," he said.

By continuing to argue with him, I would only draw attention to myself; still, I found it preposterous that they would impound a fifty-year-old piece of academic writing as evidence. "But it's in German," I said.

He shrugged, strolled around the room until he came to the mantel. There he paused.

"Is that Nietzsche?"

WHEN AT LAST I was alone again, I went upstairs. They had left her bedroom in disarray. The rising sun showed the shape of her body, still visible in the sheets.

18.