Tell No One
All eyes were on me again. My own breaths echoed in my ears, hitched and uneven. I felt light-headed. Carlson waited a beat before he snatched up the large manila envelope. He took his time untying the string flap with long, slender fingers and then he opened the slit. He lifted it high in the air and let the contents fall to the table.
“How’s this for a catalyst, huh, Doc?”
They were photographs. Carlson pushed them toward me. I looked down and felt the hole in my heart expand.
“Dr. Beck?”
I stared. My fingers reached out tentatively and touched the surface.
Elizabeth.
They were photographs of Elizabeth. The first one was a close-up of her face. She was in profile, her right hand holding her hair back away from her ear. Her eye was purple and swollen. There was a deep cut and more bruising on her neck, below the ear.
It looked as though she’d been crying.
Another photo was shot from the waist up. Elizabeth stood wearing only a bra, and she was pointing to a large discoloration on her rib cage. Her eyes still had that red-tinged rim. The lighting was strangely harsh, as though the flash itself had sought out the bruise and pulled it closer to the lens.
There were three more photographs—all from various angles and of various body parts. All of them highlighted more cuts and bruises.
“Dr. Beck?”
My eyes jerked up. I was almost startled to see them in the room. Their expressions were neutral, patient. I faced Carlson, then Stone, then I went back to Carlson.
“You think I did this?”
Carlson shrugged. “You tell us.”
“Of course not.”
“Do you know how your wife got those bruises?”
“In a car accident.”
They looked at each other as though I’d told them my dog ate my homework.
“She got into a bad fender-bender,” I explained.
“When?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Three, four months before”—the words got stuck for a second—“before she died.”
“Did she visit a hospital?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think?”
“I wasn’t around.”
“Where were you?”
“I was doing a pediatric workshop in Chicago at the time. She told me about the accident when I got home.”
“How long after did she tell you?”
“After the accident?”
“Yeah, Doc, after the accident.”
“I don’t know. Two, three days maybe.”
“You two were married by then?”
“For just a few months.”
“Why didn’t she tell you right away?”
“She did. I mean, as soon as I got home. I guess she didn’t want to worry me.”
“I see,” Carlson said. He looked at Stone. They didn’t bother masking their skepticism. “So did you take these pictures, Doc?”
“No,” I said. As soon as I did, I wished I hadn’t. They exchanged another glance, smelling blood. Carlson tilted his head and moved closer.
“Have you ever seen these pictures before?”
I said nothing. They waited. I thought about the question. The answer was no, but … where did they get them? Why didn’t I know about them? Who took them? I looked at their faces, but they gave away nothing.
It’s an amazing thing really, but when you think about it, we learn life’s most important lessons from TV. The vast majority of our knowledge about interrogations, Miranda rights, self-incriminations, cross-examinations, witness lists, the jury system, we learn from NYPD Blue and Law & Order and the like. If I tossed you a gun right now and asked you to fire it, you’d do what you saw on TV. If I told you to look out for a “tail,” you’d know what I’m talking about because you’d seen it done on Mannix or Magnum PI.
I looked up at them and asked the classic question: “Am I a suspect?”
“Suspect for what?”
“For anything,” I said. “Do you suspect that I committed any crime?”
“That’s a pretty vague question, Doc.”
And that was a pretty vague answer. I didn’t like the way this was going. I decided to use another line I learned from television.
“I want to call my lawyer,” I said.
10
I don’t have a criminal lawyer—who does?—so I called Shauna from a pay phone in the corridor and explained the situation. She wasted no time.
“I got just the person,” Shauna said. “Sit tight.”
I waited in the interrogation room. Carlson and Stone were kind enough to wait with me. They spent the time whispering to each other. Half an hour passed. Again the silence was unnerving. I know that was what they wanted. But I couldn’t stop myself. I was innocent, after all. How could I harm myself if I was careful?
“My wife was found branded with the letter K,” I said to them.
They both looked up. “Pardon me,” Carlson said, craning his long neck back in my direction. “You talking to us?”
“My wife was found branded with the letter K,” I repeated. “I was in the hospital after the attack with a concussion. You can’t possibly think …” I let it hang.
“Think what?” Carlson said.
In for a penny, in for a pound. “That I had something to do with my wife’s death.”
That was when the door burst open, and a woman I recognized from television stamped into the room. Carlson jumped back when he saw her. I heard Stone mumble “Holy shit” under his breath.
Hester Crimstein didn’t bother with intros. “Didn’t my client ask for counsel?” she asked.
Count on Shauna. I had never met my attorney, but I recognized her from her stints as a “legal expert” on talk shows and from her own Crimstein on Crime program on Court TV. On the screen Hester Crimstein was quick and cutting and often left guests in tatters. In person, she had the most bizarre aura of power, the kind of person who looks at everyone as though she were a hungry tiger and they were limping gazelles.
“That’s right,” Carlson said.
“Yet here you are, all nice and cozy, still questioning him.”
“He started talking to us.”
“Oh, I see.” Hester Crimstein snapped open her briefcase, dug out a pen and paper, and tossed them onto the table. “Write down your names.”
“Pardon?”
“Your names, handsome. You know how to spell them, right?”