Then he came home one afternoon, and something set him reeling. Now what would do that?'
He didn't say anything.
'He might have walked in and found her with another man. But that didn't add up because why would it upset him that much? He must have known how she supported herself, that she saw other men during the afternoons while he was at work. Besides, there would have to be some trace of that other man. He wouldn't just run off when Richie started slicing with a razor.
'And where would Richie get a razor? He used an electric. Nobody twenty years old shaves with a straight razor anymore. Some kids carry razors the way other kids carry knives, but Richie wasn't that kind of kid.
'And what did he do with the razor afterward? The cops decided he flipped it out the window or dropped it somewhere and somebody picked it up and walked off with it.'
'Isn't that plausible, Mr. Scudder?'
'Uh-huh. If he had a razor in the first place. And it was also possible he'd used a knife instead of a razor. There were plenty of knives in the kitchen. But I was in that kitchen, and all the cupboards and drawers were neatly closed, and you don't grab up a knife to slaughter someone in a fit of passion and remember to close the drawer carefully behind you. No, there was only one way it made sense to me.
Richie came home and found Wendy already dead or dying, and that knocked him for a loop. He couldn't handle it.'
My headache was coming back again. I rubbed at my temple with a knuckle.
It didn't do much good.
'You told me Richie's mother died when he was quite young.'
'Yes.'
'You didn't tell me she killed herself.'
'How did you learn that?'
'When something's a matter of record, sir, anyone can find out about it if he takes the trouble to look for it. I didn't have to dig for that information. All I had to do was think of looking for it. Your wife killed herself in the bathtub by slashing her wrists. Did she use a razor?'
He looked at me.
'Your razor, sir?'
'I don't see that it matters.'
'Don't you?' I shrugged. 'Richie walked in and found his mother dead in a pool of blood. Then, fourteen years later, he walked into an apartment on Bethune Street and found the woman he was living with dead in her bed. Also slashed with a razor, and also lying in a pool of blood.
'I suppose Wendy Hanniford was a mother to him in certain ways. They must have played a lot of different surrogate roles in each other's lives. But all of a sudden Wendy became his dead mother, and Richie couldn't handle it, and he wound up doing something I guess he'd never been able to do before.'
'What?'
'He had intercourse with her. It was a pure, uncontrollable reaction. He didn't even take time to take his clothes off. He fell on her and he had intercourse with her, and when it was over he ran out into the streets and started screaming his lungs out because his head was full of the fact that he had had intercourse with his mother and now she was dead. You can see what he thought, sir. He thought he fucked her to death.'
'God,' he said.
I wondered if he'd ever pronounced it quite that way before.
* * *
MY headache was getting worse. I asked him if I could have some aspirins.
He told me how to find the first-floor lavatory. There were aspirin tablets in the medicine cabinet. I took two and drank half a glass of water.
When I went back into the living room he hadn't changed position. I sat down in my chair and looked at him. There was a lot more and we would get to it, but I wanted to wait for him to pick it up.
He said, 'This is extraordinary, Mr. Scudder.'
'Yes.'
'I never even considered the possibility that Richard was innocent. I just assumed he had done it. If what you think is true-'
'It's true.'
'Then he died for nothing.'
'He died for you, sir. He was the lamb for the burnt offering.'
'You can't seriously believe I killed that girl.'
'I know you did, sir.'
'How can you possibly know that?'
'You met Wendy in the spring.'
'Yes. I believe I told you that the last time you were here.'
