He went into the downstairs bathroom where he took off his blood-covered clothes and washed the blood off his hands. He still couldn’t believe this was happening. What the hell had he been thinking, planning this murder like some kind of lunatic you read about in the tabloids? The Daily News today had two twins on the front page, the ones who’d murdered their parents, with the screaming headline, TWIN KILLING. Wait till they got hold of this.
He wondered if he was insane. He didn’t think he was insane, but what the hell did that mean? Insane people never think they’re insane so how did he know if he was insane or not? He certainly felt fevered and needed a drink – a whole bar of them.
He had to get a grip. He could worry if he was insane or not later – right now he had to do what he was supposed to do or he was going to spend the rest of his life in jail, possibly on death row.
Trying not to look at Deirdre’s body, he walked back out toward the front of the house. He went upstairs to make sure it was ransacked like the downstairs was. He saw that most of Deirdre’s jewelry was gone, then noticed that Popeye had broken the jar that held his kidney stones. Now he’d have to get on his knees later and look for the fucking things. In the center of the room was a turd. Max squinted at it, truly horrified. Somehow it even seemed worse than the murder, that the animal went to the toilet on his carpet. How fucked up was that? Murder was one thing but this, this was a goddamn liberty.
He went back downstairs, just to make sure everything was right before he called the police. He was about to dial 911 when he saw something that made him freeze. Sticking out from the hallway into the living room was another pair of feet – a woman’s feet in high heels. He thought, Jeez, it’s just like The Wizard of Oz. Then nausea returned fast as he inched toward the hallway, shaking, covering his mouth. When he saw the second blood puddle he gagged, coughing up stomach acid. He couldn’t recognize this woman’s face either, but something about her body looked familiar. She was heavyset, wearing jeans and a light blue sweater. Her long curly brown hair looked familiar, too, like…
Fuck, it was Stacy Goldenberg – his niece, on Deirdre’s side. She was living in New York, going to school at Columbia. Sometimes she and Deirdre went shopping together and, for some reason, she must have come home with her tonight.
Max fainted. When he regained consciousness both hips were killing him. He remembered the dead bodies and how he needed to call the police. He thought about confessing – getting a shrink to say he was nuts. They’d medicate him, lock him up for a while, and he’d eventually get out. Or he could pin the murders on Angela – say it was all her idea. It was all her idea, wasn’t it?
He shouted, “Get me the fuck out of this!”
Max couldn’t remember anything. Suddenly, his whole life was a fog. Then he heard Popeye saying how he would get to him if he ever went to the cops. This Popeye was a total psycho – there was no doubt about that – and Max had a feeling he meant everything he said.
Max went into the kitchen, chugged some vodka, the booze burning like a son of a bitch. Then he did some deep breathing, pulling himself back together, and dialed 911.
Max was staring through the lace curtains at the red strobe lights outside the townhouse and he didn’t hear the last question Detective Simmons had asked him.
“Sorry,” Max said, “What was that?”
“The alarm,” Simmons said. “Could you please tell me what happened with that again?”
Detective Simmons was a stocky black man, about forty years old. He was wearing a wrinkled white shirt, obviously discount, sweat stains on the armpits, with a tie wound on loosely. Max was wearing the navy sweat suit he’d changed into before the police came. He knew it was stylish and made him look slim and athletic.
Other officers, forensic workers and a crime-scene photographer were gathered in the hallway, creating a din of voices and confusion.
“Like I told that other officer,” Max said. “I tripped it off by accident. I mean I forgot to disarm it.”
“So the alarm definitely wasn’t ringing when you got home?”
“No,” Max said.
Now Simmons was looking in a small notepad, saying, “And what about the other victim – Stacy Goldenberg. Did you know that your wife was going shopping with her today?”
“No,” Max said. He was starting to feel nauseous again, thinking about how he was going to have to face his brother-in-law and sister-in-law – Stacy’s parents. The vodka in his stomach was shouting, Yo, buddy, how ’bout some more down here?
“When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”
“Like I told the first officer – this morning.”
“You didn’t talk to her at all during the course of the day?”
Max shook his head, trying for that devastated look.
“The past few days, had your wife told you about anything strange that happened around the house while you were gone? For example, did she say any strangers came to the door or rang the bell or anything like that?”
Max, still shaking his head, said, “No. Nothing like that,” acting weighed down with grief.
“So far we haven’t found any sign of forced entry,” Simmons said. “What about keys? Do you keep a spare set with any friends or neighbors?”
“No,” Max said, letting his voice choke a little.
“What about the code to your alarm? Do you share that with anybody?”
“No one knew the code except me, Deirdre, and the alarm company.” Damn, if he could just squeeze a few tears out. How did they do that shit?
“You see what I’m getting at, don’t you, Mr. Fisher? There are only two likely possibilities for how the killer got inside the house. He either broke in before the women arrived, or he forced his way in with them. If he broke in, he would have tripped off the alarm, and if he forced his way in with the women, the alarm would still have gone off unless he forced your wife to disarm it. But even if he did that, it wouldn’t explain how the alarm got set again when he left, and you’re telling me that when you came home the alarm was set. So the only logical conclusion is that the killer – or killers – somehow knew the code to your alarm.”
Simmons gave him a look that seemed to scream, I know you did it and I’m gonna hang you for it, you schmuck.
Trying to ignore the look, pretending he was imagining it, Max said, “You know, I’m really not feeling too well. Is it possible we could do this tomorrow?”
He wiped his dry eyes, as if he were on the verge of some hysterical weeping.
“I understand,” Simmons said, “but it’s true what they say, you know – the first twenty-four hours after a crime is committed is when most criminals are apprehended. If we could just clarify a couple of other things, I think it could help us a great deal.”
An officer came over and started talking to Detective Simmons. Max wasn’t paying attention, staring blindly again toward the activity outside the house.
“This is just routine,” Simmons continued, “but can we go over your whereabouts tonight one more time just to make sure we got everything down right?”
He had a little edge in his voice, making it clear that this wasn’t really a request.
“I was at Legz Diamond’s entertaining a client.”
“And what time did you get there?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere around six o’clock.”
“And you were with a gentleman named Jack Haywood?”
“That’s right.”
“And where does Mr. Haywood work?”
Max told him. Simmons wrote the information down then asked, “And how long were you at Legz Diamond’s?”
He stressed the Legz, leaning on it, letting it show what he thought of those kinds of places.
“Like I said, I got home around ten, ten-thirty, so I was probably there, I don’t know, till about nine forty-five, ten o’clock.”
“And you say you took a cab home?”
“First I dropped Jack off at Penn Station.” Suddenly, Max felt lightheaded again, a little dizzy. “I really don’t think I can handle any more of these questions right now. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t wait to get back to that vodka bottle.
