“Do you mean that Jack didn’t intend to pull the trigger?”
“No. I mean yes, I suppose he did. But it was because he thought Sam was a burglar, trying to kill him. It was dark, and how could he know that Sam didn’t have a knife or a gun too? He thought he had to shoot—that he was protecting his life, and mine too. Neither of them had ever seen each other before, and neither wanted to hurt anyone. It was just a terrible misunderstanding. An accident.”
“So your husband, Jack, really thought he was being attacked, and Sam thought he was about to be murdered and jumped out to defend himself?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Hammond sat down on the couch, crying, her body bent over and shaking. “Yes. It was my fault.”
Catherine looked down at her. The woman was so wretched that for an instant Catherine’s strongest sensation was relief that she was not Marjorie Hammond. She was not this woman bent over and sobbing, crouching on the edge of the couch with her wrists cuffed behind her, unable even to wipe the tears that were streaking her face.
Catherine knew that she was about to do something foolish, and was violating department procedures. But she leaned down and used her key to unlock the handcuffs. She removed them, put them in her purse, and handed Mrs. Hammond a tissue. “Here.”
Mrs. Hammond was rocking back and forth, crying steadily and silently. Almost inaudibly, she said, “It’s so stupid. It’s just so stupid.”
“What is?”
“I always loved Jack. I love him so much. There was nothing wrong with us.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t know. It just happened. I used to see Sam at the store every week, and we said hello. Sometimes we talked for a minute if he was approving a check, or I was asking him where something was. It was nothing. Then one time when I was out in the afternoon, I stopped for coffee at a Starbucks downtown, near Pioneer Square, and he was in there. He came up to me while I was waiting at the counter, and we sat together. We were there for about two hours, and we talked in a way we never did in the store—about our lives, what we thought and felt. He said he always came there on his days off, Tuesday and Thursday, at one, right after lunch, when he’d finished his errands. About a week later, I was near there again, and I went in.”
“Was it because he was there?”
“No, it wasn’t. I didn’t even remember it was Thursday. I happened to see the sign, and I remembered the place as pleasant. Then I got there and saw him, and I realized that the reason I thought it was pleasant was because of him. This time I went and sat with him.” She stopped and cried some more. “He was just so nice. He was good, and smart, and he’d had such a sad life. He and I talked about everything, and then the afternoon was gone.”
“How long did this go on?”
“For a couple of months. I would think to myself that having coffee with a man wasn’t a good idea, so I would miss Tuesday. Then Thursday came and I would ask what the harm was, and it didn’t seem like there was any. So I went, and he would look up from his paper and he’d say how pleased he was that I had come. He would notice things about me, and be able to tell how I was feeling. He was interested in everything I had to say. Pretty soon I would think about it ahead of time, look forward to going to meet him.”
“Was he married too?”
“No. He had been engaged a few years ago, and then she’d changed her mind, and he hadn’t been able to get over it for a long time.”
“But he knew you were married from the start, right?”
“Of course. Jack was the center of my life, and so a lot of the time what I talked about was Jack and me. Sometimes I would tell Sam about fights or hurt feelings I had. And then one day I realized that I’d fallen into the habit of telling him things that I had not even told Jack. If there were problems he didn’t always have answers, and that was a kind of wisdom, too, to know that if the answers were that easy, I would have found them myself. Or even if there was an answer, he knew that I knew it too, but that I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself yet. At those times he would just listen and let me work it out. I tried to do the same for him.”
“When did the relationship move out of Starbucks?”
“After a couple of months. That was my fault. I let that happen. I was feeling really good one day, and what was making me feel good was that Sam knew me so well and still liked me so much. When he saw how I was that day, I think the contrast may have been what struck him. He was kind of subdued and maybe depressed. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me. He said his life was empty and he needed more.”
“More?”
“A real relationship with a woman. He said he didn’t want me to ruin my marriage and break up with Jack. He knew that it was the most important thing in my life. He just wanted to be with me.” She sobbed for a minute or more, while Catherine waited patiently. Then she looked up, almost pleading. “You understand? Jack and I were happy, and that was what he wanted, and I wanted it for him too. I just sat there at the table looking at him, and the words ‘Why not?’ came into my mind. I couldn’t think of an answer that was real. The only answer was that I wasn’t supposed to. He wanted to so much, and I did too. Sam knew that I would never leave Jack. So when I said, ‘Why not?’ this time, it was out loud. We went right from there to a hotel across Pioneer Square.”
“That was the start. How long did it go on?”
“We still met on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, at one. Sometimes we would go to his apartment. Sometimes we would drive somewhere, and he would have reserved a room. It’s been about six months, from March until now. A couple of times, things just seemed wrong, and I would start to break it off. But then I couldn’t.”
“When was that?”
“A few times. I remember once, standing by the car outside a hotel in Fairview, and we were saying good- bye for the last time, and it was raining. I was crying because I cared so much about him, and we were both getting wet, and then I could see his face was wet too. It wasn’t just the rain. And I took it all back and we kissed and went back inside, even though we knew we could be late getting home and I would have to make up a lie for Jack’s sake. I knew I was using up one of my lies, because I knew I wouldn’t have many of them. You can’t lie to someone about why you’re late on Thursday afternoons more than about twice, or they’ll know. It would have hurt Jack so much.” Saying it seemed to remind her of what was about to happen. She began to cry again.
“I’m sorry,” said Catherine.
“Everything is ruined, and there’s nothing to make any of it better. Sam is dead. Jack’s life is ruined. My life is ruined.”
Catherine needed her to get the rest of the story out before she stopped talking. “Was last night the first time Sam stayed over at your house?”
“No. There were a few times before. I couldn’t go to his place at night, because Jack might call our house from his hotel. But this time Jack didn’t call. He just came home to be with me. When Sam and I heard the car pull into the driveway, I was terrified. I looked out the bedroom window and saw the headlights on the garage door, and then the door started to open. I made Sam grab his clothes and run downstairs to hide, so as soon as Jack came upstairs, Sam could slip out.”
“But Jack heard him?”
“Sam must have stumbled in the dark or dropped his shoe or something. I told Jack he was imagining things, but he wouldn’t listen. I went to the top of the stairs and yelled at him not to prowl around—not just to persuade him, but to warn Sam too—but nothing worked. He opened the closet and Sam jumped out at him.” She stared up at Catherine, her eyes red and swollen, her face a mask of anguish. “It’s really the same as I said at first. I told you.”
Catherine said, “I’m sorry. I’m really very sorry.” She gently took her to the car without taking out the handcuffs again, and drove her to the police bureau to get her statement on paper.
By the time Catherine was finished with the statement and her report and had signed the transcript of the tape recording, it was too late to answer any of the telephone messages that had piled up on her desk. She used her cell phone to call Joe Pitt while she drove toward Adair Hill.
He said, “You’re going home late. Solve another murder or something?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Not a happy story, though.” She told him what had happened, then said, “Oops.
