“Is he your boyfriend?” Tripp asked, his voice blandly neutral.
I shook my head. “We’ve had a couple dates. That’s all.”
In that instant, I decided I shouldn’t tell the police how I met Eddie. Somewhere he had a family, a mother, a dad. Some cop, maybe even this guy, was going to come to the door and tell them that their son had killed himself. It would be awful. But it would be worse if they found out he was the kind of masseuse who specialized in a full release -- an escort, really.
“But you left him alone in your house?”
In the garage, Detective Hanson had begun to take photos of Eddie. They’d set up a couple portable lights. Between the flash and the portable lights, my garage seemed to glow.
“You left him alone in your house?” Tripp repeated. “Even though you didn’t know him well.”
“We had a date last night. He stayed over. This morning when I left for work he was still sleeping. I expected he’d be gone before I got home.”
“What’s his name?”
“Eddie.”
“Last name?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How many dates did you have? Exactly.”
“Two. Just two.” I hoped that made me sound a little less stupid for not knowing Eddie’s last name. Though it probably made me look even dumber for leaving him alone in my place.
“How did you meet him?” the detective asked.
“Online.”
He nodded, as though suicide after an Internet date was pretty common. “It’s still pretty upsetting, though,” he suggested. Up to this point, he’d been so businesslike. I appreciated the kindness in his voice.
“Yes, it is.”
“Suicide is hard thing for people to understand.”
I nodded.
“Was he angry at you?” Tripp asked.
“We didn’t know each other well enough for him to be angry.”
“He seem like a stable guy? There was no indication he might do this?”
“He called me earlier in the day. We talked about what to have for dinner.”
“You talked about having dinner? You just said you hoped he’d be gone by the time you got home.”
“I did. But it wasn’t working out that way.” Suddenly, I felt very guilty about having wanted to dump this poor guy. What if I’d come home earlier? What if I’d been more interested in spending time with him?
In the garage, an electric saw began to whir, and I jumped. I tried to take a step and look around the detective. He moved to block me. Without looking, I knew what they were doing. They were cutting Eddie down. Still, I asked, “What are they doing?”
“It’s all right. They won’t damage anything any more than they have to.” Given the sounds, I didn’t believe that possible.
“Did you reject Eddie?” he asked, getting back to business. “Ask him to leave? Freak him out in anyway?”
“I was hoping he’d get the hint, you know? I went to the gym and hoped he’d be--” I stopped, looked the detective right in the eye. “You don’t think he killed himself because I didn’t come home for dinner, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” he said, in a reassuring voice. “But I do need to figure out what did happen. Do you mind if we look in the house?”
“No, go ahead.”
He left me standing on the curb. I watched as his partner finished taking photos of Eddie then nodded at the coroners. They stepped forward to pull Eddie down, resting his body on the oily garage floor. Then they got a gurney from the van. But they didn’t immediately put him onto it. They huddled around him. Hanson took more pictures.
Tripp watched a moment then stepped over to his partner. After they huddled, he went into my back door. Hanson looked down the driveway at me and gave me a look I couldn’t read; she didn’t like me, that part was clear. But I had no idea why. She turned and followed her partner into my house.
A small knot of neighbors gathered on the far side of the street. I could have joined them, I suppose. Could have told them what was happening. Tried to make myself sound like a victim and gotten sympathy. But I wanted nothing to do with them. I didn’t want to talk any more than I had to.
Standing at the end of my driveway, I was somehow inside a circle my neighbors were afraid to penetrate. After a while, I noticed Mrs. Enders from across the street edging toward me. She was in her mid-sixties, though she dressed like a teenage pop star, hoping to deny time. She wore a tight blouse that showed her freckled midriff and pedal-pushers. On her feet were fluffy slippers, and in her hand was a vodka and soda.
She made it to the middle of the street, as close as she dared. “It’s not Jeremy, is it?”
I shook my head, but didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to encourage her, didn’t want to explain. Not yet. She looked relieved that it wasn’t Jeremy. He always did a good job of charming old ladies. She tried to smile encouragement at me, though I could tell from the hesitant way she did it she wasn’t sure if she should. She waddled back to her side of the street.
The coroners wheeled Eddie down the driveway. Briefly, they left him sitting a few feet from me while opening the doors of the van. He’d been wrapped in a white sheet and then placed into a body bag. They hadn’t been able to close the bag completely. They’d cut a chunk of metal off the garage opener. A belt was tied to the chunk. The other end of the belt, the buckle end, was around Eddie’s neck. The belt was no longer taut, and I could see a deep, wide rut where it had dug into his neck. It was purple and red. I couldn’t help but think about the
