Oh my God, someone had killed Eddie in my bed. Someone had come into my house and killed him. Eddie hadn’t ordered Chinese food and then decided to kill himself. He’d ordered Chinese food, planned to have dinner with me, and instead he’d been murdered. By someone, someone he’d let into my home. Someone he knew?
I felt like an idiot. Why hadn’t I seen this before? If it was a TV show, I would have. But no one expects their own life to suddenly morph into an episode of Forensic Files. It’s real life. In real life, someone you barely know doesn’t get murdered in your bed while you’re at the gym. That happens to other people.
I looked down at the search warrant in my hand. It meant something. Something important. I tried to grasp exactly what. They’d gotten a search warrant because…they thought I might not let them in. They thought they had to have everything nice and legal to build their case. For when they arrested someone. Me? Was I the suspect?
Detective Tripp asked me to sit down. I didn’t. Then he said, in a voice smooth as silk, “Tell me again how you met Javier.”
I could tell from his face he already knew the answer. “On massageformen.com. I answered his ad.”
“You weren’t dating him. You hired him.”
“The first time I hired him. The second time was a date.” That seemed like a lie, even to me.
“People like Javier don’t date their clients.”
“Except he did.”
“Why didn’t you tell me how you met before?” He was obviously displeased with me.
“I thought his family might not know what he was doing. I thought maybe they shouldn’t find out. I was trying to be nice.” He gave me a hard look. I could tell he was trying to figure out why I was lying, even though I wasn’t. I stared right back at him and asked, “Why would I lie about things like that?”
Tripp smiled wryly. “Some people lie just to lie.”
“Tell me what’s going on. This isn’t making any sense.”
Before Tripp could answer, his partner came over and explained, “We’re searching your home, your garage, your car. We’re going to be taking your computer and your cell phone. It’s all in the warrant I handed you.”
“Why would you do that?”
Ignoring my question, Hanson set a briefcase down on my dining table and opened it. She pulled out a plastic evidence bag and held it up so I could see it. Inside was a brown belt I’d bought two years before at a discount store. “Is this yours?” she asked.
“Probably.” Well, mine wasn’t the only one in the world.
“Do you have any idea why Javier might have hung himself with your belt?” she asked.
I didn’t. All I could think to say was, “I don’t remember him wearing a belt. It must have been the only one he could find.”
“Wrong answer.”
“He was wearing a belt?” I guessed. I had the sensation of being on a surrealist game show. I wasn’t winning.
“Javier didn’t hang himself. He was strangled,” Tripp explained, earning himself a glare from Hanson.
“No…he killed himself,” I insisted.
“No. He didn’t.”
I sat down, struggling with the idea. Looking around my house, police officers seemed to be everywhere. Picking things up. Looking in drawers. Touching everything.
“You said you were at the gym?” Hanson asked.
“Yes. I got there about six or so. I left a couple hours--”
“You belong to Holiday Fitness?”
“Yes.” I wondered how she got this information. Were they that plugged in?
“They don’t have a record of your being there.”
“The scanner was down. Or the girl was being flaky.”
“Which?”
“I don’t know. I just remember she didn’t scan my card.”
“Convenient,” Hanson said under her breath.
“Did anyone see you there?” Tripp asked. “Anyone you talked to? Someone who might remember you?”
Obviously, I couldn’t tell them about masturbating in the shower with Stripes. “I’ll have to think about that. Why do you think someone killed Eddie?”
“The autopsy revealed bruises on his neck consistent with strangulation,” Tripp said.
Hanson cleared her throat in a dramatic way. “Can I talk to you a minute?” She pulled him away to the other side of my living room. They had a whispered disagreement. I wondered if they were setting up some kind of good cop/bad cop game, if this was all part of a strategy.
I heard Hanson say, “I’m primary on this. It plays out my way.” Tripp defended himself, though I didn’t hear exactly what he said. She responded with, “Don’t fuck this up for me.” Her voice sounded like an angry wife laying down the law to her husband.
It didn’t matter, though. As I listened, I relaxed. The whole thing was a misunderstanding, and they were about to figure that out.
When they came back I said, “You’ve made a mistake. You asked me about the bruises the first time you were here. Don’t you remember? Eddie...I mean, Javier...he had them already. He told me he tripped--”
“These are different bruises,” Tripp explained, and my stomach sank. “New bruises. Sometimes, after death it takes time for bruises to--”
“You have a history of violence,” Hanson accused.
“What?” I asked, completely shocked. “No, I’m not a violent--”
“You were arrested for assault last November.”
“The charges were dropped. It was a misunderstanding.”
“You beat up your boyfriend. He required stitches.”
The lowest point of my breakup with Jeremy had come just before Thanksgiving when I discovered he’d cleaned out the money market which held the funds from the second mortgage. I’d insisted he come over to discuss the problem, and after a great deal of shouting, I slapped him in the face. He slapped me back, and before I knew it we’d taken a couple swings at each other. It wouldn’t have been a big deal -- well, a
