The interview room feels like a sketchy elevator: small and bright, with a cable that’s ready to snap. Across from me sit two detectives, an older guy named Farley and a young one named Morton. They’re both pale, haggard, and look sleep-deprived. I imagine they live here at the police station, surviving on mistrust and bad coffee.
Morton’s pallor is broken by freckles. He’s got shockingly bright red hair. The other guy, Farley, must be near retirement. He’s hunched and overweight. He reminds me of a toad. A freakishly smart one.
My left foot starts to jiggle. Why the fuck did I call 911? These policemen—no, all policemen—scare me. I hate their sharp gazes, their unconcealed suspicion. They hold all the power, while all I have are my wits, which are dull from being up all night doing unthinkable things.
If I say the wrong thing, I could lose everything. My liberty. My reputation. But most of all, Ruby. The extent of the risk I’ve taken is sinking in. I’ve got the shakes. I’ve had no sleep, no breakfast, and far too much coffee.
A paper cup sits in front of me, half-full, calling out. I reach for it but stop. Too much caffeine might make me blab. I can’t have more, no matter how tempting.
When the attending officers let me leave the accident scene, I raced home to feed and dress Ruby, then dropped her at school.
I had to call Stanton House to say I wouldn’t be coming to work today. While helping the police is my civic duty, the sour-voiced school secretary implied I was playing hooky. Cow. It’s not like I chose to be here.
To stop myself from grabbing the coffee cup, I sit on my hands.
“Would you like a fresh cup?” asks Detective Morton.
“No, thank you.” Damn. He noticed that weakness. I press my thighs together to stop my foot tapping.
Despite a quick shower, I’m scared I smell of bleach and fear. I’m sure my eyes are bloodshot. And I wore this coat last night. It looks clean to the eye, but what if they test it for bloodstains? I’m hot but keep it on. The silence stretches. I can’t stop staring at the damn coffee.
Both detectives wait. I know it’s a ploy to increase the tension. The younger one, Morton, crosses his skinny legs. “Ms. Dykstra, let’s take it from the top,” he says. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
I swallow. We’ve been through this before. And before that. I know they’re hoping for inconsistencies, trying to trip me up. They’ll compare this statement to the one I made at the scene. I know they suspect me.
I take a deep breath. “I was stopped on Marlowe.” I don’t like how my voice has gone phlegmy. “A car was coming down Elm, fast. As it turned left, it swerved and hit that poor woman.”
Morton nods. “The victim, where was she in relation to you?”
“Behind me,” I say. “He hit her when he was making the turn.”
Morton’s pale eyelids flutter. He’s got blue eyes like a white rabbit’s. His eyelashes are as red as his hair. “This speeding car, what color was it?”
I grab my bangs and pull. He’s asked this before. And the uniforms asked too. “I . . . I’m sorry,” I say. Should I make something up? “I don’t recall.”
Morton winces. “Two doors or four?”
I wince.
“Old or new?” He sounds increasingly desperate. “Hatchback or sedan?”
I rack my brain. Nothing. “I’m sorry,” I say, again. “I’m not a car person.”
The old guy, Farley, is tapping his pen as if he’d like to stab me with it.
I could invent a car, just to appease him. But that would be wrong. “I was looking at the driver,” I say. “Not the car. It was a young guy. With fair, longish hair.”
Farley leans in. “Mrs. Dykstra?” No Ms. for him. In their saggy beds, his eyes are suspicious. “You live in Finley Cove?”
I nod cautiously, thrown by this change in topic. I live in a basement suite in Finley Cove, a nice, middle-class neighborhood that borders the Oaks. It’s nowhere near as fancy but still pleasant, with some decent playgrounds and parks.
Dana grew up there. Her dad was an obstetrician, not rich enough for the Oaks but highly respectable. He delivered half the kids in our school. I chose Finley Cove for its good public school, for Ruby. It’s where I went as a kid, back when children deemed “gifted” were sent out of their “disadvantaged” school districts.
I realize Farley’s still waiting for me to answer. I’m so tired I’m wilting. “Yes,” I say. “I live on Ross Street.”
Farley shifts. His toad eyes glitter: “Why were you in the Oaks, early this morning?”
I hold his gaze. Dana and I talked about this. We knew I’d likely be seen going to or from her place. Maybe caught on CCTV. We planned my answer. Nonetheless, my chest tightens. I figured I’d have more time to get myself together. I’m not ready for showtime.
“My best friend lives there. She had a fight with her husband. She called me late last night, very upset. I went over to calm her down.” All of this is true, yet it feels like a lie. My voice has thinned. I’ve started sweating.
Silence follows. I resist the urge to fill it. What if they dig up that bad business in Chicago? I give them Dana’s name and address.
When the interview finally ends, they summon an artist to sketch a likeness based on my memories of the hit-and-run driver. She’s an older woman in Birkenstocks and a nubbly red cardigan. She looks kind. I imagine she gardens and writes letters to Amnesty International.
She smiles as she sits: “You alright, dear?”
I nod. This small sympathy makes me want to cry.
Despite our best efforts, the results are laughable: James Dean with a perm and dentures. Even the artist looks skeptical. “You sure about that chin, dear?”
I shut my eyes and try to recall the young man in the car. I got a good look at him but no longer feel sure of anything. This police sketch is the sort of image that gets mocked on Twitter. All he needs are gag glasses and a fake mustache.
Finally, close to noon, Morton returns to say I’m free to go. Both detectives walk me to my car. Farley’s got a slight limp. We walk slowly through the rain. I can’t believe how good the air smells after the stuffy police station.
As we near my Toyota, I see the detectives eyeing it for damage. I bet it’s already been swabbed. My head throbs. My car’s in dire shape, full of dings and scuffs. And that rust . . . It does look a bit like blood. What if they impound it? How will I get to work without my car?
We all stop by the driver’s side. “Thanks for coming in,” says Morton. He extends a freckled hand. As we shake, I worry he’ll notice my blistered palms.
Farley grimaces. Instead of a handshake, he gives me a tight nod. “We’ll be in touch,” he says darkly.
I nod. Is that a threat, or am I just overtired and paranoid? I want to protest my innocence, but that makes people sound guiltier. And the truth is I’m not innocent. Not at all. Last night I became an accomplice to . . . What? Manslaughter? Illegal disposal of a corpse? A felony for sure. Plus, I ran that stop sign. I can barely get the key in the lock. Good God. What a mess.
I fall shakily into my seat.
Before I can close the door, Detective Morton leans in. “Drive safely.”
Farley nods knowingly, as though he’s sure I’m a dangerous driver.
“Thanks,” I say, then blurt out. “Um. What happened to her Yorkie?”
Farley’s wrinkled forehead furrows. “Pardon?” He scratches his jaw.
“The lady had a little dog.”
“Ah. Don’t worry,” says Farley. His grin’s wolfish. “The dog’s fine. It’s with its owner. The victim was her nanny, who typically walked it.”
It’s only as I’m driving away that I realize: Jesus. What must those detectives think of me? I didn’t ask about that poor woman but about the dog.