I am proofreading a contract when a man chooses to sit next to me, although the bus is empty. He wears a white button-down shirt, a burgundy tie, a dark suit. He nods to me as he pulls his briefcase onto his lap, springing the catches, opening it up. He takes out the morning paper, unfolds the body of the dead girl.
“Morning,” he says.
“Pardon?” I say.
“Morning,” he says. “As in good morning.”
“Yes,” I say. “Good morning.”
“Or as in bad morning,” he says.
I shrug.
“Or as in mourning the dead,” he says, tapping the girl’s face.
“Yes,” I say. “Terrible tragedy.”
“No need to hold pretense with me,” the man says. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t place you.”
“Can it be you’ve forgotten me?” he asks. “Even after last night?”
“I was alone last night,” I say. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Don’t remember me?”
“Can’t you sit somewhere else?”
He looks perplexed. “Why this rough treatment?” he asks. “You were happy enough to take my advice last night, no?”
He sits back, stiff, examining the newspaper in his hands.
“‘An act of extreme cruelty . . . ,’” he reads. “‘Her neck broken.’” He turns to me. “Of course, they don’t put all the details in there. They’re saving some, things only the killer would know.” He shakes the paper straight. “‘It is unclear whether the rape occurred before or after her death. . . .’”
He raises his head. “Any comments?”
Lowering his head, he scans the rest of the article.
“Listen to this,” he says. “‘Police are confident that blood and semen samples will lead to the apprehension of the killer.’” He puts the paper down. “Think that over, Provost.”
I turn toward the window and look out. The bus is passing out of the suburbs, past the park.
“I am not condemning you,” the man says. “I am one of your greatest admirers. We’ve been through this,” he says. “Let’s move on to something new.”
The bus turns, the back tire scraping the curb as it rounds the corner. I see an old man on his front porch, rocking, eyes missing. He waves slowly as the bus passes him. The man beside me waves absently back.
“You were right to tell your wife about the girl’s brother,” he says.
“But he didn’t kill her.”
“He’s still guilty,” he says. “Every day he was killing her. She wouldn’t have had to be sanctified except for what he did to her. The way I see it you are blameless.”
I get up and move back a few seats, the bus driver watching me in his rearview mirror. The man follows me back, pens me in.
“Tell the police about the brother, Provost,” the man says. “Let them come to their own conclusions.”
The buildings grow tall, become netted in wire and glass. The bus moves slower, but stays empty.
“I can’t do it,” I say.
“Can’t?” he says. “Won’t, you mean.”
“He didn’t kill her,” I say.
“A technicality.”
“Hardly.”
“If he had been there maybe he’d have killed her. But for all the wrong reasons. It was fortunate you were there to kill her for the right ones.”
Staring out the window, I think it over. I like the way it sounds.
On the sidewalk, a man looks at his watch, pushes his hair out of his face. On the sidewalk behind him a man in overalls seems to be shouting at someone though there is nobody paying him any heed.
“Look,” the man beside me says. “Better him than you, no?”
The bus stops and two more people get on, two men in suits, wearing dark glasses. They pass the driver without him seeming to see them and start slowly back toward us.
“Got to go,” the man next to me says. “Almost forgot. This is my stop.”
He dashes from the seat and out the side door of the bus, the two men who have just climbed on rush down after him and out as well. I do not see him, but as the bus pulls out I see one of the other two speaking into a cellular phone, looking around as if confused. He catches a glimpse of me in the bus window and points. The bus pulls away.
In the late afternoon, the police call me at work, ask me if, as the girl’s religious leader, I might have any information about the girl’s murder.
“No,” I say. “I don’t believe I do.”
“We were told that you might have some clue as to who the killer is.”
“Who told you this?”
The officer on the other end of the line pauses. “I’d rather not reveal my source,” he says. “Does it matter?”
“It might,” I say. I am about to say more when the line clicks. “Just a moment, officer. Will you hold?” I say, and switch lines.
“Honey?” my wife says. “The police just called.”
“I told you not to say anything.”
“I’m sorry, it just came out.”
“Why would they call at all?”
“Somebody thought they saw you near Barton’s field that night,” she says. “The police called about that. To see if you’d seen anything. One thing led to another.”
“Me? I was never near there,” I almost shout. “I swear.”
“What’s wrong?” she says. “I know that, you don’t have to tell me, darling.”
“I have to go,” I say.
“I didn’t mean to tell them,” she says. “It just slipped out.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll tell them what they should know.”