Chapter 22

“I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks upon a crime, he is morally guilty of any other crime which may spring from it.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Priory School

“Okay honey, what’s going on here?” Patterson demanded.

As I opened my mouth, I could hear a little imp on my shoulder who sounded just like my attorney, Karl Patrick, telling me, “don’t ever talk to cops.” I had nothing to do with a dead body. I wanted to explain everything. At heart, I’m one of those citizens who’ve been endangered by Civics classes because I still have faith in the police and prosecutors. But I knew they’d never believe me. I put away my goody two-shoes and didn’t answer. Karl was not going to like this. He’d have to prove me innocent. But at least I was taking his advice.

“Okay girlie, gonna play it tough and keep quiet? Let’s go wait for the wagon out front.”

He clasped my arm and started towing me, leaving my bag sitting there. We detoured and walked past the open dining room doors. All the lights were on. EMT’s were moving around. One of them was saying, “No Pulse.” Blood was everywhere. Mrs. Toller was lying on the floor. Her skull was caved in.

My knees got wobbly.

“Oh my God. Is she dead?” I asked, not believing what I was seeing. What the hell had happened? And had it happened while I was here, in the house?

“Why’d you do it, girlie? What is there in this place to make that worthwhile?” I was frozen, but I could hear Karl’s voice again.

“Are we gonna find anything else?” Patterson asked. “Like more bodies, for instance?”

I hadn’t known about Jean’s Toller’s body, and I didn’t know who or what else was in the house. But I didn’t tell him that. Instead I heard a voice that didn’t sound like me say; “I want my lawyer.”

When we got to the front steps, Patterson Mirandized me.

An ambulance and other police vehicles were parked at odd angles along the curved driveway and the street. I wondered how they had gotten the iron gates opened. I didn’t see any TV trucks yet, thankfully. The area was lit up with flashing lights and people and overlaid with tendrils of wispy damp fog that muted the noise and confusion. It didn’t feel real. I hoped I’d wake up.

Two detectives in plain clothes were coming up the walk.

“What‘ave we got here, Patterson?” the first suit asked.

“We caught this one in the library. There’s a deader in the dining room. This one left a bag and a wig in the library. We responded to a silent from the alarm company.”

“How’d she get in?” the suit asked?

“She won’t say, but a window in the library was open. She’s already lawyered up.”

I knew I hadn’t opened that window. The evidence against me was mounting. Karl was going to be livid.

One suit looked me up and down. He shook his head and said, “Get her to the precinct.”

“We’ll secure the scene,” the other suit told Patterson.

As he led me to his squad, Officer Patterson turned to me and said, “You’re a real hard case, huh? Not gonna say a word about what you did tonight?”

I sure wasn’t feeling like any hard case, but I stifled myself. I was more afraid of Karl Patrick right now than I was of Patterson.

He folded me into the back seat of his squad. I wondered how close it was to sunrise.

As we rode to the precinct, Patterson asked again if I wanted to tell him what happened. It was easy to resist these entreaties. All I wanted to do was sleep. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I tried. If you fall asleep, the cops right away think you are a complete sociopath and totally guilty.

At the precinct, I had to answer the same questions about date of birth, etc. Then they took fingerprints, a cheek swab, and my photo. I changed into a jail coverall, and they took away my clothes to test for blood and other forensics.