SUNDAY EVENING
Detective Bill Rossi could smell the fear in me. I saw it in the way he aimed his beady eyes at me and lobbed question after question, trying to trip me up.
I shivered in my seat as the vent poured cold air over my bare arms. The air conditioning was set too low for Western Pennsylvania balmy May weather as it blasted through the interview room. That’s what Detective Rossi called it, as if I was interviewing for a job, but I knew it for what it was: an interrogation room. The room where they would pull apart my statement, searching for holes and inconsistencies and any trace of a lie.
I hugged my arms, rubbing my hands up and down until the goose bumps settled back into my skin. The lukewarm black coffee – they were out of creamer and sugar, he said, as he placed the Styrofoam cup in front of me – did little to warm me. Beside me sat Aria, zombified with grief, and Detective Rossi sat opposite us holding a pen and pad of paper. I asked if I needed an attorney, to which he replied, ‘Not if you don’t have anything to hide.’
I did, of course, but I couldn’t let him know that. So I answered his questions one by one, crying real tears between the script. I wasn’t a coldhearted bitch who didn’t love her husband, after all. Owen had been my world. But when your world begins to turn dark and dangerous, you have to ask yourself if that’s really where you want to live. And I knew the only way out was until death do us part … his death, unfortunately. It had to be done, no matter how much I loved him or how much the act blackened my soul.
This is what I told myself to feel better. To justify what I had done. So far it wasn’t working.
The detective glanced at his notepad, then looked up at my daughter. ‘Aria, you say you were home all evening last night and didn’t hear anything or see anything?’
I hated that my innocent daughter had been dragged into this.
She dabbed her eyes with a tissue the detective had handed her. ‘I was in my room most of the night, since Dad was drinking. A lot. I could hear him watching television and fuming about Mom being out, but that’s all I heard. I had earbuds in most of the night, listening to music. The first thing I heard this morning was Mom screaming and crying that she found Dad with his throat …’ She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
Detective Rossi vigorously chewed his gum, then he shifted to me. I smelled the mint on his breath. ‘One more time, Mrs Fischer, please explain for me exactly what happened, starting with last night. Every detail you can think of, big or small.’
I had already given the same story twice now. But I knew better than to sound defensive and annoyed; that was a sure giveaway of guilt. I calmly told the story again. ‘We had gotten in a tiff yesterday afternoon and I needed some fresh air and went to visit my friend Lily. We ended up drinking, so I spent the night at her place, since I don’t drink and drive. You can check my voicemail messages from Owen – he called me over a dozen times asking where I was.’
I knew they would stumble across the messages eventually, so my plan was to offer as much truth as possible – the fight, me leaving, his messages – to appear fully transparent. I could control how the story was told, but not how it was interpreted.
‘Why didn’t you return his calls?’
‘I was upset. Haven’t you ever gotten in a fight with your spouse? Sometimes you just want some peace. That’s all I wanted.’
He nodded. What did that mean?
‘What time did you leave Lily’s?’
I pretended to think it over. ‘Um, I ended up heading home pretty early in the morning – it was still dark out. I couldn’t sleep and I felt okay to drive, so that’s why I left.’
He made a check mark next to something I’d previously said. Good, I wasn’t deviating from my story. ‘What happened when you got home?’
‘When I got home this morning, I noticed the back door glass was smashed in, so I ran upstairs to check on Aria and Owen. Aria was asleep, but I found Owen …’
I stopped, the image of his lifeless body lying there overwhelming me. By my own hand. His face a dull gray as morning sunlight rose over him. A sob slipped out, then another as it hit me that I would never see that face again.
‘Take your time, Mrs Fischer. I know this is hard.’
‘Sorry.’ I closed my eyes and inhaled a calming breath. ‘I’m okay.’
‘You’re doing great. Now think back on the fight yesterday. Try to remember what you two were fighting about. It might be important.’ Although his words were intended to sound compassionate, they came out cold, calculating. He didn’t care about my grief; he only cared about solving a murder.
A tissue box sat on the table. I grabbed one and wiped my nose to buy time. This was the third time he’d asked about the fight since we’d gotten here, and it wasn’t for no reason. He was fishing for information he already knew. ‘Oh, I remember now. We had been fighting about something he did behind my back – to a friend of ours.’
‘Did that fight have anything to do with the recent charges your husband pressed against …’ He read from the page in front of him. ‘Ryan Thompson?’
‘Why yes, that was exactly what we had been fighting about. He pressed rape charges on behalf of Aria without talking to us first. We’re close friends with that family. I just didn’t understand why he would do that.’
‘Dad did what?’ Aria’s attention swung to me.
‘Your father went to the police about what happened between you and Ryan. He formally filed rape charges. I wanted to tell you yesterday when I found out, but everything happened so fast.’
‘Why didn’t he ask me what happened? Or if I wanted to press charges? Shouldn’t that be my decision?’
The detective stepped in. ‘In many cases parents file on behalf of their child, especially in a case where we’re dealing with an adult and a minor, even if it’s consensual. It’s illegal, which is why your father came forward.’
‘But we go to school together. Ryan’s not even much older than me.’
‘Yes, but he’s eighteen, an adult in the eyes of the law, which makes it statutory rape. Your father was right to report it.’ The detective turned back to me. ‘How did you come to find out what your husband did, Mrs Fischer? Did he tell you?’
‘No, Ryan’s mom – a friend of mine since college – showed up at our house yesterday yelling at Owen about it. I overheard.’
‘So that gives her motive to kill him, doesn’t it? Her son facing jail time. His whole life ruined before he’s even out of high school. It’s a pretty strong reason to hate Owen Fischer. To want him dead.’
Oh God, I didn’t like where this was heading.
‘No, absolutely not. Robin wouldn’t hurt a fly. She was upset, but not enough to kill him.’
‘What about Ryan? Certainly he must be pretty angry to be looking at a possible jail sentence, thanks to your husband.’
I couldn’t let Detective Rossi pin two innocent people to his list of subjects. I would rather take the blame than let that happen. ‘No, I don’t think so. They’re well off, and it was clearly a robbery. Stuff was missing, the police said – cash, my husband’s car, jewelry. Why would they steal stuff if they only wanted to kill him?’
‘To stage it. Make it look like a robbery when in fact it was a murder all along.’
‘No, I really don’t think so. If you knew the family, you’d know it’s not possible.’
‘That’s what they said about Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy,’ Detective Rossi said with a deadpan expression. ‘You really never know someone until you slip into their skin.’
That’s exactly what the detective was trying to do – get under my skin, rove inside my mind, discover my secrets. It was impossible to tell from his inscrutable face if he was having any luck as he watched me, like I was a zoo animal behind glass. He wanted to break through that glass, and if I had to, to protect Robin I just might let him.
Things were quickly spiraling out of control, sorrow and regret fogging up my judgment, and there was no way to put Humpty Dumpty together again. But no matter how much I lied or killed or ran to protect myself, I would never send my friends to hell in my place.