turned his head. Christian was grinning very slightly, as if remembering something that gave him secret pleasure. David turned his head so he was looking at the ceiling.
"Yes," he said, and felt suddenly bone weary, as if sleep were going to overtake him. But it didn’t.
They asked him questions.
"How are you feeling, David? Are you still depressed?"
"No. I was never depressed. Not in the way you imagine."
"What does that mean? Depression’s depression—especially if it makes you suicidal. It’s something to deal with, something to overcome—"
"Don’t badger him, please," the doctor warned.
"Who’s badgering? I’m concerned. I’m the man’s friend, for God’s sake!"
David listened and answered, "It was not suicide that I attempted."
"Of course it wasn’t," Karen interjected.
"So maternal," Christian said. Then, "Was it the same place, David? The same place you went to five years ago?"
David shook his head. "I don’t know." He paused. "Yes. The same place."
"But you went . . . deeper?"
David nodded. "Deeper," he whispered. "Yes."
"How much deeper?"
"He’s tiring," the doctor warned.
"It was a simple question."
"Not so simple," David managed.
"It’s the heart of simplicity, David."
"Deep," he said.
"And you’re going to try it again, aren’t you?”
"No. Of course not."
"We’re not convinced, David." Christian’s voice. A pause; then, "I need answers. I have no answers."
"What sort of answers?" Christian asked.
"Answers to . . . questions I have. We’ve talked about this already."
"Questions about Anne?" Christian again.
"Yes. Mostly."
"I’m afraid that I must insist now—"
"What do you need to know, David? We know what’s important. We know who killed her."
"Possibly. I don’t know. I thought I knew, but I’m not sure."
"Please, no more questions. Your friend is very tired."
"We really do know who killed her, David. So what else do we need to know?"
David said nothing and, a minute later, Christian and Karen were gone and he was alone.
But he knew that he was not alone. He knew that something had come into the room with them, and had stayed, and still lurked in their absence.
He glanced about the room, expecting to see more than beige walls, monitoring equipment, gray blankets.
And he did.
He saw dust.
He smelled pine tar.
And he heard distant voices raised in gaiety. Then he slept.
~ * ~
IN BATAVIA—THE FOLLOWING MORNING
Leo Kenner said, "Our boy did the rape. Are we agreed on that?" During Anne’s autopsy, it had been discovered—through bruising on her shoulders and arms and around her pelvic area—that she had very probably been raped.
"Our boy?" said Fred Collins.
"Brian Fisher. We agree that he did it, right?”
“The medical examiner wasn’t certain it was rape. It was just a guess."
Kenner looked suddenly exasperated. He fished for a moment in the thin file on Anne Case’s murder—it lay open on his desk—then handed a page from it across to Collins.
Collins glanced quickly at it. It was page one of the Genesee County medical examiner’s Report of Autopsy . At the bottom of the page, outlined in red pencil, were the words, "The high probability exists that subject was victim of forced intercourse one week-ten days prior to death . . . "
"So?" Kenner coaxed.
Collins handed the sheet back. "If she was raped, then I’ll concede that Fisher probably did it. But it doesn’t jive with his profile—"
"That profile was done postmortem. What use is it? He killed himself , he killed her , so of course he raped her. What could be clearer?" It was to Kenner’s credit that his pointed questions were clearly not rhetorical.
"Of course it’s clear, Leo," Collins said. "I simply don’t believe it." He shrugged. "And for me, that throws a monkey wrench into our whole investigation. If Brian Fisher didn’t rape her, who the hell did?"
"Uh-huh. Well, I believe that he did rape her. But the point is, Fred, even if he didn’t, then the bald and
"Yes," he said, and felt suddenly bone weary, as if sleep were going to overtake him. But it didn’t.
They asked him questions.
"How are you feeling, David? Are you still depressed?"
"No. I was never depressed. Not in the way you imagine."
"What does that mean? Depression’s depression—especially if it makes you suicidal. It’s something to deal with, something to overcome—"
"Don’t badger him, please," the doctor warned.
"Who’s badgering? I’m concerned. I’m the man’s friend, for God’s sake!"
David listened and answered, "It was not suicide that I attempted."
"Of course it wasn’t," Karen interjected.
"So maternal," Christian said. Then, "Was it the same place, David? The same place you went to five years ago?"
David shook his head. "I don’t know." He paused. "Yes. The same place."
"But you went . . . deeper?"
David nodded. "Deeper," he whispered. "Yes."
"How much deeper?"
"He’s tiring," the doctor warned.
"It was a simple question."
"Not so simple," David managed.
"It’s the heart of simplicity, David."
"Deep," he said.
"And you’re going to try it again, aren’t you?”
"No. Of course not."
"We’re not convinced, David." Christian’s voice. A pause; then, "I need answers. I have no answers."
"What sort of answers?" Christian asked.
"Answers to . . . questions I have. We’ve talked about this already."
"Questions about Anne?" Christian again.
"Yes. Mostly."
"I’m afraid that I must insist now—"
"What do you need to know, David? We know what’s important. We know who killed her."
"Possibly. I don’t know. I thought I knew, but I’m not sure."
"Please, no more questions. Your friend is very tired."
"We really do know who killed her, David. So what else do we need to know?"
David said nothing and, a minute later, Christian and Karen were gone and he was alone.
But he knew that he was not alone. He knew that something had come into the room with them, and had stayed, and still lurked in their absence.
He glanced about the room, expecting to see more than beige walls, monitoring equipment, gray blankets.
And he did.
He saw dust.
He smelled pine tar.
And he heard distant voices raised in gaiety. Then he slept.
~ * ~
IN BATAVIA—THE FOLLOWING MORNING
Leo Kenner said, "Our boy did the rape. Are we agreed on that?" During Anne’s autopsy, it had been discovered—through bruising on her shoulders and arms and around her pelvic area—that she had very probably been raped.
"Our boy?" said Fred Collins.
"Brian Fisher. We agree that he did it, right?”
“The medical examiner wasn’t certain it was rape. It was just a guess."
Kenner looked suddenly exasperated. He fished for a moment in the thin file on Anne Case’s murder—it lay open on his desk—then handed a page from it across to Collins.
Collins glanced quickly at it. It was page one of the Genesee County medical examiner’s Report of Autopsy . At the bottom of the page, outlined in red pencil, were the words, "The high probability exists that subject was victim of forced intercourse one week-ten days prior to death . . . "
"So?" Kenner coaxed.
Collins handed the sheet back. "If she was raped, then I’ll concede that Fisher probably did it. But it doesn’t jive with his profile—"
"That profile was done postmortem. What use is it? He killed himself , he killed her , so of course he raped her. What could be clearer?" It was to Kenner’s credit that his pointed questions were clearly not rhetorical.
"Of course it’s clear, Leo," Collins said. "I simply don’t believe it." He shrugged. "And for me, that throws a monkey wrench into our whole investigation. If Brian Fisher didn’t rape her, who the hell did?"
"Uh-huh. Well, I believe that he did rape her. But the point is, Fred, even if he didn’t, then the bald and
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