Simple by Kathleen George Page B

“You have to do a little bit just to keep them off you, right?”
    Cal nodded.
    â€œSo,” Christie said, “I just want to start with something simple, but direct and important to your situation. The discrepancy. You said one thing, then another. Last night you said yes, you had killed Cassie Price. Then later, when you were booked, you said no, you hadn’t. Can you explain that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy did you change your mind?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Both detectives paused, waiting. They did the twelve count. When they were about to give up, Cal said, “I don’t know what to think. What if I did?”
    A little shiver went through Christie. “Are you saying you don’t know if you did?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow can that be?”
    â€œIt’s hard to explain.”
    â€œDrink? Were you drinking?”
    â€œI don’t drink. I’m not against it, I just don’t, unless I go to some event and everybody has a beer.”
    â€œWhat kind of event would that be?”
    â€œThere aren’t too many. Like there was one with the company that sold me my house for all the Oakland owners. It was a party. I handed out my work fliers. I had a beer there. I just never think to buy it.”
    â€œDid you have anything to drink last Thursday night?”
    â€œNo. I’m sure I didn’t.”
    They let some time go by again.
    â€œSee, I used to have blackouts. That’s the problem. I haven’t had any for a long time. But what if I had one and didn’t know I did?”
    â€œI see,” Christie said. “When is the last one you remember?”
    â€œTwo years out of high school. I had two in high school, and then the two after that, but then I thought they were gone. For good.”
    Christie looked to Dolan, who said, “If you did have one, let’s see, you would have walked over to Cassie Price’s place? Or what? Driven?”
    â€œI just live a street away. I would never drive. But why would I go there?”
    â€œCan you think of a reason?”
    â€œIf I got mixed up and thought I should be at work. I don’t think I ever mixed up day and night before. But they asked me if the gloves were my gloves and they were. They were mine.” He was still shaky. He looked at his hands as if they wore the gloves.
    â€œThat is puzzling. You keep the gloves with you, then?”
    â€œNo, no, well, I might sometimes, but these old ones I just left there. The weather, it’s been dry, and I was working on her porch.”
    Christie gave Dolan the nod to speak.
    Dolan said, “Tell me, what kind of thing about her would make you angry? About Cassie?”
    Cal heaved a big sigh and knuckled his mouth. Christie studied the fellow. He was not bad looking. Just the slightest bit unusual—the color of his eyes, green he supposed, and something about the way the features went together that was arresting. He flushed, but it didn’t seem to be Dolan’s question making him angry—he didn’t look angry; the guy had blushed before in what seemed like typical shyness.
    â€œNothing. She was a friendly person. I never got angry with her.”
    â€œNever?” Dolan asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThis is a puzzle, then,” Dolan said lightly. “Unless you were in love with her and she didn’t love you back, that kind of thing. That can cause anger.”
    Cal sat straighter. “I liked her. I felt … love for her. I worried about her. I never thought of her as loving me back.”
    â€œWhy was that?” Dolan asked in his honey voice.
    â€œShe loved somebody else.”
    â€œHow do you know? She told you?”
    â€œI saw her crying. I … saw that.”
    â€œI’ve seen some guys,” Dolan said easily, “that can’t stand a woman crying. They need to, you know, stop it. Did you maybe feel that way?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHm. Who