The Assailant by James Patrick Hunt

God, no. You don’t think I—”
    â€œI don’t know yet. Would you be willing to take a polygraph?”
    â€œA lie detector test? Yeah, I’d take one. I swear to you, I didn’t, I didn’t even know. Oh God. My wife . . .” He was crying now. Slumping in his chair.
    Detective Rhodes returned from the back of the house. He looked at Murph and shook his head.
    ______
    Later, Mickey Crawford was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and a ball cap. He sat in the front seat of the Impala with Rhodes. Talking with Rhodes, who he had decided was less threatening than the other cop.
    Murph stood at a distance from the car, holding his cell phone. He said, “Yeah, we’ve set up a polygraph downtown. He’s agreed to do it. He’s agreed to give us fingerprints too. He’s cooperating.”
    Hastings said, “What do you think?”
    â€œWell,” Murph said, “I guess it’s possible, but I don’t think it’s him. We’ll know more later.”
    Hastings said, “How could he leave the motel and not see her?”
    â€œHe says he didn’t see her. Says his car was parked right in front of his room. Said he didn’t see her car. Where was it, by the way?”
    â€œIt was on the other side of the parking lot,” Hastings said. “It’s possible he didn’t see her.”
    â€œDNA tests will show if he was with her that night.”
    â€œRight. But even if he didn’t have sex with her that night, it doesn’t necessarily clear him. He says he never even saw her that night?”
    â€œThat’s what he says. The physical evidence will confirm that. And he is cooperating with us on that score.”
    Hastings said, “Maybe he thinks he can outsmart us. Outsmart the tests.”
    â€œAh, he doesn’t strike me as that type, George. Again, we’ll seewhat the tests show, the polygraph and things. He doesn’t strike me as a turd. Or a lying psychopath.”
    â€œWhat, then?”
    â€œI think he’s a guy who’s probably all right. Marriage is a little dull, his wife won’t fuck him, and he got lonely for a woman. He pretended that this girl cared about him. He didn’t ask much from her.”
    â€œCan he account for his whereabouts the night before?”
    â€œFriday night?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOh, you mean the other girl. Yeah, I asked him about that. He said he was home with his wife, and they had another couple over for dinner.”
    â€œAnd you’re going to check that out?”
    â€œYeah. We got their names and number.”
    â€œOkay, Murph. Well, keep me posted. Oh, listen, Wulf is worried about this shit getting in the press. Serial-killer scare and all that. So be careful about reporters, will you?”
    â€œI will, George. But,” Murph said, “it’s probably what we’re dealing with, isn’t it?”
    â€œYeah, probably. I’ll see you.”

SIXTEEN
    Hastings clicked off the cell phone and walked over to the county detective.
Escobar
, Hastings thought. He had heard someone call the man “Eff.” Right. Short for Efrain.
    Efrain Escobar leaned up against a Ford Crown Victoria, sipping a cup of coffee. Watching all the technicians at work, the brass gathering around and asking questions.
    Hastings said, “Have you guys sent someone to question her pimp yet?”
    â€œNo, I don’t think so.”
    â€œWhy don’t we do it?”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYeah. You know where to find him, don’t you?”
    â€œI think so.”
    Hastings shrugged. “It’s your county. I’d just be riding along.”
    â€œRight,” Escobar said, smiling.
    â€¢
    They went in Escobar’s Ford. A white slickback, no lights on top, but all the police-car goodies inside. This included a keyboard computer extending from the dashboard, standard on most county-police vehicles. Escobar would pull