The man had caterpillar-like eyebrows framing his forehead, creating a deep shadow over his inset eyes. He looked a bit like the monster in Frankenstein, or those paintings of Neanderthals that you see at the Natural History Museum. His ill-fitting suit, cut too short at just above the ankles, with sleeves that showed his wrist, undermined his intimidating posture at around six foot seven (give or take). He was the sort of man who almost never shouted, but the threat that he might was enough to instill fear in anyone. He towered over the desk and said with a calm, stern tone, looking downward with an intense stare:
“Where were you on Friday night around 8:15 pm?”
I responded timidly. “I was at home, sir, except for a few minutes when I went out with Rusty.” “Rusty?” “My dog, Rusty. He needed to take a walk.” He sighed.
“Can anyone besides Rusty confirm that you were home on Friday?”
I gulped. It was at that moment that it occurred to me that I may just be fucked. I may end up having to go down for this thing. The reality was no, nobody can confirm anything. It didn’t look good at all. The last time that anyone had seen Krystal alive—except for her killer, of course—we had been fighting. It wasn’t an extraordinarily bad fight; nothing worse than the ones we had when we were still together, before we had decided to take a mutually agreed upon break. Just some freshly hurt feelings. But the alcohol certainly hadn’t helped matters, and Krystal wasn’t thrilled to see that I was already dating again. I get it. I’d be upset too. The reality was that I still loved her just as much as I had on our wedding day, and I’m sorry that I put her through that on her last day on Earth and desperately wished I could take it back. Fuck.
I wiped away a tear and shuffled through my memories of that night. Had I stopped anywhere on my way home? I took an Uber, but it was much earlier. At least it’s a start. I think Rusty and I passed someone on the street, but I have no idea who they were. I was posting on Reddit when I got home, complaining about Krystal. “My bitch of an ex wife.” Doesn’t look great in context, but at least it shows that my thumbs were occupied. Even still, Krystal lived so close by that even if they tested the dog shit in the trash can and confirmed the IP posting from Reddit or whatever other NCIS-like magic tricks they had up their sleeves, it was going to be hard to definitively rule out that I wasn’t there during the whole time that she possibly could have been killed.
“I… don’t know. Look, I’ve seen enough Law & Order or whatever to know that I should probably get a lawyer now. But just for the record, I really didn’t do it, and this hurts beyond belief. I love my ex wife. Well, loved, I guess. I hope I can convince you of that. So, lawyer, now. Please. And thank you.”
I had a feeling that he might actually believe me. Or was this guy just playing Good Cop? Was I about to meet Bad Cop? The man exited the room without a word.