“Well, I ran up to the Sloanes, knocked on the door. There was no answer. I let myself in with the master key, then… ”
Cantrell was running out of breath. He ran a hand over bloodshot eyes.
“Take it easy. Tell me what you saw.”
The architect exhaled.
“The body. I’ve never seen a dead body before, believe it or not. He was… he was… ”
“Never mind. Where was she?”
“It scared the hell out of me. She was just sitting across from him—from it—at the dining room table.”
“Go on.”
“At first, I thought she was dead too. She was just sitting there, like a statue, not making a move. Her husband is sitting across from her, a knife sticking out of his chest… it was something out of a horror movie.”
“So what did you do?”
“I said her name. Just once. That seemed to snap her out of it. She looked at me, blinked, and then stared at her husband.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked me, `Who killed my husband?’ Over and over and over. I told her I didn’t know. Finally, she went to the couch and started crying. Sobbing, really. That’s when I called you.”
Maudlin was taking everything down, word for word, in a notepad.
“Do you think she killed him, Cantrell?”
“I don’t know. There was nobody else in the apartment. The door was locked. There was still food on the table. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You didn’t, unless you touched something.”
“I don’t think so.”
“All right. I’m going to need your help. I’m putting a man at the front door. Nobody gets in or out without I.D.’s. Make sure he has a list of every tenant’s name. I’m cordoning off the entire apartment. Only cops get in until I say so. Clear?”
“No problem. How much time will you need?”
“At least 24 hours, maybe longer.”
The cop looked at his watch. “Couple more questions, if I may.”
Cantrell exhaled again.
Maudlin wanted to know if Cantrell had noticed any suspicious activity between the Sloanes: Was there noticeable tension between them? Did neighbors ever complain about loud noises or arguments? Did either of them speak ill of the other in his presence?
To all of these questions, Cantrell responded no.
Maudlin also asked for all the documentation Cantrell had on the couple—credit reports, lease, legal papers, application, everything. He readily agreed.
“What do you think?” Cantrell asked, when Maudlin finally grew silent.
“I’ll tell you what I think when I know what I think. Meanwhile, maybe you can tell me something. This is the second time in two months that I’ve been to your building, Cantrell. That’s pushing the odds.”
“What are you saying?”
“You know what I’m saying… ”
“Coincidence. Unfortunate timing. Bad luck. I don’t know.”
Maudlin chuckled quietly.
“I don’t believe in any of those.”
Without another word, the detective ascended the staircase to the second floor crime scene to see the carnage for himself.
The door to the flat was open. The crew was already at work—photographers, fingerprint team, forensics, uniforms. Maudlin entered without a word while Cantrell paused at the door.
Bill Sloane still sat at the dining room table, oblivious to the flurry of activity around him. His head was arched back, eyes wide open, seeming to peer at the ceiling above. The rosewood handle of a large knife protruded from the left side of his chest. Both of the dead man’s hands were clasped around the wound, crisscrossed around the stock of the murder weapon.
“That’s an odd position, don’t you think, Smitty?” Maudlin asked his second-in-command. “It almost looks as if he had a heart attack or something, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe,” the other detective replied, obviously preoccupied with something else.
“Where was Mrs. Sloane when you got here?”
“Sitting on the couch, crying her eyes out. She was in total shock. The husband, meanwhile, was dead as a doornail, just where you see him now.”
Maudlin looked at Mrs. Sloane, still sitting on the davenport, nervously smoking a cigarette and regarding the investigation with horrified eyes.
“Has she said anything?”
“Not a peep.”
Maudlin approached the sofa and crouched down before her. Up close, he could see that her trembling hands and forearms were covered in dried blood. He introduced himself and quietly read her the Miranda.
“What happened here, Mrs. Sloane?”
She regarded him with a look like a rabbit trapped in the headlights, mascara running down her pale cheeks, and shook her head.
He repeated the question, more firmly.
She spoke at last:
“I knew I was right… he didn’t leave me any choice, the son of a bitch. He threw it in my face, gloating all the while!”
“What did he throw in your face?”
“His infidelity, detective. You see, my husband had a problem: He couldn’t keep his zipper up. He was unfaithful; fucking around, if you prefer. He’d been doing it for years.”
“So what happened last night?”
“I finally caught him, that’s what happened. Right here, in this seedy, piece of shit hotel.”
She pointed toward the bedroom.
“Right in there, plain as day. Bill and his latest slut—a blonde with big tits, of course, the way he liked them. Cheap and whorish—you must know the type. They were laughing at me… ”
She stopped speaking and looked somewhere over Maudlin’s shoulder. “You say this happened in a hotel room, Mrs. Sloane?”
“Yes. Right here.”
“But we’re in your apartment at the Exeter. You’re at home, Mrs. Sloane.”
She looked at him blankly. “No, you’re wrong.”
Maudlin knew better than to press the point. He recognized delusion when he saw it.
“So why did you have to kill him? Did he threaten you? Attack you?”
She smiled. “No, he didn’t threaten me. Not in the way you’re thinking. You have to understand that he made me do this. He wasn’t only asking for it, detective. He was begging for it. He was throwing it in my face. His whore was laughing right along with him. I’m telling you—I had no choice. Any woman, any loving wife, would have done exactly the same thing.”
“So you’re admitting to me that you did kill your husband?”
“Fuck yes!” She broke into a chilling laugh, then lapsed into silence. Her face took on an almost childish look of desperation.
“Can I go home now?”
Anna sat in her customary perch, on the side of her neatly made bed, tiny legs swinging in the air, dark eyes staring at nothing.
Dr. Sharon Knaster began the visit with the usual medical routine—a quick check of the child’s blood pressure, respiration, heartbeat and eye contact. As she went through the motions, Knaster hoped that Anna did not sense her fear.
Like all the other residents in the Exeter, she was unnerved by recent events. The murder of Bill Sloane was horrifying in its own right. That the police believed that his wife did it only made it worse. Knaster had met Mrs. Sloane several times. She seemed like a pleasant enough woman. What it in the world had possessed her?
She banished the dark thoughts from her mind, in the not entirely scientific belief that Anna might pick up on them. The child had fascinated her from the start, but for reasons she couldn’t identify. There was something about her, something in the nature of her mental trauma, that seemed odd. Something that wasn’t clinically normal; that went well beyond her own training and experience.
She closed her eyes, dispelling such unprofessional thoughts. She finished the preliminary and began to ask Anna a few basic questions: