Night Train полностью

Because this was no ordinary Sunday, was it, Trader. Had you felt it coming? For how long? You were losing her, weren’t you, Trader. She wanted out from under you, Trader, and you could feel it. Maybe she was already seeing somebody else. Maybe not. But it was over. Oh, come on, man. It’s every­day. You know how it is, Professor. There are popular songs about it. Get on the bus, Gus. Drop off the key, Lee. But you weren’t going to let that happen, were you, Trader. And I understand. I understand.

Untrue. Not the case. False.

You said her mood that day was what?

Normal. Cheerful. Typically cheerful.

Yeah, right. So after a typically cheerful day with her typically cheerful boyfriend, she waits until he leaves the house and puts two bullets in her head.

Two bullets?

That surprises you?

Yes. Doesn’t it surprise you, Detective?

In the past, I have come into this interrogation room with damper ammo than I had on me now, and duly secured a confession. But not often. Men accused of wholesale slaughter, and not for the first time, proven killers with rapsheets as long as toilet rolls: Such men I have coated in sweat with nothing more than a single Caucasoid hair strand or half a Reebok footprint. It’s simple. You do them with science. But science was what Trader was a philosopher of. I am going to go in hard now. No quarter.

Trader, at what point did you and the decedent have sex?

What?

The decedent tested positive for ejaculate. Vaginal and oral. When did that happen?

None of your business.

Oh it is my business, Trader. It’s my job. And I’m now going to tell you exactly what happened that night. Because I know, Trader. I know. It’s like I was there. You and her have the final argument. The final fight. It’s over. But you wanted to make love to her that one last time, didn’t you, Trader. And a woman, at such a moment, will let that happen. It’s human, to let that happen. One more time. On the bed. Then on the chair. You finished on the chair, Trader. You finished it. And fired the shot into her open mouth.

Two shots. You said two shots.

Yes I did, didn’t I. And now I’m going to tell you a secret that you already know. See this? This is the finding from the autopsy. Three shots, Trader. Three shots. And let me tell you, that wipes out suicide. That wipes out suicide. So Mrs. Rolfe upstairs did it, or the little girl in the street did it. Or you did it, Trader. Or you did it.

The space around him goes gray and damp, and I feel the predator in me. He looks drunk—no, drugged. Like on speed: Not hammered but “blocked.” I would understand, later, what was happening in his head: The image that was forming there. I would understand because I would see it too.

It was the look on his face made me ask him:

How do you feel about Jennifer? Right now? Right this minute?

Homicidal.

Come again?

You heard me.

Good, Trader. I think we’re getting there. And that’s how you felt on the night of March fourth. Wasn’t it, Trader.

No.

All the hours I have spent in the interrogation room, over the years, are stacking up on me, I feel, all the hours, all the fluxes and recurrences of the heavi­est kinds of feeling. It’s the things you have to hear and keep on hearing: From your own lips, also.

I have a witness that puts you outside the house at seven thirty-five. Looking dis­tressed. “Mad.” Riled-up. Sound familiar, Trader?

Yes. The time. And the mood.

Now. My witness says she heard the shots before you came out the door. Before. Sound about right, Trader?

Wait.

Okay. Sure I’ll wait. Because I understand. I understand the pressure you were under. I understand what she was putting you through. And why you had to do what you did. Any man might have done the same. Sure I’ll wait. Because you won’t be telling me anything I don’t already know.