And now there are lots of cops, most polite. That’s not what I mean. Most are like real people with families that I would know. The large one is an in-law to a secretary in the department. Another I recognize as a member of the church next door, on whose property we sit. Unlike what might have been my imaginings, these men and the one woman humping up and down our stairs have not appeared from another planet. The woman, in fact, I’ve seen on my walks with Juniper. She has family at Evergreen.
All day, up and down in their heavy shoes, asking, once, to use my phone. The lady copy even used my bathroom and cadged a tampon. I find this sort of breach very disarming. I moved the phone from my bedroom to the hall and let the cops stand there with nothing to write on but the wall. I hovered, lowering the radio to hear them, but they mumbled into the mouthpiece.
Peter is upstairs with more detectives right now. I have given statements but will soon give another to yet another detective, a man about my age who would appear to be in charge. Guess you’d like to know what happened. Veronica is dead.
The detective (lieutenant?) is of medium height, trim and faintly square, green eyes, black lashes, and thick brows that threaten to grow together above a small, elegant nose. A lovely neck. His name is Wake Robin and he does not fit in with the other cops who are, despite their familiarity, are far more rigid and tightly uniformed. Detective Robin stood at the entrance to my apartment in clothes and a haircut he didn’t get in Tuscaloosa, shook my hand without leaving a scar and escorted me upstairs.
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