Next day I’d be standing next to Guy in the crummy little courtroom in the Roundhouse as he was arraigned for first-degree murder. The DA would have noted the crime was a capital one, the judge would have denied bail, and Guy would have spent the next year growing sallow in jail as he waited for his trial. And with him in jail, what good could I accomplish? With him in jail, how could I ask what I needed to ask, learn what I needed to learn?

A decision had been made and I needed Guy out of jail, even for just a few days, a few hours, to carry it through. It is why I scoured the crime scene like I did, why I took the reefer and didn’t tell them about the gun. Even so, I didn’t think it would be enough, even so even the greenest city cop would have taken him in. But see, we weren’t on the city side of City Line Avenue, we were on the other side, the suburban side, where the police were ever helpful and ever polite. Despite the little incident with the gunpowder test, the suburban cops maintained their form and sent Guy and his lawyer off into the night with a kindly admonition to drive carefully.

“Thank you, Detective Breger,” I said, feeling the weight of the gun pull down at my raincoat pocket, “you’ve been most kind.” And I meant every word of it.

3

I CARED for him as best I could.

Like a Secret Service agent, I took for myself the blows of lights and flashes from the cameramen and photographers waiting predatorily outside the house. The reporters had already ferreted out the details of the crime, knew the name of the victim, the name of her fiancé. “Mr. Forrest, any comment about what happened to Miss Prouix?” “Mr. Forrest, who killed Hailey?” “Guy, can you tell us how you feel?” “Are you devastated?” “Show us some tears.” “Why did you do it, Guy?” “Was there a stripper involved, like the other one?” “If you have nothing to hide, why won’t you talk to us?” “Hey, Guy.” “Yo, Guy.” “Over here.” I deflected their questions with a smile and a few brief words about the tragedy.