A Time of Predators

“That dago red really puts the blast on you, all right.”

So those observant eyes had noted and catalogued the bottle Paula had put out on Friday night. Curt said, “There’s coffee or tea...”

“Tea’s fine.” Relaxed on the couch, Worden brought out and extended a manila envelope. “Her note. The lab boys are through with it.”

Curt carried the note down to the kitchen, ran the teapot full of tap water, hot, filled the kettle with cold and put it on a burner, and then smoothed the note on the counter top. He had not been allowed to handle it on Friday night. It was a measure of Paula, he thought, that her writing had not been at all shaky.

Curt darling,

Here it is, the traditional note with the touch of sadness assumed appropriate for such occasions. Please understand that I am doing this because of something intolerable in myself, not in our marriage. I would like to do it in style, like the worthy consul of Bithynia, with light poetry and playful verse; but time is short, and to be brought back when halfway there would be degrading. It has been good over the years, darling, so please try to forget this.

Paula

Something intolerable in myself. What? What could she have discovered in those few hours that would explain such a terminal act? He shook his head, set cups, sugar, spoons, milk, napkins, and lemon slices on a TV tray to carry into the living room.

“The water will be hot in just a few minutes.” His mind was clearer now, but his head ached abominably; perhaps he would lace his tea with brandy. He measured his next words to the detective. “You mentioned that your criminology lab was ‘through’ with the note. Might I ask what they were doing with it?”

“Paper often takes good fingerprint impressions, so we checked. We found only your wife’s on the note and on the pen which was used.”

Curt was stirred by a breath of emotion almost too slight to be identified as anger. “What other prints were you expecting to find?”

“You said you hadn’t seen the note.” He shrugged. “Routine.”

“What about the razor blade?” Curt demanded sarcastically. “Why didn’t you check that for prints, too, see if I—”

“Too much blood for impressions.”

“You mean that you actually—”

“Just routine, Professor. Like I said.” Worden’s apologetic tone did not reach his eyes. “A suicide is a crime against the person, so it comes under the jurisdiction of the Criminal Division. The investigation is carried out by the Detective Bureau, Homicide Detail. Since I was in the barrel on Friday night, I got the case.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you fingerprinted Paula’s note.”

Worden shrugged heavy shoulders. “Since I’m in charge, Professor, subject to review, and one or two little points bothered me — we checked fingerprints.”

The teakettle’s mournful whistling brought Curt to his feet. Out in the kitchen, he emptied the pot, spooned in strong black Keeman, covered it with boiling water. His hands were shaking: Worden was probing wounds which still were bleeding, and Curt didn’t know why. He carried a bottle of Korbel into the living room along with the tea.

“Would you like some brandy in yours, Sergeant?”

Worden shook his head. His gray eyes watched Curt with such a pitiless and avid concentration that it was almost contempt, and Curt paused with the cap halfway screwed off. The spark of anger glowed more brightly. To hell with you, Worden. Plain tea for me, then, too. Then a new thought struck him with the force of a bucket of ice water dashed in the face.

“Paula’s suicide was a suicide, wasn’t it, Sergeant?”

Worden sipped his tea tentatively. “Say, this is good; you’ll have to tell me what kind you use.” Without waiting for Curt’s reply, he went on, “Yeah, it was suicide. I been in the Detective Bureau for ten years, Professor, and I’ve found that pills are the usual for a woman unless she’s spiting — then they’ll use the damndest things. But your wife chose the razor blade instead.” Then he rapped out, “Why?”

“Why... why because... Her note explained it, she didn’t want to be brought back when she was halfway... was halfway there...”

Curt stopped; the hand holding the teacup was shaking again. His face felt like carved stone. Was this why criminals so often broke down under police questioning? Because of the steady relentless pressure that only a cop knew how to exert? But Curt wasn’t a criminal. Paula had killed herself, so why was Worden pressuring him?