A Time of Predators

“Okay,” conceded the detective, “say that explains the razor blade. But what about this, ah... the consul of something...”

Curt found himself answering almost eagerly, for the ground was less painful here and he felt an absurd urge to justify himself. “Consul of Bithynia. Paula is — was — the daughter of a professor in classics. The reference is to the Annals of Tacitus, I can’t remember which book — anyway, where he mentioned Caius Petronius, consul of Bithynia and Nero’s Master of Orgies. When Petronius fell from favor, he chose to kill himself by bleeding to death a little bit at a time, conversing with his friends meanwhile, eating, drinking — even sleeping — and being entertained by frivolous poetry and light verse until he died. Paula... the passage always appealed to her as sort of epitomizing the civilized man, so I suppose... when she wanted...”

“Yeah.” Worden’s eyes were flat and gray as stagnant water. “But there’s one other little thing, Professor. No hesitation nicks. Usually suicides, they got dozens of little cuts near the veins where they were getting up the nerve to do it. Your wife didn’t have any.”

“But I told you, Paula was very... very strong-willed.”

“Yeah. You know, Professor, we performed an autopsy on her.”

Curt was out of his chair. “Autopsy? You mean that you... Paula? But goddamnit, man, I didn’t give any permission—”

“It ain’t necessary in deaths by violence, Professor.”

Curt started to speak again, then stopped. Something in Worden’s tone had turned his rage to ice. The detective had hit him with the fact of the autopsy in a purposely brutal way, just so he could study Curt’s reaction to it. And Curt had been playing Worden’s game, giving him the initiative, unconsciously seeking the detective’s approbation or at least sympathy.

Well, he wasn’t going to do that any more. Paula was gone, his personal life was now a bewildering shambles, all right; but there had been a time when Curt had of necessity been pretty bloody-minded, to survive. Maybe he still could be. At least, he wasn’t going to let this sadistic cop trample around through his emotions. He sat back down, slowly, and poured out more tea for both of them. He was pleased that when he spoke, all emotion had been denatured from his voice.

“I see. And what did the pathologist’s report show, Sergeant?” Worden had begun frowning at the tone of Curt’s voice. He almost snapped, “How long had it been since you’d had sexual relations with your wife?”

“How long...” Curt heard his voice rising, and just quit speaking, completely.

Worden seemed pleased by this. “Oh, come on now, Professor.” There was a wink and a nudge in his voice. “That ain’t a real hard question to answer, is it, just between us men, like?”

“I don’t know how long, Sergeant. Some weeks, probably.”

“Yeah. How about a lover? Did your wife have a lover?”

Curt squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. This couldn’t really be happening. Paula dead in a pool of her own blood two days before, and now this sadistic bastard was... He made himself open his eyes. “Isn’t the husband supposed to be the last to know?”

Worden, momentarily baffled, said, “Yeah, that’s the truth, ain’t it?” Then he leaned into his swing, trying for the fence. “Did you have a fight with your wife on Friday night before you left?”

“Fight? No, there was a bit of acid on each side, but—”

“You didn’t hit her? Kick her? Knock her down?”

“Now see here, Sergeant,” Curt began in cold fury, “I won’t lis—”

Worden’s voice cut through his like a torch through foil. “Your wife had three loose teeth — not counting one chipped by hitting her face on the table top — and split lips on the same side of her face. Probably done with a fist. A deep bruise on the lower abdomen, again from a fist — some internal bleeding there. Secondary bruises on her forearms, breasts, upper belly, inner thighs. Abrasions on her back. On her right shoulder, a damned nasty bite.”

“But...” Curt felt a terrible bewilderment. “But...she...”

“The pathologist also took vaginal smears and found abnormally large deposits of spermatozoa. Suggest anything to you, Professor?”

Curt was reminded of one of his own lectures on the fossil bones of some Australopithecine hominid dug up in a dusty African gorge a thousand millennia after its death; but this man was talking about Paula. He saw that his knuckles were white, absently returned his teacup to the coffee table. “I finally understand what they mean by police brutality, Worden. Not rubber hoses in back rooms — oh, no, it’s more subtle than that these days. I hurt, down in my guts, because Paula is gone. I’m confused and bewildered as to why she’s gone. But...”