his neck, walked toward her. “Mrs. Richardson?” he asked. She nodded.
He raised the gleaming tape high enough for her to walk under it. “I’m Detective Halsey. I’m the guy who called you.” His head was completely shaven.
Following her, Davey bent to pass under the tape. Halsey’s voice was not pleasant: “Wait a minute, fella. And who are you?”
“The driver.”
“You stay here.”
Joan Richardson glanced at him. “It’s all right, Davey.”
As soon as she entered the house, she saw men and women in police uniforms and emergency worker garb crowding the wide entryway. For her it was chaotic, almost otherworldly.
“Don’t touch anything,” Halsey said. “And keep walking right behind me.” His voice had an edge of rudeness, not at all deferential.
When she realized they were walking through the long hallway toward Brad’s office—his sanctuary, his special place, the center of his world—she sensed her knees and legs weakening, as though her bones were turning to dust.
From the open doorway to the office she saw what first struck her as black oil spread over the bare wooden floor. It took the beat of a moment or two until she recognized, to her right, lying uncovered side by side, the bodies of Felix and Sylvia. They were not, she saw, whole bodies. Their heads were gone.
Joan Richardson threw up: she tasted the now-vile canapés, shiitake mushrooms, and sushi she had eaten four hours earlier in the civilized interior of the Met. Instinctively she bent forward so that her vomit wouldn’t spill over her dress and shoes. At the sight of what had come out of her, she vomited again; her body shook uncontrollably. A sweet-faced black woman in a green uniform, an emergency worker, handed her a towel. Joan Richardson wiped her mouth and face. The woman extended a bottle of water toward her. She waved it away. She wanted never to put anything in her body again.
As if other people’s vomiting was an everyday event for him, Halsey said, “He’s over there.”
Alongside the old-style wooden chair Brad always used—it was now tipped over, utterly transformed—was his body. She saw the white slacks, leather shoes, no socks, and his thin virtually hairless ankles. A white canvas was spread over the rest of his body.
Halsey said, “That’s your husband’s body, isn’t it, Mrs.Richardson?”
Joan Richardson put her hands over her face, bent forward, and vomited again. This time she couldn’t keep her dress or shoes clean: the vomit spilled over them.
She was struggling to cover her face while she threw up. Tears streamed from her eyes as if stung by tear gas. Her face was red, contorted. When she ran her hands through her hair they left trails of vomit and spit. Halsey didn’t move. Finally, the woman in the green uniform began wiping Joan Richardson’s face and hair with a wet towel, using the practiced gestures of a mother cleaning a five-year-old who has taken a fall into dirt and bruised herself. Joan let herself be cleaned, even comforted.
After Joan had settled somewhat—her crying stopped, her face was as clean as wiping with towels could make it—Bo Halsey said, “Can you follow me, Mrs. Richardson, for just a second?”
She nodded, speechlessly, and walked behind him to the door. She felt stripped down and utterly vulnerable. There was no artifice to her. Appearances didn’t matter. She stumbled slightly. Halsey turned. He took her arm. It wasn’t a gentle grip. In the hallway just outside the office, he stopped. “I know this is hard,” he said.
She shook her head up and down, a quick gesture relaying the unspoken words, It is, it is .
“Let me just cut to the chase right now for a second. I need to know some things right now. The guy who did this might not be far away, understand? Can you tell me anything about how this happened?”
Her whole body was shaking, as if overcome by a sudden fever. “Everybody loved Brad.”
He repeated, “Do you know anything about
He raised the gleaming tape high enough for her to walk under it. “I’m Detective Halsey. I’m the guy who called you.” His head was completely shaven.
Following her, Davey bent to pass under the tape. Halsey’s voice was not pleasant: “Wait a minute, fella. And who are you?”
“The driver.”
“You stay here.”
Joan Richardson glanced at him. “It’s all right, Davey.”
As soon as she entered the house, she saw men and women in police uniforms and emergency worker garb crowding the wide entryway. For her it was chaotic, almost otherworldly.
“Don’t touch anything,” Halsey said. “And keep walking right behind me.” His voice had an edge of rudeness, not at all deferential.
When she realized they were walking through the long hallway toward Brad’s office—his sanctuary, his special place, the center of his world—she sensed her knees and legs weakening, as though her bones were turning to dust.
From the open doorway to the office she saw what first struck her as black oil spread over the bare wooden floor. It took the beat of a moment or two until she recognized, to her right, lying uncovered side by side, the bodies of Felix and Sylvia. They were not, she saw, whole bodies. Their heads were gone.
Joan Richardson threw up: she tasted the now-vile canapés, shiitake mushrooms, and sushi she had eaten four hours earlier in the civilized interior of the Met. Instinctively she bent forward so that her vomit wouldn’t spill over her dress and shoes. At the sight of what had come out of her, she vomited again; her body shook uncontrollably. A sweet-faced black woman in a green uniform, an emergency worker, handed her a towel. Joan Richardson wiped her mouth and face. The woman extended a bottle of water toward her. She waved it away. She wanted never to put anything in her body again.
As if other people’s vomiting was an everyday event for him, Halsey said, “He’s over there.”
Alongside the old-style wooden chair Brad always used—it was now tipped over, utterly transformed—was his body. She saw the white slacks, leather shoes, no socks, and his thin virtually hairless ankles. A white canvas was spread over the rest of his body.
Halsey said, “That’s your husband’s body, isn’t it, Mrs.Richardson?”
Joan Richardson put her hands over her face, bent forward, and vomited again. This time she couldn’t keep her dress or shoes clean: the vomit spilled over them.
She was struggling to cover her face while she threw up. Tears streamed from her eyes as if stung by tear gas. Her face was red, contorted. When she ran her hands through her hair they left trails of vomit and spit. Halsey didn’t move. Finally, the woman in the green uniform began wiping Joan Richardson’s face and hair with a wet towel, using the practiced gestures of a mother cleaning a five-year-old who has taken a fall into dirt and bruised herself. Joan let herself be cleaned, even comforted.
After Joan had settled somewhat—her crying stopped, her face was as clean as wiping with towels could make it—Bo Halsey said, “Can you follow me, Mrs. Richardson, for just a second?”
She nodded, speechlessly, and walked behind him to the door. She felt stripped down and utterly vulnerable. There was no artifice to her. Appearances didn’t matter. She stumbled slightly. Halsey turned. He took her arm. It wasn’t a gentle grip. In the hallway just outside the office, he stopped. “I know this is hard,” he said.
She shook her head up and down, a quick gesture relaying the unspoken words, It is, it is .
“Let me just cut to the chase right now for a second. I need to know some things right now. The guy who did this might not be far away, understand? Can you tell me anything about how this happened?”
Her whole body was shaking, as if overcome by a sudden fever. “Everybody loved Brad.”
He repeated, “Do you know anything about
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