The Death Artist by Jonathan Santlofer

Precinct, repeat her statement, sign forms.
    She stared at the mirror. For a split second her reflection startled her. Was she really here, in a police station, witness to a crime? She knew that cops most likely were on the other side of the mirror watching her. After all, for ten years that had been her role, the cop on the other side of the mirror, judging, considering every gesture, weighing someone’s guilt or innocence.
    Kate pushed her hair behind her ears, the gesture immediately feeling false. She felt dislocated, alienated, and yet, at the same time, oddly comfortable. She knew all about station-house life–the role-playing, the petty jockeying for power, the camaraderie of good guys versus bad. And yet, right now all of it, even the dull beige walls and the damn fluorescent lighting, was somehow . . . reassuring. It could have been her old Astoria station.
    Another look in the mirror. It was all there, right in front of her, a carefully painted portrait, like pentimento, thought Kate, the underpainting bleeding through, visible–those rough early years just barely masked by the elegant glazing of the last decade. Kate gave herself a knowing look. Whom was she trying to kid? All she had to do was peel off a layer and it was there for all to see: the toughness, the cop, the girl from Queens.
    Were they watching her? No way they could think she was a suspect. But still they had to make her wait, answer the same damn questions. She knew that. It was part of the routine. The way it was done. The way it was always done: Ask the question again and again, see if the witness breaks down, if a suspect changes his story. But she’d had enough. And where the hell was Richard?
    The door swung open. Mead referred to his little NYPD notepad. “You said you last spoke to the girl on–”
    “Look,” said Kate, “I’ve already told the other cop. Several times. And I’m tired.” She leveled a stare at Mead. “And where’s Willie?”
    “They’re still going over the facts with Mr. Handley. You want us to get them right, don’t you?”
    “Indeed I do,” said Kate. “But it’s time for me and Willie to go home.”
    “Just a few more questions.” Mead sucked his teeth. “You said that you arrived at the vic’s apartment around–”
    “That information is in my statement.”
    Mead skimmed the page. “And Handley arrived before you?”
    “Detective. Let me be clear. I have already answered those questions. They are, as I said, in my statement. I would appreciate it if you saved us both some time and read it.”
    “But I’d rather hear it from you.”
    “Well, I’d rather go home.” Kate flipped open her cell phone, punched in a number. “It’s me, Kate Rothstein. Sorry to call so late, but . . . Oh. You’ve heard . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Yes, I’m here–at the Sixth Precinct–answering questions. But . . . What? Yes. He’s right here.” She handed the phone to Mead, said, “Chief of Police Tapell wants to speak to you.”
    “Yeah, Chief?” Mead’s eyes flitted here, there, up to the ceiling, across the floor, anywhere not to meet Kate’s. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Uh-huh.” His body sagged against the wall as though his muscles had decided to go on strike. “Right.” He hugged the cell phone to his ear. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” He sighed, clicked off. “Tapell says you should come right up.”
    “And what about Willie?”
    “He can go home.”
    “I want a uniform to drive him.”
    Mead nodded, without looking at her.
    One more time, Kate managed to go through the necessary motions: Maneuver her car up the West Side Highway, pull off the exit, stop at red lights, open her wallet, remove her New York State driver’s license and show it to the uniformed guard posted outside Tapell’s West Side brownstone.
    Now she sat behind the wheel of her car, head back against the padded headrest, eyes closed, tears pulsing down her cheeks while a montage of images played in her mind: