I’ve seen a lot of things, especially in the last couple of weeks, but I never dreamt I’d be seeing, or rather experiencing, anything like this. Or rather I hoped I never would. The red couch in our apartment seems more uncomfortable than usual, as if the form of every person to ever crash on it is still imprinted here, making a lumpy mess out of it. The table that’s meant to be next to it is lying on its side, things are open and in various states of emptiness. The floor is covered with everything from clothes and Polaroids, to books and cds. The place is a mess and crawling with police. Detective Doherty sits across from me, his face a composed mask. He has a little notebook open, ready.
“Please state your name and current address for the record” he says, professionalism seeming to ooze from him.
“Derek Saunders. Fourteen eighty-two University Avenue, Berkeley, California”
The Detective arches an eyebrow as I recite the address of our current location.
“Am I to understand you were still living with Ms. Edwards then?”
“Yeah...” I begin, shifting uncomfortably, “Well I mean, we didn’t have time to sort anything out before I left.”
He merely nods and looks at his notebook.
“Please state your age and date of birth.”
“Twenty four. 31 October, 1983.”
“Now I believe you were out of town when the incident occurred?”
He arches his eyebrow again. I get the feeling that it might become a little annoying.
“Yes, I was...umm…I think I was in Orange County…we were on our way to San Diego.”
“And that’s where you were contacted by the police, correct?”
“Yeah and I came straight back.”
He scribbles something down on his notepad, nodding all the while.
“How did you know Ms. Edwards?”
“I met her at the bookstore she worked at.”
“In Australia?”
“Yeah that’s right.”
“What were you doing in Australia?”
The eyebrow goes up again. Didn’t I say that was going to be annoying?
“I was visiting my sister…but what does that have to do with anything? Do we have to do this now?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Saunders, I know this is a difficult time for you but the better we understand, the sooner we can clear everything up.” he replies, sympathetically. I sigh and lean back against the lumpy cushions. Only once he is sure I’m resigned to his third degree does he clear his throat and continue.
“Perhaps we should start at the beginning then – can you describe her mood for me, the details of your interaction?”
That was easy enough for him to think about. He wasn’t the one wracked with guilt.
