He’s also the muscle-bound cop who found me wandering around the carnival in February. He’s maybe five or six years older than me, his skin is the color of coffee diluted with cream, and he has a beautifully shaped scalp. If mine was that perfect, I might shave my head, too. “That’ll do it.” Officer Wainwright switches off the recorder. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” We’re at the police station in what appears to be an interrogation room, although there is no mirror, two-way or otherwise. The floor’s linoleum, the table’s formica and my chair is plastic. There’s a strong scent of stale coffee although neither of us have a drink. “I still don’t understand why I had to come to the station,” I say. “I told you all this last night.” “I know you did.” Wainwright’s voice is surprisingly high-pitched. “Just between you and me, it’s a waste of time. But the media’s breathing down our necks, and the chief says we’ve got to cross all our t’s and dot all our i’s.
