They had Gulick’s statement that I’d left the car lot when the fire engine went by, and they said nobody had seen me again until a full twenty-five minutes had gone by. I said I’d been at the fire the whole time. They said I hadn’t. I began to feel dazed, and hypnotized, too tired to lift my hands or light a cigarette or think. The world became nothing but heat and white light and an endless rain of questions beating against me. They took turns. Tate went out for coffee and when he came back the Sheriff went out. It made no difference. The questions and the accusations were the same and after a while I couldn’t tell the voices apart. “Where did you go that Friday?” “I went to Houston.” “Where did you go that night?” “Swimming. I told you. I went swimming.” “You went somewhere to get rid of that money. Where’d you hide it?” “I went swimming.” “Did you bury it?” “I went swimming.” “Where did you bury it?” “I didn’t bury anything.” “How did you mark the place?”
