No Regrets

two decades on the force, and a long time working as partners. They no longer had to speak their feelings aloud to each other, but they were totally in accord at this point. They had seen and heard some mighty peculiar examples of human behavior in their day, and now, with just the slightest flick of an eye, they signaled each other that something was hinky.
    Sure, it was possible that a sweet, churchgoing little wife could become smitten with another man and forget her marriage vows. They’d seen that happen in other cases. It was even possible that Carol Hamilton’s best friends might have had no idea of what was going on. Judy King, who sat quietly by while Hamilton answered questions, looked totally bewildered by the story he was telling, but she appeared to be a naive woman who might have missed signs of Carol’s infidelity.
    Stretching possibility even further, the two detectives supposed a woman could even have run off with her lover, had a violent fight with him a few hours later, and ended up dead before the affair ever got off the ground.
    It was possible, but not likely. Something didn’t wash. The man before them showed so little emotion, evinced no outward signs of grief—not even when he had just seen pictures of his wife and small daughter, pictures taken after death. Shock could account for that flatness of emotion, but a man in shock would hardly be able to point out so many details and tell them such a complete story. And he still hadn’t mentioned his son. Most fathers would be frantic by now, hoping against hope that the last member of his family might have survived.
    Hamilton seemed oblivious to that glaring exception to expected behavior. Instead, he agreed to go through his recollection of the previous Saturday once more. In the second telling, his story changed somewhat. This time, he recalled that when his wife and children were leaving their home, they were in a different car. Not a red Ford at all. “It was a Hillman automobile,” Hamilton said, “and it had Washington plates. Ron was driving.”
    “But didn’t you say that you last saw your wife loading her things into her red Ford?” Yazzolino asked.
    Hamilton seemed perplexed as he realized he’d made a mistep in his story. “I guess I’m a little confused,” he muttered. “I’m kind of in shock.”
    Yazzolino suggested that it might be easier to sort things out if he took a polygraph test. But Dick Hamilton said “No” at once. He didn’t want to take a lie-detector test. That wasn’t necessary. He thought it might be best to stop the interview, until he could talk to his minister.
    Darril MacNeel called the Hamiltons’ pastor, who said he would leave at once for the homicide offices. Gladys King accompanied him. Both she and her daughter felt so sorry for Dick that they were doing their best to stand by him.
    An hour later, Mrs. King and the pastor arrived at the Multnomah County sheriff’s offices. The minister spoke privately with Hamilton for twenty minutes. Gladys and Judy King told Yazzolino and MacNeel that they had known Dick for a long time, and they could not even imagine that he might have guilty knowledge of the tragedy that had occurred.
    And now their minister walked from the interview room, his face a study of deep distress. He beckoned to the two detectives. “I’m convinced that Dick had nothing to do with what happened to Carol,” he said. “I’vetalked to him and I feel he’s innocent of any wrongdoing.”
    Detectives Yazzolino and MacNeel felt sorry for the preacher. The man before them was a good man and a good Christian, but he was as naive as the two women. Patiently, they outlined the discrepancies in Hamilton’s story for him, and he listened intently. Finally they suggested that he be present in the interview room while they talked with Hamilton. Both the suspect and his pastor agreed to this. The four of them met behind closed doors while Judy and Gladys King waited outside.
    Yazzolino again asked Dick Hamilton if he would submit to a lie-detector test.
    “I don’t believe in such tests,” Hamilton said.
    “Richard,” his pastor said. “If you have nothing to hide, it could do you nothing but good to take a polygraph. It will clear your name.”
    The small room grew quiet except for the sound of a ticking clock. Hamilton stared down at his hands, which were folded on the tabletop. Finally he blurted out, “I’m ready to tell you what really happened now. But I want to