Unrevealed

though he hadn’t slept in days. Under his arm, he carried a section of the Denver newspaper. He turned to me. Agony mapped his weary face.
    “Detective,” he said, his voice shaking. “I need to talk to you.” The broad British a was pronounced when he said the word talk .
    “I was actually just about to give you a call,” I told him, watching him closely.
    He didn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he studied the carpet in a lost gaze. “My world is crashing down around me.” Emotion overtook him and he began to weep. “Have you read today’s paper?”
    I shook my head, and he reluctantly withdrew the section he had tucked under his arm. The article, on the front page of the local section, featured a sensationalized story about the Gambrel case. From the little I scanned, the journalist who penned it intimated that “sources” suggested a sexual slant to the death of Winston’s wife. While any mention of
the bloodied lace panties was kept out of the story, the writer got around that by citing, “some investigators on the scene are considering whether a sexual motive led to the death of Abbey Gambrel.” Fuck , I thought. I was the only investigator on the scene, so this “journalist” obviously got the story from some rookie cop who hadn’t learned to keep his goddamn trap shut.
    “I’m assuming that police searched my house that night?” Gambrel asked me, his eyes pooled with fear.
    “I was the only one collecting evidence that evening, sir.”
    He looked at me, nearly paralyzed, for a hard minute. “I see.”
    “I was up on the landing. And in your bedroom.”
    The color drained out of Gambrel’s face. He turned away, wiping his tears. “This could go to trial — ”
    “Sir,” I tried to interrupt him.
    “I can’t go through a trial, Detective. This is killing me already. God, it’s all so random.”
    So random. Yes. It is, I thought. “Mr. Gambrel, please — ”
    “I have something to confess, Detective,” he said, looking me in the eye. “I killed…my wife.…” He reached out and rested his arm on my shoulder as he dropped his head and sobbed.
    I looked at Mr. Gambrel and watched the unrelenting pain course through his muscles. Waves of anguish rose and fell across his chest as he gritted his teeth and gripped my shoulder tightly.
    I led him to one of our interrogation rooms and directed him to sit in one of DH’s metal chairs, which leave a lot to be desired in the comfort department. I excused myself briefly, returning to my nearby office to retrieve several key
pieces of evidence and information I would need for the conversation. I secured them, along with the Kapak, in a large manila folder. I also grabbed a tape recorder and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. When I returned to the tiny interrogation room, I found Mr. Gambrel with his head buried in his arms on the metal table. His brawny six-foot, four-inch frame barely fit beneath the table. “Here you go,” I said, handing him the water.
    He seemed dismayed by my gesture. “Do you always give cold bottled water to people like me?”
    I thought about it and nodded. “Yeah. Actually, I do always give cold bottled water to people exactly like you.”
    “You’re very kind,” he said, dropping his head. “Too kind.”
    I knocked two quick raps on the two-way glass.
    “What was that for?” he asked with a concerned look.
    “I’m letting them know on the other side to start the video.” I pointed up to the two corners of the tiny room where the video cameras were perched and pointed toward the table.
    “You’re filming this?”
    “Yes, sir. Have to get it on record.” I sat down and started the tape recorder. “That’s my backup in case something goes screwy with the video.”
    Gambrel seemed overwhelmed. “How many people are behind the glass?”
    “Two, I think,” I said, opening the manila folder on my lap. Gambrel gazed at the two-way glass with great concern. “You thought this was going to be private?” I asked him. “Get used to it, sir. Confessing to murder can become a very public affair. Especially when it’s someone as prominent and well-loved in the community as you.”

    “My world is crashing down around me.” He tossed the Denver newspaper to the side.
    That was the second time he’d said that in the last ten minutes. “Yeah, after we’re done here, I’m going to call that news writer and show him some love. My job is tough enough without having a case tried in the court