by Jeff Vrolyks
* * *
Trent was sitting in an interrogation room, alone, his bagged sandwich on the table. He didn’t think this had anything to do with Mae’s parents. He had killed them months ago, and nothing could have turned up lately to incriminate him. Plus they would have arrested him, not requested that he voluntarily come in for questioning. He decided to eat his sandwich, even though his hunger was on hiatus. He’d eat it so those questioning him would see that he was relaxed and confident, with nothing to hide. He opened the bag and tore away the wax paper of his pastrami sandwich and took a bite. He looked up at the camera mounted on the wall, wondered if anyone was watching him.
The small room’s solitary door opened. A man in a suit entered and closed the door behind him, took a seat at the table across from Trent. He stared stolidly at him for an awkward moment.
“What?” Trent finally said and set his sandwich down. “What is this?”
“Where were you the evening before last, between seven and eight P.M.?”
Trent thought back. “In my apartment. Why?”
“Alone?”
“No, my girlfriend was with me. What’s this about? What do you think I’ve done?”
“Who’s your girlfriend? Can she corroborate you being home at between the hours of seven and eight P.M.?”
“Mae Clark, and yes she can.” Trent fished his cell out of his pocket and said, “I’ll call her right now. You can ask her for yourself.”
The suit gestured him to put the phone down. “Do you know a Gene Howard?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Do you know a John and Barbara Parcher?”
“No. For chrissake, could you tell me what this has to do with me?”
“No. At what time were you with your girlfriend on the evening in question? From when till when?”
“I don’t know,” Trent said annoyed. “We were together for most of the day. She spent the night. I drove her home yesterday. Whatever you think I did you’re wrong.”
The door cracked open. A woman in a pant-suit summoned the interrogator with a finger. He excused himself and stepped outside the room, closed the door.
Trent took another bite of his sandwich, dark ideas whirling in his mind. This had to be about the SacTown Slayer, he just knew it. The cop didn’t need to say it, his cold judging eyes were saying plenty. Whatever happened the other night, Trent thanked God that Mae was with him. Alibis are rarely there when you need them, but this one was.
The interrogator returned to the room, his disposition had changed entirely. His eyes weren’t cold and judging, but friendly and apologetic.
“I’ll give you a ride home,” he said.
Trent nodded and stuffed his pastrami on rye inside the bag and followed the man out.
They had only just pulled out of Roseville Station when the man said, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“No problem. Can you tell me what this was about?”
“Someone had spoken with a Trent Blackwood just outside a crime scene. Either he used a fake name or there’s another Trent Blackwood unlisted.”
“Another murder from the serial killer? How did you find out it wasn’t me?”
“The man who spoke with Trent Blackwood negatively I.D.’d you.”
“Through the camera in the room,” Trent surmised.
The cop nodded, said, “In the event that someone used your name intently to serve some purpose, have you any guess as to who that might be? Any enemies?”
Trent said no, but he sure as shit did have a guess. He clenched his teeth, tightened his fists. Fucking Edgar.