Page 57 of The Tenant
I’m suddenly desperate to check the kitchen to make sure our own clock is still in its place. It’s got to be a coincidence. It’sgotto be.
“…didn’t get along with?” the detective is saying.
Somehow, I had tuned him out. My head feels so cloudy. Christ, I need a cup of coffee or something. “What?” I finally say.
Garrison does not look amused. “Do you know anyone that Mr. Zimmerly didn’t get along with?”
“Not really,” I say. “He mostly kept to himself.”
“Uh-huh.” He nods slowly. “And how about you? Did you get along with Mr. Zimmerly?”
I don’t like where this is going, but I play along. “We weren’t best friends or anything. But we got along okay.”
“So what were the two of you fighting about last week?”
I suddenly regret so many of my recent life decisions. “It was stupid. Just about the garbage pickup. Dumb neighbor stuff.”
“Dumb neighbor stuff,” he repeats.
“Right.”
He cocks his head at me. “And did you throw a trash can at him?”
Shit.
“I wasn’t trying to hit him.” I drop my head. “Look, that wasn’t about him. My girlfriend had just left me and…”
“Your girlfriend left you?”
Why does he keep repeating everything I say? I run a shaky hand through my hair, which feels extremely greasy. When is the last time I showered? “We’re going through some stuff, that’s all. Taking some time apart.”
“Uh-huh.”
The room is spinning. I need to sit down before I collapse. Does this detective actually think that I killed my neighbor? Is that possible?
But somebody killed him. Somebody bashed Mr. Zimmerly on the head with a heavy metal clock. I can’t even wrap my head around it.
“Mr. Porter,” Garrison says, “I’m wondering if you could come down to the station with me to give an official statement. I can get you some coffee, and we can have a nice chat over there, and then we can be done with all this.”
“I… I don’t think…”
“Also, it would be great to get your fingerprints on file,” he says. “Just to rule you out entirely so you can be done with this headache.”
He wants my fingerprints.
That’s not good.
My brain is still foggy from all the beer, but I’m still with it enough to know that I shouldn’t go to the police station without a lawyer and start giving this detective information that he can later use to incriminate me.
And also, I’ve got to get rid of what I’m almost certain is a bloodstain on the floor of my living room, as well as the bloody paper towel crumpled up in my right hand.
“Actually,” I say, “I’m not feeling so hot. I don’t think I can help much right now. I think…I need to go to bed.”
“I’d be happy to give you a ride,” he says. “I’ve got my car parked right down the block.”
I have a terrible feeling that if I go to the police station right now, I might never leave.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just can’t right now. Unless… I don’t have to, do I?”
