Tussinland Read Free Page A

cry.
    “What happened? They were both shot … with a shotgun? Fuck! I fucking loved her. God damn it. It’s all that fucking Pisko’s fault. I’m sure it’s some shit he got them into.”
    “Paul!” Mavis said. “Seriously. Watch your language.”
    “I warned her I warned her I warned her, but she thought he was so hot and cool. Jesus! Now I wish I had killed him.”
    “Paul,” Mavis said as she put her arm around her son. “Maybe you better go with the officers now. Don’t you think?”

FIVE
     
    They didn’t let Paul change clothes for the trip to the station. They allowed him to put on a pair of flip flops, but they made him wear his ridiculous yellow sweatpants and puke-stained t-shirt. He wanted to bring his phone, but Fagan wouldn’t let him, though the detective insisted that he get his wallet.
    An unmarked black Ford sedan and a patrol car sat at the curb. Paul automatically followed Detective Fagan to the passenger side of the Ford. Fagan raised one angry eyebrow and nodded at the patrol car. Paul got into the back of the black and white with officer Plant.
    Mavis said she’d come to the station as soon as she “fixed herself up.” He knew that meant putting on makeup and some kind of sexy outfit. Plus, she’d need time to call everyone she knew with the news that her son had just been taken in by the police because they suspected he’d shot his wife and her lover to death with a shotgun.
    This wasn’t his first trip to the police station. He’d gone there intermittently for years, usually with Mavis or his sister, Bethany, to pick up a niece, or a brother-in-law, or the nieces or nephews of one of his wives, or to pick up his mother or sister after visiting one of the wayward fuck-up relatives that always seemed to surround him.
    He’d never been past the entryway and had never interacted with the policemen, but he’d seen every episode of Law and Order and hundreds of other crime dramas, so he recognized the tiny room Fagan put him in: metal desk with two wooden chairs, a video camera attached to the ceiling opposite the door, and a mirror on one wall that of course was two-way. He wondered who was watching. There was a notepad and a pen on the table for his confession.
    Paul knew from TV he should keep quiet and ask for his lawyer, though he was pretty sure that strategy was just for guilty people. He didn’t have a criminal lawyer and didn’t like the idea of such a thing. For him, lawyers had always been all about wasted money and broken promises. Decided to go ahead and play innocent—perfect typecasting, after all. And, maybe, he could help.
    “Did you kill Tina Dunn and Mark Pisko?” Fagan got right to the point.
    “No, I did not, and it’s a ridiculous idea.”
    “Oh, really? Why is that?”
    “I’m not that guy, you know?”
    “No, I don’t know. What do you mean? Who is ‘that guy?’ ”
    “Someone who kills people. Someone who even has a gun.”
    “Don’t fuck with me, asshole. I think you did it, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d just confess so I can sign off on this case and move on to other things. Save me all the trouble of going out and finding evidence and shit. I got enough going on without some pissant like you holding things up on this case.”
    “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
    “I’ve been doing this a long time. And, I’ve developed what you could call a sixth sense. So, I know you did it. I’m going to find out sooner or later but I guarantee that things will go a lot easier for you if you’d just confess now.”
    “I didn’t do it.”
    “Okay, dumbshit. Have it your way.”
    He stared at Paul for what seemed like five minutes before speaking again. Paul couldn’t look him in the eyes. Paul had a hard time looking anyone in the eyes.
    “So, Mr. Dunn, take me through your day yesterday.”
    “Starting when?”
    “When did you get up?”
    “Around noon.”
    “Really? Was it your day off?”
    “I’m presently