Free Killer by Stephen Carpenter

hours.”
    “…Okay,” Jonathan said, then started writing down my description of the cabin.
    I went to the electronics section and sat down and watched the Oakland Raiders hammer the Kansas City Chiefs 32-0. When the game was over I returned to housewares and found Jonathan running the cash register, which was spitting out a paper receipt that spilled onto the floor like Rapunzel’s hair. Jonathan was surrounded by boxes of merchandise.
    “Perfect timing,” he said. “Just finished.”
    I gave him my Amex but he insisted on at least showing me the items he chose. They were all perfect. He rang it up, I pulled my truck around to the loading dock, then drove my new household home, wondering why the Chiefs hadn’t had a consistent offense since Joe Montana.
    When the eggs are done, I spoon them onto a Macy’s Cellar dinner plate. The plate is white with a navy border that perfectly compliments the brown granite countertop. I grab a Macy’s Cellar dinner fork from the silverware drawer, and I am savoring the first bite when the phone rings. I pick it up and Nicki says “Good morning.”
    “Morning,” I say.
    “Get some sleep?” she asks.
    “Yes, thank you.” I take another bite of scrambled eggs.
    “Turns out LAPD was less than forthcoming with you,” Nicki says. “Temescal Canyon Park was renovated in the summer of 2001. They started construction a week after Beverly Grace was reported missing. The park was closed for two months and a security guard was posted there while the heavy equipment was on site. A fence was put up with a locked gate and it was inaccessible all summer. Which means they’ve pinpointed the week she was killed. It had to have been just before they started construction.”
    “Why didn’t they just say so?” I ask.
    “Because they wanted to see how much you would tell them .”
    “Okay,” I realize she’s right. “But how do they know she wasn’t killed and buried after the construction?”
    “According to the forensic bug guys, she was buried in the spring. They can tell from the decay of the maggot eggs in her—” Nicki stops herself. “Just take my word for it, okay? I’m eating lunch at my desk. What it boils down to now is we have to account for your whereabouts during the last week of April, 2001 and once we do that we’re in the clear. Any thoughts?”
    “Not a one. Like I told you, I don’t remember a thing after Sara died until I sobered up fifteen months later.”
    “Nothing at all? For fifteen months?”
    “I remember being at her funeral and waking up the next day on someone’s couch. After that it’s only vague impressions….random, nonsensical things.”
    “Would you be willing to talk to a forensic psychiatrist about that? He’s an expert in memory recovery. He’s helped me out more than once with witnesses who had fuzzy memories.”
    I take another bite of breakfast.
    “Let me think about it,” I say.
    “It might be important later, if we can’t find any other way to account for your whereabouts.”
    “I understand,” I say. “It’s just not a period in my life that I relish looking at very hard.”
    “Okay, but I think you should consider it,” she says.
    “So does this mean we’re telling them about the hair clip?” I ask, to change the subject.
    “Enough with the hair clip. Let’s find out first where you were that last week of April ‘01. Unless you want to tell them about the hair clip so you can get extradited back to L.A. on a murder charge.”
    “Not really on my agenda,” I say.
    “Don’t blame you. Okay, I’m going to need as much from you as I can get: credit card, ATM, phones, anything that might show a record of your whereabouts.”
    “It’s not like I have much in the way of records from then. I was drunk pretty much all the time.”
    “Would you sign a release for the bank and the phone company to authorize my access to your information?”
    “Sure.”
    “While we’re on the subject of your bank we might as