Free Over My Live Body by Susan Israel

terribly wrong .
    “Vittorio’s dead,” Morgan sounds like he’s been anesthetized. “He’s been murdered.”
    “What?”
    “I’m calling from the First Precinct. The police brought me here. They greeted me when I came home tonight and brought me here and now they’re about to question me.”
    “Oh my God, what happened?” I lean against the edge of the reception desk. “Who did it? Do they know? How…”
    “I don’t know who would do this and you don’t want to know what they did.” It sounds like he’s already been asked and told a few things. His voice is beginning to break. “It wasn’t me. I couldn’t…”
    “I know you couldn’t. I’m coming down there. Is there anyone else you want me to call?”
    “I can’t think.”
    “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I reassure him. I look at my watch and calculate how soon I can get there. 12:10. If my timing is good and a train is rolling into the station when I get there, I can get downtown in ten minutes.
    “Delilah,” he warns, “be careful.”

14
    The irony is that Morgan lives so close to the precinct house. So safe. Practically around the corner. He‘d always tell me that he and Vittorio felt like they could practically leave the doors open. Nothing could happen, what with all those blue-and-whites cruising around at all hours.
    He was talking about burglary. Not this.
    Nothing was taken that I know of except a life.
    I shift my weight on the hard wooden chair that I was gruffly told to sit in a half hour ago by a cop in uniform who ushered me upstairs and told me to wait. I wonder where they’ve got Morgan. The desk next to me is littered with pink forms. I stand up to stretch. The minute I do, I hear a voice out of nowhere saying, “Someone will be with you shortly.” I wonder if the chair is rigged to some kind of silent alarm. The pressure of the hard wood made my butt fall asleep like it does during a tough pose, and I remain standing in defiance of the law.
    I squint across the room at the map of the city on the wall and take a few steps closer to make out what the shaded divisions mean. As I do, a low voice stops me in my tracks. “Miss Price?”
    “Yes?”
    “Why don’t you have a seat here…” He indicates the killer chair I just abandoned. “I’m Detective Quick. Mr. Merritt told us you’re a friend of his.”
    “I want to see him,” I insist. “Is he all right?”
    “You’ll be able to see him. We’re just getting some background from him.” He sits at the desk beside me and stares into me. This detective won’t ever need bright lights to force a confession. His eyes will do fine.
    “When can I see Morgan?”
    “Soon. Right now I want to ask you a few questions.” He rolls back the cuffs of his gray pinstriped shirt just past his wrists and takes a sip of black coffee from a Rangers mug, then sets it down between us. “Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Soda?”
    I shake my head. “How is he?”
    “Very shaken up. Mr. Merritt told us that you also knew the victim, Mr. Vittorio Scaccia.”
    “Yes. Not very well. I knew him through Morgan. He was Morgan’s friend. I was just at their place last night. They seemed so happy .”
    “Did you see either Mr. Merritt…Morgan or Mr. Scaccia since last night?”
    “I saw Morgan this afternoon. Around three. He’d just gotten back from the Marathon.”
    “Mr. Scaccia wasn’t with him?”
    “Morgan’s an artist. He came to his studio to work. Vittorio is…was a gourmet chef. His was a different sort of art. He never came to the school with Morgan. At least not that I know of, and we’re both there a lot .”
    “When you saw Morgan around three, he was alone?”
    “He came in my studio to tell me he’d left some food for me in the fridge before he left to go to the Marathon. He was going to his studio…” I realize I don’t remember him saying he was going to his studio. “And the next thing I know, he’s calling me from here . What