I was framed in the doorway to her living room, listening to her recount the incident. It was all bull. She hovered and brushed on the truth but kept saying things like, “He came at me, that son of a bitch.” I had this small three by five legal pad out and the pen was in my mouth while I scratched the back of my head and waited for her to be done. Had this been twenty years ago I might not have picked up on her nervous tells, but now I’d seen enough.

She paused and we looked down at the body on the rug and the big red stain. I looked over at her. No bruises, no sign of abuse. Either she was packing when he came at her, or her whole story was made up.

“You said this was your brother’s boyfriend?”

She nodded. I observed the room just a bit longer, turning the lights on and off, trying to see if anything would catch my eye. No dice, just a big fat guy with a bullet in his head lying on the Turkish rug in the center of the room. What a mess.