Read Online A Death in Canaan by Joan; Barthel - Free Book Online

The police asked whether these were the same clothes Peter had been wearing the night before. “Yes,” Joanne Mulhern said, and she signed a statement saying so.
    Lieutenant Shay had told Mulhern not to discuss the case with Peter, so they talked, on the drive to Hartford, about all sorts of other things. Peter sat in the front seat, just the two of them in the car. They talked about TV commercials and about motorcycles. Barbara had always loved motorcycles. For stunt riding she preferred the big bikes, Peter recalled. She used to laugh and say that riding a little Honda was like riding a skateboard.
    Police headquarters in Hartford is a sturdy, stone block of a building, across Washington Street from the courthouse, one fortress facing another. Jim Mulhern and Peter had made good time. They had left Canaan at 12:40 and got to Hartford at two o’clock. Lieutenant Shay arrived a little later in another car.
    Peter asked to go to the men’s room, where he washed his face and tried to brush through his hair with his hands. His hair was long and needed washing, and he felt a little scraggly. Mulhern took him upstairs, to a small room where a police officer was waiting, then Mulhern left. Peter didn’t see him again for quite a while.
    Cpl. Jack Schneider was short and brisk, with a crew cut. He seemed interested and friendly.
    â€œPete, you know why you’re up here, don’t you?” Corporal Schneider asked.
    â€œI guess I’m here just to confirm my statement,” Peter said.
    â€œRight,” Corporal Schneider said. “That’s the reason you’re here.”
    Schneider explained to Peter that Sgt. Tim Kelly would be doing the actual testing. “He’s reading all the reports over, so he’ll know what he’s talking about when you and him get together in the polygraph room,” Schneider said.
    â€œRight,” Peter said.
    Schneider gave him a form that said he was taking the test voluntarily. Peter signed it and wrote the time. It was 2:40 P.M . “This is confidential information,” Schneider told Peter. “It stays here. Everything that we do today, or any forms we make out, remain here.
    â€œWhat do your friends call you?” Schneider asked, in a friendly tone. “Do they call you Pete?”
    â€œEither that, or Petey,” said Peter.
    â€œI’ll call you Pete,” Schneider said. “Most of my friends I call Pete.”
    He asked Peter where he lived, and where he was born, and when. “Somewhere in New York City,” Peter said. “On March 2, 1955.”
    â€œWhat nationality are you?” Schneider asked.
    â€œEnglish, I think,” Peter said. “And German. English and German.”
    â€œBasically the same thing that I am,” Schneider said. “What’s your religion?”
    â€œI have none,” Peter said.
    â€œYou have none?” Schneider repeated.
    â€œNo, I’ve never been baptized,” Peter said.
    â€œYou’ve never been baptized?” Schneider repeated again. He paused. “You ever think about it? Do you believe in the Supreme Being?”
    â€œWell, I believe there’s got to be someone, someplace, always has been and always will be,” Peter said vaguely.
    â€œOK, good,” Schneider said. “You own a car, Pete?”
    â€œWell, it’s my mom’s car,” Peter said. “It’s in her name. A 1968 Corvette.”
    â€œYou lived with your mother. Was it just you and your mother?” Schneider asked. Peter said yes. “Any idea who you’ll be living with now?” Schneider asked.
    Peter named Jean Beligni. “She told me, if anything ever happens, to come right to them, if I ever need help, if I ever need a place to stay. So that’s what I’m going to do.”
    â€œNow, Pete, have you ever been in a mental institution?” Schneider asked. “Treated by a psychiatrist or