times out of ten, when a wife has shot, poisoned, or stabbed her husband, you’ll find a man who somehow deserved it.
Men, meanwhile, usually kill their wives for one of four reasons: money,sex, revenge, or freedom. The first three need almost no explanation and are so common that detectives use them as a kind of checklist when they find a married woman lying dead in her apartment. Was the suspect fucking someone else? Was the wife, and did the husband know about it? Did the wife have a large insurance policy or trust fund of which the husband was a beneficiary; and if so, was the man’s alibi airtight, et cetera, et cetera?
But freedom, this was the least common and most complicated reason to murder a spouse, though nearly every man who has been married understands it. And although one might argue that freedom was somehow the underlying impetus of the previous three, the shared factor, as it were, Hastroll knew from experience that murder for freedom qua freedom was something else entirely.
Men dream of starting over. Not even necessarily with another woman. They dream of a clean slate, of disappearing, of walking off a plane on a layover and making a new life for themselves in a strange city—Grand Rapids, say, or Nashville. They dream of an apartment all their own, of silence, of joining Delta Force and fighting in Iraq, of introducing themselves by the nickname they’d always wished they had. Of a time and place where they can use everything they know now that they hadn’t known then—that is, before they were married. And then they might be happy.
Sitting in the living room, in his favorite chair, with his wife sobbing in her bed for hours on end, Hastroll understood this dream. Sit alone in the dark long enough, he thought, and it seems worth killing for.
“They had a couple of knock-down-drag-outs,” said Rand Harper, Pepin’s next-door neighbor. “But so have Havis and me.” His wife, Havis Davenport, sat with him on the couch. They were in their late twenties, just married, Havis newly knocked up but already really showing. Pictures from their wedding hung all over the apartment. In the bathroom, when Hastroll had excused himself to take a leak, he’d noticed a framed page from
Town & Country;
the announcement read like a genealogy of superachievement and prime real estate, their photograph taken in the limousine that would whisk them off to their fabulous honeymoon, the two kids looking so poised, posed, and pretty, he thought, that there was nowhere to go but down.
“I think we get along very well,” Havis said.
“I’m not saying we don’t, sweetie, I’m just saying we’ve had a fight or two, and just because we have doesn’t mean we’re on the verge of killing each other.”
“I certainly hope not,” Havis said.
Ha stroll looked up from his notes.
“Rand worked for Lehman,” she said.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s caused some
stress,”
she said.
“I don’t think the detective cares about my job situation.”
“Well,” she said, “somebody has to.”
Hastroll flipped a page in his pad. “So you never heard anything out of the ordinary?” he said.
“No,” Rand said.
“Did you see either of them on the day of Alice’s death?”
“To be honest,” Havis said, “I rarely saw them together at all.”
“Can you clarify that?”
“For several months I never even saw her. I think they were separated for most of this year. I think she was gone.”
“There’s an ugly duckling story for you,” Rand said.
His wife smacked his arm.
“Well, it’s true. She used to be this obese … ” He turned to Hastroll. “She was fat, all right, and then—”
“What?” Havis said.
He looked at her and back at Hastroll.
“She got … attractive.”
His wife crossed her arms, then stood up and gathered the cups from the coffee table. “Do you need to ask me any more questions, Detective?”
“No,” Hastroll said.
“Excuse me
Men, meanwhile, usually kill their wives for one of four reasons: money,sex, revenge, or freedom. The first three need almost no explanation and are so common that detectives use them as a kind of checklist when they find a married woman lying dead in her apartment. Was the suspect fucking someone else? Was the wife, and did the husband know about it? Did the wife have a large insurance policy or trust fund of which the husband was a beneficiary; and if so, was the man’s alibi airtight, et cetera, et cetera?
But freedom, this was the least common and most complicated reason to murder a spouse, though nearly every man who has been married understands it. And although one might argue that freedom was somehow the underlying impetus of the previous three, the shared factor, as it were, Hastroll knew from experience that murder for freedom qua freedom was something else entirely.
Men dream of starting over. Not even necessarily with another woman. They dream of a clean slate, of disappearing, of walking off a plane on a layover and making a new life for themselves in a strange city—Grand Rapids, say, or Nashville. They dream of an apartment all their own, of silence, of joining Delta Force and fighting in Iraq, of introducing themselves by the nickname they’d always wished they had. Of a time and place where they can use everything they know now that they hadn’t known then—that is, before they were married. And then they might be happy.
Sitting in the living room, in his favorite chair, with his wife sobbing in her bed for hours on end, Hastroll understood this dream. Sit alone in the dark long enough, he thought, and it seems worth killing for.
“They had a couple of knock-down-drag-outs,” said Rand Harper, Pepin’s next-door neighbor. “But so have Havis and me.” His wife, Havis Davenport, sat with him on the couch. They were in their late twenties, just married, Havis newly knocked up but already really showing. Pictures from their wedding hung all over the apartment. In the bathroom, when Hastroll had excused himself to take a leak, he’d noticed a framed page from
Town & Country;
the announcement read like a genealogy of superachievement and prime real estate, their photograph taken in the limousine that would whisk them off to their fabulous honeymoon, the two kids looking so poised, posed, and pretty, he thought, that there was nowhere to go but down.
“I think we get along very well,” Havis said.
“I’m not saying we don’t, sweetie, I’m just saying we’ve had a fight or two, and just because we have doesn’t mean we’re on the verge of killing each other.”
“I certainly hope not,” Havis said.
Ha stroll looked up from his notes.
“Rand worked for Lehman,” she said.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s caused some
stress,”
she said.
“I don’t think the detective cares about my job situation.”
“Well,” she said, “somebody has to.”
Hastroll flipped a page in his pad. “So you never heard anything out of the ordinary?” he said.
“No,” Rand said.
“Did you see either of them on the day of Alice’s death?”
“To be honest,” Havis said, “I rarely saw them together at all.”
“Can you clarify that?”
“For several months I never even saw her. I think they were separated for most of this year. I think she was gone.”
“There’s an ugly duckling story for you,” Rand said.
His wife smacked his arm.
“Well, it’s true. She used to be this obese … ” He turned to Hastroll. “She was fat, all right, and then—”
“What?” Havis said.
He looked at her and back at Hastroll.
“She got … attractive.”
His wife crossed her arms, then stood up and gathered the cups from the coffee table. “Do you need to ask me any more questions, Detective?”
“No,” Hastroll said.
“Excuse me
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