water in her lungs, because she was already dead when you hauled her in there, banged her head, and held her under water.
“What?” you’ll ask. “A stroke? A heart attack? But why was the detective asking if anyone else might have wanted to kill her?” Your lawyer won’t know, of course. And you must resist the temptation to even hint about poisoning. Certainly no hints about mushroom poisoning. Which is how you have done the dastardly deed. And don’t ask me the name of those terrible mushrooms. There are more than one of them. You’ll want the one that looks so much like that mushroom gourmets always fuss over at French restaurants. Check out one of the mushroom books at the library and look up the names. You’re paying me for the plot (and little enough, I must say) and that doesn’t include doing the donkey work.
Why mushrooms? Because there’s a proper weirdness about them that fits your purpose. Because, as a former medical student, you still have connections and friends in the department of pharmacology and the department of neurology, where they are, respectively, growing the things and experimenting with their various effects on nervous systems. And because your wife fancies herself a gourmet, even though she could hardly tell that terrible Texas excuse for chili from the most deliciously subtle Hatch or Chimayo green. And because good old Blazes Boylan fancies himself not only an epicurean but a four-star chef. And finally, because you want a crime that will be memorable. What we’re doing here will not only make the prosecuting attorney and the detective quickly lose interest in your admitted assault upon a corpse, it will send them baying and barking frantically up the wrong tree as soon as we point the wrong tree out to them.
I will pause at this juncture to make sure you understand the strategy behind stage one of this project.
Obviously the relationship into which you must enter with the detective and the prosecutor will be adversarial at the outset. Their conditioning will allow it to be no other way. When you present them with a wife not only murdered but wealthy, you present them yourself as their prey. How does one overcome that? By prepreempting their position.
“I am guilty,” you tell them. “Do your duty. Hang me.” But the conditioning remains. You are still the adversary. They will be happy, still, to prove you wrong. But now that means they must prove you innocent. The principle is a bit like that of the old-fashioned martial art we used to call judo—using the attacker’s momentum against him, to throw him off balance.
So we wait for tomorrow and watch our plans bear fruit.
The detective will return with more questions—but now in the comfort of your home with a tea tray on the table and attitudes dramatically changed. The detective will be excited, possibly tense. The little domestic homicide you presented him has become part of something very, very big. Memorable. Exactly what you called for in your letter. Now he will want to know a lot more about what happened the past several days. And you will be happy to notice he is very curious about Blazes, your faithless former friend.
For this stage of the game, I recommend you appear to be slightly drunk. Not out of it, of course, but having had enough to relax the inhibitions, to lose caution, to speak more candidly than your own best interests would dictate. I recommend a half-empty shaker of martinis on the tea table and the smell of gin on your breath. But take only a single sip. You may need to be sharp.
Detective: “Thank you, no. I can’t drink on duty.”
You: “Some tea, then?” (Fill your martini glass. Take a sip. A small one.)
Detective: “Have you been informed of the cause of your wife’s death?”
You: “No. I presumed a stroke. Or a heart attack. She sometimes complained of chest pains. But she wouldn’t see a doctor.”
Detective: (Looking surprised.) “You haven’t seen the paper? Watched the
“What?” you’ll ask. “A stroke? A heart attack? But why was the detective asking if anyone else might have wanted to kill her?” Your lawyer won’t know, of course. And you must resist the temptation to even hint about poisoning. Certainly no hints about mushroom poisoning. Which is how you have done the dastardly deed. And don’t ask me the name of those terrible mushrooms. There are more than one of them. You’ll want the one that looks so much like that mushroom gourmets always fuss over at French restaurants. Check out one of the mushroom books at the library and look up the names. You’re paying me for the plot (and little enough, I must say) and that doesn’t include doing the donkey work.
Why mushrooms? Because there’s a proper weirdness about them that fits your purpose. Because, as a former medical student, you still have connections and friends in the department of pharmacology and the department of neurology, where they are, respectively, growing the things and experimenting with their various effects on nervous systems. And because your wife fancies herself a gourmet, even though she could hardly tell that terrible Texas excuse for chili from the most deliciously subtle Hatch or Chimayo green. And because good old Blazes Boylan fancies himself not only an epicurean but a four-star chef. And finally, because you want a crime that will be memorable. What we’re doing here will not only make the prosecuting attorney and the detective quickly lose interest in your admitted assault upon a corpse, it will send them baying and barking frantically up the wrong tree as soon as we point the wrong tree out to them.
I will pause at this juncture to make sure you understand the strategy behind stage one of this project.
Obviously the relationship into which you must enter with the detective and the prosecutor will be adversarial at the outset. Their conditioning will allow it to be no other way. When you present them with a wife not only murdered but wealthy, you present them yourself as their prey. How does one overcome that? By prepreempting their position.
“I am guilty,” you tell them. “Do your duty. Hang me.” But the conditioning remains. You are still the adversary. They will be happy, still, to prove you wrong. But now that means they must prove you innocent. The principle is a bit like that of the old-fashioned martial art we used to call judo—using the attacker’s momentum against him, to throw him off balance.
So we wait for tomorrow and watch our plans bear fruit.
The detective will return with more questions—but now in the comfort of your home with a tea tray on the table and attitudes dramatically changed. The detective will be excited, possibly tense. The little domestic homicide you presented him has become part of something very, very big. Memorable. Exactly what you called for in your letter. Now he will want to know a lot more about what happened the past several days. And you will be happy to notice he is very curious about Blazes, your faithless former friend.
For this stage of the game, I recommend you appear to be slightly drunk. Not out of it, of course, but having had enough to relax the inhibitions, to lose caution, to speak more candidly than your own best interests would dictate. I recommend a half-empty shaker of martinis on the tea table and the smell of gin on your breath. But take only a single sip. You may need to be sharp.
Detective: “Thank you, no. I can’t drink on duty.”
You: “Some tea, then?” (Fill your martini glass. Take a sip. A small one.)
Detective: “Have you been informed of the cause of your wife’s death?”
You: “No. I presumed a stroke. Or a heart attack. She sometimes complained of chest pains. But she wouldn’t see a doctor.”
Detective: (Looking surprised.) “You haven’t seen the paper? Watched the
Similar Books
