The cops ask anyone who knew Carrie to get in touch. So, I get in touch and they offer to send a squad car to pick me up in Manhattan. But, I tell them, “You don’t have to do that. I’m from Brooklyn. I know how to get there. I’ll save you some time.” This is when I become a suspect. Figures. I know Brooklyn. I knew Carrie. I get to the stationhouse and it is right out of Kojak.
Who chose this vomit-green paint for all municipal buildings in New York?
The cops put me in an interrogation room and leave me there for thirty minutes.
- A long, sweaty thirty minutes.
- A that’s a two-way mirror and they’re watching me right now, thirty minutes.
- A hold-on, I’m-a-suspect, thirty minutes.
Whoa. Wait a minute. Did I kill Carrie? I’ve never killed anyone as far as I know but maybe this is what it’s like to be a killer – you blank the crime out. Missing time. Wait a minute. Where was I last night? Was that dream I had about Carrie’s death a few nights ago the way my homicidal-maniac brain filtered reality? Did I kill Carrie?