LITMIR.BIZ

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in when I’ve confirmed. My family and I’ve been estranged since I married Brian. They never liked him. I lost my mother a few years ago but my dad … well, I’m hoping enough time has gone by.”

      “We’ll be in touch soon, Mrs. Munroe.” He handed her a card with his name and phone number. “If you need us at any time, call my cell number. Call 911 if you’re in danger, although we’ll do our best to make sure that your husband doesn’t contact you.”

      “I wish this had never happened. I wish I’d never defied my parents to marry him.” She lowered her face into her hands and began to sob.

      Rouleau and Gundersund entered the interview room where Brian Munroe had spent the better part of two hours. His hands covered his face and he didn’t stir from this position even when Rouleau greeted his lawyer, Suzie Chen. Rouleau had met Suzie once before on a youth justice case. Her reputation was that of a legal pit bull who tenaciously defended the down and out. She sat next to Munroe, expensively decked out in a navy power suit over a grey silk shirt buttoned to her neck. Munroe hadn’t dressed to impress anyone, wearing ripped jeans, a stained sweatshirt, and unlaced black runners.

      “Detectives.” Suzie nodded and put one hand on Munroe’s forearm. She could have been a child, so petite next to the massive bulk of Brian Munroe.

      Munroe finally lifted his shaved head and stared at Rouleau with baleful black eyes. He was a black man, the skin taut over high cheekbones and broad forehead. The corded veins in his neck bulged as he pressed his hands on the table and started to push himself to his feet. Rouleau thought that even with Della Munroe’s height and size, she would have been no match for her husband’s brute strength.

      “It’s okay,” Suzie said, and Munroe lowered himself back into the chair. She looked at Rouleau. “Brian’s instinct is to stand and shake hands, even with cops. He’ll get over it.”

      Rouleau spoke into the tape recorder, giving the time and the names of everyone present in the room. He confirmed that Munroe knew and understood his rights. When he finished, Suzie raised her hand.

      “We have a statement, if I may.”

      “Go ahead,” Rouleau said.

      “Brian Munroe denies all of the allegations put forth by his wife Della Munroe. He did not lay a hand on her, nor did he rape her.”

      Rouleau observed Munroe while she spoke. He was shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.

      “Is that right, Brian?” Rouleau asked.

      Monroe lifted his eyes to Rouleau. “Damn straight. The bitch is lying.”

      “Do you deny having sex with Della last night?”

      “We had sex yesterday morning. Consensual sex. I should have known she was plotting something.”

      “Why would she do that?”

      “Because I told her the day before that we should separate. She said this would be the last time, you know, for old times’ sake.” He hit himself on the forehead. “What was I thinking? Our entire marriage has been her playing me and me falling for it.”

      Suzie touched the back of his hand lying on the table. “I think we’ve said all we’re going to say at this juncture.”

      “Did you spend last night at home with your wife, Brian?” Rouleau asked.

      “I slept in the basement and left at close to four a.m. to start work at the bakery. I have no idea what she was up to all day yesterday.”

      “Have you ever hit your wife?”

      Munroe shifted and his eyes dropped to the table. His neck drooped so that his chin almost touched his chest. “Once. Once I grabbed her and pushed her off me. My fingers left marks on her arm, but that was it. I never lifted a hand to her otherwise.”

      “What about Tommy? Have you ever hit your son?”

      Munroe started to stand. “Damn that bitch all to hell.” He pressed his hands on the table and the muscles in his neck and arms rippled dangerously. “Is that what she’s saying? I never touched my son.”

      “We’re done here.” Suzie reached over and put her hand on his wrist. She swung her briefcase from the floor to the table, then stood and looked down at Rouleau. “Unless you plan to charge him.”

      “The Crown is laying sexual assault and battery charges. He’ll be detained until his bail hearing this afternoon or tomorrow morning.”

      “I serve notice that I’ll be fighting Della Munroe’s absurd allegations every step of the way. This won’t be the open-and-shut case you think it is.”

      “They never are,” Rouleau said.

      “So who do think is lying?” Gundersund asked. He took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at Rouleau.

      “My guess would be him based on the bruising. The photos in her file are brutal. No way she did that to herself. We should check with neighbours and friends to see if they observed anything nasty going on between them before this.”

      “Their times are off. He says they had sex in the morning and she said the evening. Is it possible to prove either way?”

      “She waited to go to the hospital, so it’s hard to tell exactly from the medical report.”

      Gundersund grimaced. “They should have separated before things got this far.”

      Rouleau nodded. “The problem is, they rarely ever do.”

      Chapter Three

      Gail Pankhurst stepped through the main door and removed one of her ear buds. It was hot in their little office space with only two fans mounted on the ceiling, rotating on full, uselessly moving the soupy air around and around. The university funded their help line but hadn’t coughed up any more money than necessary, budget restraints being the usual excuse for skimping on air conditioning. She stopped at Jucinda Rivera’s desk on her way to the vacant one near the far wall.

      “Hey Juicy. Are you starting shift or finishing up? I thought you had today off.”

      Jucinda flinched as she did every time Gail used the nickname, but she didn’t comment. Gail routinely poked her with the moniker, curious to see when Jucinda would react. So far, she’d kept any displeasure from reaching her lips. Gail had made Jucinda one of several unofficial subjects for her experiments in human psychology. She was particularly interested in how her guinea pigs dealt with upset or annoyances in social settings. Jucinda wasn’t alone in pretending that something that obviously bothered her wasn’t a concern.

      Jucinda tossed her black hair, dyed fuchsia at the tips, over her shoulder and reached for the ringing phone. “Leah was supposed to be in but couldn’t make it. Mark worked this morning, but he had to leave after lunch for an appointment. I’m filling in until he gets back,” Jucinda said, picking up the phone.

      “Great.” Gail tossed her bag under her desk and plopped into the chair. Adele was singing into her right ear and she left the other ear bud swinging loose. She could relate to the British superstar — criticized for being a little pudgy but her own woman nonetheless. Gail had learned not to give a rat’s arse what people thought of her. She’d let all that go when she had Mickey Mouse tattooed onto her right bicep. She’d had Betty Boop inked the length of her forearm right after she told her parents she was gay. Every tattoo marked another step in her emancipation. She now felt completely liberated, which was good since she was running out of available skin with the exception of her face and neck. She’d promised her mother to keep those ink-free zones.

      It was an hour later before both she and Jucinda were off the phones at the same time.

      “Busy afternoon,” Gail commented. She stood and stretched. “Would you like a cup of Earl Grey?”

      “Sure,” said Jucinda. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a package of Fig Newtons. “I have

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