As the train slowed to a stop, I walked quickly back toward the end of the platform and boarded the last car. The train was more crowded than I had expected—filled with loud teenagers in ripped jeans and T-shirts, probably on their way to a concert or a club. I found a seat near the back of the car. It seemed like it took forever for the doors to close, but they finally did and the train started moving. I looked over my shoulder toward the parking lot, but the window had fogged and it was impossible to see out.
Although I was glad to get away from Princeton Junction, I knew my problems were far from over. It wouldn’t be long before the body was discovered and if Rudnick had told anyone in his office what my name was, the police would track me down and make me their prime suspect.
The kids on the train were getting louder, but they were so involved in their own excitement that they didn’t seem to notice me. I became aware of a faint odor of pot and one of the kids—tall, thin, probably about sixteen, with bad skin— was drinking from a bottle of beer, poorly concealed by a paper bag.
After the train left the New Brunswick station, the conductor entered the car. I’d wedged my ticket into the slot on top of the seat ahead of mine and I looked down when the conductor approached, trying not to make eye contact with him. After he collected my ticket and replaced it with a white card indicating how far I’d be traveling on the train, he said, “I think your face is bleeding, pal.”
I don’t know how I managed to stay calm. I imagined authorities from Princeton Junction calling the train and alerting them that a murder suspect might be on board. Afraid that I would appear even more suspicious if I kept looking down, I glanced up at the conductor for a moment, taking his image in quickly—tall, heavyset, with a mustache—and said, “Thanks, must’ve cut myself shaving.”
I had no idea how much blood there was on my face and whether this excuse would sound ridiculous or not, but the conductor seemed satisfied because he went to collect the teenagers’ tickets without another word. I moved close to the window, studying the reflection of my face, and was relieved to see that there was only a tiny streak of blood above my right cheekbone that I must’ve missed when I’d wiped my face with the sock. I licked my hand to wipe the blood clean and had to lick it again when it didn’t come off the first time. Realizing that the salty taste in my mouth was Michael Rudnick’s blood, I gagged, but fortunately I didn’t throw up.
The scare was over, or at least I hoped it was. The blood was gone from my face and the conductor had left the car without glancing at me again. He had no reason to be suspicious, but I realized how easily that could change.
The one-hour-or-so trip back to the city seemed endless, but the train finally pulled into Penn Station. I knew I had to get home fast so I’d have as little missing time to account for as possible.
Rather than waiting upstairs on the “taxi line” where it was well lit, I decided to hail a cab on the street. I exited onto Eighth Avenue and a cab stopped for me right away. I told the driver my destination, “Sixty-second and Lex,” purposely choosing a corner several blocks from my apartment, on the off-chance he might be questioned about it.
I was hoping not to have any more conversation with the driver but unfortunately he was a “talker.” He went into a maniacal, rambling monologue about politics, baseball, sex, and movies. Even though I was ignoring him, he didn’t get the message and kept blabbing away, nonstop, until he pulled over on the corner of Sixty-second and Lexington to let me out.
After exiting the cab, I ducked into a vestibule on East Sixty-second Street and took off my wig and sunglasses and put them away with the other evidence in my briefcase. It was ten-thirty as I walked at a brisk pace toward my apartment building. I was becoming more and more confident that everything would work out and that the police wouldn’t catch me. It was a Friday night, which would work to my advantage. I had once read somewhere that almost all arrests take place during the first twenty-four hours of an investigation. Since the police probably wouldn’t have a chance to talk to the people in Rudnick’s office until Monday, the entire trail would have more than two full days to cool off. By Monday morning, the cab driver, the conductor, and the woman on the opposite platform, or anyone else who might have seen me tonight, would be less likely to remember me.
Entering my building, I smiled and said hello to Raymond, the evening doorman, like I would do on any normal night, and then I casually went to the mailbox area. There was no mail in my box, meaning that Paula was probably home. I was expecting her to be waiting for me at the door, with her hands on her hips, ready to lay into me for not showing up at the marriage counselor’s office. I knew that a huge argument was inevitable, but I was hoping to put it off for as long as possible, or at least until I had a chance to get rid of the murder evidence from my briefcase.
The lights were out in the apartment and Otis didn’t come to the door to greet me. The bedroom door was closed, meaning Paula was probably locking me out for the night again. But I knew I had to play this right. I had to act like I wanted her to open up, otherwise it might raise suspicion later.
I knocked on the bedroom door for a few minutes, saying, “Come on, let me in,” and telling her how “sorry” I was, and how I could “explain everything.” Of course, she didn’t respond, which was perfectly fine with me. I went to the kitchen with my briefcase and took out the butcher knife. I would’ve gotten rid of it, dumped it somewhere, but I knew Paula would miss it. I started to scrub the knife under hot water. Blood covered most of the blade and the handle and some of it had hardened, forming a dark, scablike substance. The sink filled with a shallow puddle of pink water and I was getting nauseous again. I didn’t mind the blood, I minded that it was
Rudnick’s
blood and that he wasn’t completely out of my life yet. Until every last drop of him was gone I knew I would feel slightly sick.
Finally, all the visible blood was gone and the water in the sink had faded to a barely noticeable pink tinge. I kept scrubbing for a few minutes longer, just in case there were any microscopic droplets I’d missed, and then I dried the knife with a dish towel and replaced it in the drawer.
Next, I took a plastic shopping bag from The Gap out of the cupboard below the sink and filled it with the bloody socks, the wig, the sunglasses, and the suit jacket. Then I unbuttoned my shirt and took off my pants and shoes and added them as well. Blood had stained some papers and folders in my briefcase, but I knew that it probably wasn’t a good idea to dump anything personal with the clothes, so I left the papers alone, figuring I would get rid of them later.
“Where were you?”
Holding the plastic bag, I turned around and saw Paula standing by the kitchen door, facing me. I had no idea how long she had been there. For all I knew she had seen me handling the bloody clothes and papers.
“When?” I asked, aware of my pulse throbbing in my face.
“I’m not in the mood for any more bullshit,” she said. “Why weren’t you at the marriage counselor’s today? Did you just blow it off or do you have some other excuse?”
“I was at a bar . . . drinking,” I said meekly.
“That’s what I figured,” she said.
I was about to go on, apologizing, but she cut me off with: “I’m moving out.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“Come on,” I said. “I know you don’t—”
“Please,” she said, “I’m not in the mood to discuss it. Tomorrow I’m moving to a hotel. Goodnight.”
Paula marched down the hallway, then I heard the bedroom door shut and lock. Normally, I would have gone after her and tried to talk some sense into her, but now I was just glad to have her out of the way. Of course, I didn’t want her to leave me, but I figured that this wasn’t exactly the time to try and save my marriage.
Paula had let Otis out of the bedroom and now he came up to me and started sniffing the plastic bag.
“Easy, boy,” I said, afraid he’d start to bark.
I took the bag with me into the bathroom, where I washed my face, hands, and arms thoroughly. Then I changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt that I’d pulled out from the top of the laundry.
I came out of the bathroom, put on a pair of sneakers, and leashed Otis. In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, Otis was still trying to sniff the bag.
Passing Raymond, I said, “Great weather, huh?” and he said, “Yeah.”
This was part of my plan too—engage Raymond in small talk, to distract him from noticing that I was holding the bag. I was still counting on the police not questioning me, but if they did I wanted to make sure that I had taken care of every loose end.
Usually, I walked Otis down the block, to Second Avenue and back, but this time I crossed Second and walked farther east. Otis seemed to sense that something unusual was going on. Normally, he was playful and excited during his walks, sniffing every object we passed, running ahead of me, tugging on the leash. But tonight he walked calmly by my side, as if he knew that this was no time to joke around.
After First Avenue, East Sixty-fourth Street became darker and more deserted. My idea was to dump the bag in a garbage can somewhere. Even though this was very risky—a homeless person could find it, open it, and perhaps dump the contents onto the street—it seemed less dangerous than getting rid of it in the trash compactor in my building, where the evidence could easily be linked to me. Then I spotted a Dumpster at the curb in front of a building. It was half-filled with wood and other debris, but no one would pay any attention to one harmless plastic bag. I flung the bag over the side, watching it drop safely out of view.
I returned to my apartment and immediately went to work, cleaning out the rest of my briefcase. I took a big pot from the stove in the kitchen and, along with the bloody papers and folders from the briefcase and a book of matches, I went out to the terrace. I ripped the papers and folders into small pieces and ignited them in the pot. The blaze created a greater rush of gray smoke then I’d expected, but it was a breezy night and the cloud dispersed quickly. I waited for the ashes to cool down, then I took the pot into the bathroom and dumped the ashes into the toilet and flushed them.
Back in the kitchen, I wiped down the inside and outside of the briefcase. I was starting to get excited, knowing that I was almost done. I ran through a mental checklist three or four times, making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, then I went into the bathroom and took a shower. Looking up at the shower head, with the hot water spraying against my face, I finally felt free.
Later, I relaxed on the couch in the living room and closed my eyes. It was a relief to see pure darkness, not to be terrorized by the past.
I made a chirping noise with my tongue against the roof of my mouth, beckoning Otis, and then I said, “Here, puppy,” but he didn’t respond. He was probably still under the kitchen table, where he had been hiding since we’d come home from our walk.
11
“YOU HAVE TO give me another chance. I know I’ve been a big jerk lately, there’s no question about that, but I can change— I
have
changed. I promise—from now on, things’ll be different. I’ll go to marriage counseling, I’ll go to A.A.—I’ll do anything I have to do to keep you from leaving me.
Please
. I’m begging you.”
It was morning and I was in the foyer, standing between Paula and the door. She was wearing jeans and a suit jacket, holding a small suitcase.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I gave you another chance and you blew it.”
“Look,” I said, blocking her as she tried to sidestep past me. “I know I have a problem, but I’m going to deal with it now—I swear I will. I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, and if I were you I’d probably feel the same way, but give me a second chance and I promise I won’t fuck up again. You screwed up one time and I forgave you, didn’t I? The least you can do is do the same thing for me now.”
Paula was staring at me without blinking. She was still upset, but my last words had definitely hit home.
Finally, she said, “How can I trust you? I mean we’ve been through all this before.”
“I was an asshole, what can I say? But I’m begging you—I won’t screw up again. Just give me one more chance. That’s all I ask. Please, honey. Please.”
Paula looked at me wide-eyed for at least ten seconds, then she said, “Fine, I won’t move out today, but this is it—your last chance. Fuck up one more time, I’m out the door.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I love you so much. Thank you.”
She went to the bedroom and returned without her suitcase.
“I’ll see you later,” she said.
I was in the living room, folding the sheet and blanket.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To my office,” she said.
“On Saturday?”
“I need to prepare for a meeting next week.”
“When will you be home?”
“I have no idea.”
When she was gone, I went right into my office in the spare bedroom, turned on my PC, and logged on to the Internet. First, I checked the
Times
on-line edition, but I couldn’t find any mention of a murder in New Jersey. Technically, it would be an out-of-town news story, but it seemed likely that the New York papers would run a story about the murder of a lawyer from a prominent Madison Avenue firm.