Read EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories for Free Online

have their ups and downs and the Hills’ marriage is no exception. Mr. Hills loves his wife but strongly suspects that she may not be of sound mind. He supports his wife’s application for bail, with the provision that the court issue a restraining order prohibiting Mrs. Hills from coming within 100 yards of him, and that she submit to court-ordered psychological testing.”
    I was not commenting at all. Not even to Chronicle reporter Terry Green, who was my best friend and a former colleague, back when I was a reporter in a former life. I spent my days hanging up on reporters and trying not to read newspapers or listen to the radio or watch television. I wanted to call Terry and howl: You moron! You call yourself a journalist? I can’t believe you’re letting yourself get played like this! But I knew I was being irrational and I could imagine Terry’s rebuttal: This is a newsworthy story and O’Connor is making newsworthy comments. We report the news. You choose not to comment, which leaves those of us who didn’t quit on journalism to do the ethical heavy-lifting. And you want to judge us? Fuck that. Get off the cross, you big crybaby. Of course Terry would’ve been more diplomatic about it.
    On the third day, Mrs. Hills made bail and Federal Prosecutor Alex Cavanaugh beckoned me to his office. I wore a clean suit.
    If I’d been there alone, Cavanaugh would probably have sat behind his impressive desk and made steepling gestures at me with his hands. But I wasn’t his only guest, so we sat in comfortable leather chairs around a marble coffee table. With us were Special Agent Holborn and Cavanaugh’s assistant, Leonard Pritts.
    Pritts briefed us on the case and concluded, “We’re still back-channeling with O’Connor to work a plea. But the non compos mentis angle is bullshit. We’ll deal some time but we’re not dropping to a lesser charge.”
    “Great,” I said. “But somebody from your office has to make clear to the press what my role in this is. O’Connor’s fucking with my reputation.”
    “So?” said Pritts.
    I turned to a friendlier face. “Agent Holborn, I came to you from the start—”
    “And we’ve made it clear that you’re not a suspect,” said Holborn.
    “Just barely,” I said. “Look, so far I’ve been quiet but I have a right to defend my reputation and my livelihood.”
    Cavanaugh cleared his throat and said, “Do not threaten, Gumshoe.” He said gumshoe the same way as Mrs. Hills. “You will not even dream of speaking to the press about this case, or your career will most certainly be over. And you do not tell us about how we do our jobs.”
    I felt like a kid in the principal’s office. “Not my intention,” I said, holding up my hand in apology. “The point that I was so unskillfully trying to make is valid, but my presentation was out of line. I assure you, I have no intention of speaking to the press at this time.”
    “Good,” said Cavanaugh. Then, to Pritts, “I’m sure our office can make a statement that will clearly communicate the fact that Mr. Dudgeon is a cooperative witness who aided the investigation from the start and has never been a suspect in this case.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    As we left the building, I shook my head at Holborn and said, “Thanks a heap for all the support in there.”
    “Maybe you should be less of a smart-ass,” said Holborn and walked away.
    The next day, Mr. Gordon Hills went to his wife’s hotel room and beat her to death with a framing hammer. After which he ordered room service and turned on the television and watched Wheel of Fortune until the police arrived. He was pleading temporary insanity, according to his defense attorney, Dermott O’Connor.
    Small goddamn world.
    I took myself out drinking. Thinking, Was Francine Hills really a battered wife, or did Gordon Hills go mental when he woke up to the fact that she’d tried to hire his murder? Beat her to death with a hammer—that’s pretty mental for a guy