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head in agreement. “I understand. I want to cooperate.”
    “Good. Begin by telling me what you were doing tonight.”
    George did not hesitate. He said he arrived home from work about six in the evening. As he walked in the door, it seemed Andrew was just walking out to go over to his girlfriend’s. “I had to cook for myself because Emily was at some cooking party.” The way he made it sound was as if a married man with daughters should never have to cook; it was not his duty. But on this night, with his wife working and his daughter out, George said he made spaghetti. Gail had not left dinner, as she generally did. “I then went down into the basement office and did some work until around eight-thirty, when Andrew came home.”
    “What happened next?”
    “Andrew came down the stairs about nine-thirty and told me I had a phone call. It was Barbara Butkis from the library. She said Gail was hurt . . . that I should come down to the library. Andrew and I left immediately. When I got there, no one would tell me anything.”
    George was getting excited and antsy as he felt a lingering finger being pointed directly at him.
    “Relax, Mr. Fulton,” one of the investigators said. This was not an interrogation; they were trying to develop information and see if George knew anything that might be helpful in finding his wife’s killer.
    After a brief pause Wundrach asked, “Are you and your wife having any marital problems, Mr. Fulton?”
    “No!” George answered quickly.
    “Did you have an affair with your boss?”
    “I did have an affair, and at one point wanted a divorce. But I am Catholic. I wanted to work things out. Gail and I were counseling with a priest from our parish. We went twice. I said I didn’t want to go anymore. I counseled personnel in the military, and counseling is not something that would work on me.”
    “What is your relationship with your boss currently?”
    “I still work for Donna Trapani.” He gave the name of the company. “But the company is going under and I am not getting paid for my work.”
    “Okay, when did you end your relationship with Miss . . . What was her name again? . . . Oh, yeah, Trapani?”
    “I was living with her in Florida and moved out in October 1998 to my own apartment. I moved back in with Gail in April of... let me see . . . 1999. Donna took that very hard. She came here during the weekend of July 4, 1999. I set up a meeting between Donna and Gail at a hotel—the ConCorde Inn in Rochester Hills. I left the room.... Gail soon left.... I stayed . . . with Donna and talked to her.”
    Things were getting more interesting as George Fulton talked through it: How many guys would set up a sit-down with his mistress and his wife? There had to be more to it than just the two of them getting together to talk things out.
    “Do you think that Donna could be responsible for your wife’s shooting?” Wundrach asked, quite curious about this new fact.
    “No!” George said. “She could never do anything like that.”
    “Did Gail have any enemies?”
    “Gail had no enemies. . . .” For George, it was ridiculous even to say something like that. “I have no idea who could have done this.” George had a tone that indicated he wanted to leave.
    “When was the last time you spoke to Donna?”
    “I talked to Donna about four or five times today because of my work. I was on the phone with Donna when my son came down the stairs to tell me something happened at the library and Barbara was on the phone.”
    David Ross asked George, who might have killed Gail?
    “I. Don’t. Know.” He said these words angrily. “She was a sweet person and had no enemies.”
    “Did you have any knowledge or involvement in your wife’s death?” Ross asked.
    “No.”
    “Listen, Mr. Fulton, would you be willing to take a polygraph—you know, a lie detector test—to help clear your name from our investigation?”
    George became even angrier. He stood up. “No! I will not. I do not