Bob  sat at the table smoking a cigarette and looking at the clock on the wall in front of him.  The execution would be at 9 pm. It was 6.00  pm of a warm summer day.

He took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Better?”

“Yeah” said Bob, “better.”

The man on the other side of the table pushed a packet of cigarettes across the table. He wasn’t smoking, but he was flipping the lid of a cigarette lighter continuously; he looked nervous.

“You know, when Jackson told me there was someone who wanted to talk to me I never thought it was  you. I thought it could be a politician or someone of my family.”

“I’m happy you agreed to see me,” said the man. “I had to use a lot of favours to get here, but  if you said no they were lost.”

Bob examined the tip of his cigarette. “Talking with someone takes my mind off it.”

He smiled without realizing it. It had been two years since he had seen detective Walters, but he was the same. Very handsome man. Well-dressed, apart his ties, they were usually funny and ugly. The one he wore now showed Superman flying in a blue sky and a car in his hand. Bob wondered if it had been a gift or if Walters had bought it himself.

Walters’ green eyes darted from Bob’s face to his hands and back again, studying him. He looked like an accountant but was a clever son-of-a-bitch.

“You know, your case was the first I worked on after joining the Homicide.”

“You never forget your first one,” said Bob, stubbing out the cigarette in a dirty ashtray.

“Hmm, yes, I suppose that’s true, but there’s something more.  I was never entirely comfortable with your case.”

“I wasn’t either,” said Bob.  He took another cigarette and leaned over the table while Walters lit it.

“Callaway retired. He’s probably sunning himself as we speak.”

“Good for him.”

“It was Callaway’s case really. He was lead detective. I was still learning the ropes.”

“How far we’ve come, detective. Look at us now” said Bob.

“Callaway never had doubts. He opened and shut the case. After all, you were found at the scene with the murder weapon and you had a conviction for burglary. Means, motive and opportunity – the holy trinity.”

“And I confessed, don’t forget that detective Walters.”

Walters began flicking the lighter  again. “Yes, you did,” he said. He took out from his pocket  a folded piece of paper. He opened it and placed it on the table.

“Let’s see… You got sick of the victim living the high life while you sweated on his lawn and flower beds. That day you thought he’d gone and broke-in to rob the place. But Mr Eastwood and his wife were at home. You knocked the wife unconscious. Eastwood appears with a gun and you struggle. You take hold of him and shoot him dead.”

He looked up at Bob, “How am I doing so far?” he asked.

Bob shrugged his shoulders.

“Neighbours hear the shot and call the cops. You kill two policemen. You were held back by another car called as back-up.”

Bob sighed. “You treated me right in the past, detective Walters – not like Callaway – that’s why I agreed to see you. But this is getting very old, very fast.”

Walters folded the paper carefully and put it back in his pocket. “Yes, open and shut,” he said. “No-one can blame Callaway for jumping at the chance to close the case quickly. But… I don’t think you did it.”

Bob coughed and let out a cloud of smoke. “Jesus! You really know how to stick it to a guy. You turn up three hours before the execution and tell me you think I’m innocent! What is this? Are you joking?”

“No, I’m not. I think you took the fault and  you’re protecting someone.”

“You’re crazy!”

Walters got to his feet and began pacing. He seemed to be in the grip of a fever. Bob could feel the heat coming from the man’s body.

“You’re not fool, Bob. You break into the house of a client on the day you were supposed to cut their lawn. You knock the wife unconscious and shoot her husband. You kill two cops, so why didn’t you shoot the wife too?  She saw your face and she knew you. You had already killed three people; it wouldn’t have changed if you killed her too.”

“I didn’t have time,” Riley mumbled. “It all happened very fast.”

“I’ve read the records. There was a gap of twelve minutes between the first policeman car and the second. A lot of time to kill her and get away. You stuck around. You must have known more cops were coming.”

“All right, so it wasn’t the crime of the century. So what? I was desperate and made mistakes.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Walters. “It reeks of a cover-up.”

“I confessed for Christ’s sake! What do you want more?”

Walters rested his hands on the table. “Tell me about Anabel Eastwood”  he said.

“What? She was his wife. The guy I killed. What about her?”

“I spoke with the neighbours and they said the Eastwoods argued a lot. There were voices saying she was having an affair.”

“I’m supposed to know about that?”

“Do you?”

“No!”

“You usually went to do the lawn on Tuesday afternoons. The husband was usually at work”

“I know where you”re going and you are wrong. Besides, he  wasn’t at work on the Tuesday I broke-in.”

“No, he wasn’t,” said Walters. “Work colleagues said he had been worried all week. Behaving strangely. One of them asked him what was the problem  and he answered  <<troubles at home>>.

Bob crossed his arms. “So what?”

“So, I think Eastwood knew about your Tuesday afternoon sessions, Bob. And I”m not talking about gardening sessions. Eastwood left work early that day. He said he didn’t feel well and had to go home. I think he went to confront his wife. I think there was a fight and she shot him.”

“What are you saying?”

“She wanted rid of him and  made the  affair obvious. She did something…  I don’t know, maybe she wrote something in a diary, a scrap of paper lying around with the day you used to see… She tipped him off somehow. She made sure he would be home. She shot him and you walked in afterwards. I’m sure she told you crying he was going to kill her and then he was going to kill you so she had to do it.”

Detective Walters was close to Bob’s face. “The cops arrive and she kills them too. She panicked, she says she can’t handle it. There’s no way she can go to jail. She wouldn’t cope. Maybe she puts the gun to her head. Maybe she says she can’t go on. Maybe you say you’ll take the fault!”

“No!”  Bob jumped to his feet, his hands balled into fists. His face was white and snarling. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“I don’t want to listen to you! I shot that bastard because he was going to shoot me. It was a robbery, okay? She had nothing to do with it!”

Walters held out his hands. “Okay, calm down now. Sit and have another cigarette.”

Bob stood a moment longer staring at the detective. Then  sat back on the seat, never taking his eyes from the man.

“You know, it’s strange, but I always liked you, Bob. A lot of guys at the station didn’t. Nobody loves Cop killers. But you never gave us trouble during the investigation. You didn’t let us run over you, but you handled yourself well. I respected that.” He reached over and slid a cigarette from the pack. He held it under his nose for a moment before placing it in the corner of his mouth.

“Anabel Eastwood is a wealthy woman. She has her husband’s money and insurance now.”

“You don’t quit, do you?”

“I’m just talking, that’s all. She’s coming along tonight, did you know that?”

Bob’s stomach flipped like a landed fish.

“She will be in the viewing gallery.”

Detective Walters lit the cigarette. “I can’t prove she killed her husband, I can’t  get you off the hook. I just had to see you one last time, to see if I could get an answer.”

“You got your answer,” said Bob.

“Yes, I did. Two years on the job and I’ve seen it all. I’ve seen guys lay the blame on their friends, their brothers or sisters, their wives, even on their mothers. I’ve seen guys begging, telling me they didn’t do it, they weren’t capable to kill. If I had told those guys what I told you… There isn’t one of them who wouldn’t have given their right arm to have Anabel Eastwood take the blame. But not you, Bob. You’re either the most honest murderer I have ever met, or maybe  the biggest fool I have ever known.”

“Just get out!” shouted Bob. He could no longer bear to look at the detective.

He stared at the clock instead. It had an altogether more tolerable face.

” Ok, Ok, I’m going… I hope it was worth it” he said. “I hope she was worth it.”