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John Connolly

Every Dead Thing

Hodder & Stoughton 1999
Jacket design unattributed

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SYNOPSIS
Five hours had elapsed since the death of Fat Ollie Watts, his girlfriend, Monica Mulrane, and the shooter, as yet unidentified. I had been interviewed by a pair of detectives from Homicide, neither of whom I knew. Walter Cole did not participate. I was brought coffee twice but otherwise I was left alone after the questionings. Once, when one of the detectives left the room to consult with someone, I caught a glimpse of a tall, thin man in a dark linen suit, the ends of his shirt collar sharp as razors, his red silk tie unwrinkled. He looked like a Fed, a vain Fed. The wooden table in the interrogation room was pitted and worn, caffeine-stamped by the edges of hundreds, maybe thousands, of coffee cups. At the left-hand side of the table, near the corner, someone had carved a broken heart into the wood, probably with a nail. And I remembered that heart from another time, from the last time I sat in this room . . . 'Shit, Walter . . .' 'Walt, it ain't a good idea for him to be here.' Cole looked at the detectives ranged around the walls, slouched on chairs around the table. 'He's not here/ he said. 'As far as everyone in this room is concerned, you never saw him.'

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