The Hand That Feeds You by A.J. Rich

the officer calmed the woman enough to get her to take a seat again.
    “I wonder if you could help me,” I said in an authoritative voice, one I’d mastered in order to speak to police officers and criminals alike in my professional capacity. “I’m from John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City. I have an appointment with your incident-reports analyst. Could you tell me where I might find her?”
    “Him, not her. Second floor. But I need to see some ID.”
    I showed my John Jay photo ID and told him I was looking for a woman.
    “Gerald Marks is our new guy. You’re not talking about Susan Rorke, are you?”
    “I might be. I know this sounds confusing, but I don’t know the name of the woman I’m meeting, just her job and that this is the closest precinct to where she suggested I meet her today. Do you know where I can find this Susan Rorke?”
    “Miss, I’m sorry to tell you, but Susan died six weeks ago.”
    “The woman I’m looking for quit her job, moved to New York, and then came back here sometime this summer.”
    “Susan did leave her job, but she came back just before she was killed.”
    “You said she died. She was killed?”
    “Miss, I can’t give you the details of an ongoing investigation.”
    I did a quick calculation. She must have died soon after she posted that letter on Lovefraud, if it was Susan Rorke. But if Susan Rorke had been dead for six weeks, who had responded to my e-mail? I asked the desk sergeant if I might speak with one of her colleagues.
    He picked up the phone and said, “Can you come to the front desk?”
    A young man who looked as though he had ridden to work on a skateboard appeared in a couple of minutes and introduced himself as Detective Homes.
    “She’s asking about Susan Rorke,” the desk sergeant said.
    “I might be,” I said again, and explained myself to Homes.
    “What do you know about this investigation?”
    “Nothing, unless Susan Rorke knew this man.” I handed him the photo of Bennett.
    “Where did you get this?”
    I sensed the detective had seen Bennett before. I sensed I was going to learn something I didn’t want to know. But I already knew it. “Was this man involved with Susan Rorke?”
    “This is my investigation. Please answer my question.”
    “He was my fiancé.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “You tell me.” I didn’t know Bennett in any sense—his history, his capabilities, his motivation. I felt dizzy with ignorance, nauseous.
    “Would you come upstairs and look at some photos?”
    I said nothing as we climbed the stairs. I needed the handrail. I cycled between confusion and shame at having so wildly misread a man I loved.
    The detective’s desk was surprisingly neat. All that was on it was a short stack of folders, one of which he opened after offering me a seat. A woman’s photograph was paper-clipped inside. She looked to be about my age, an attractive woman holding a one-eyed Jack Russell terrier in her lap.
    “Do you recognize this woman?”
    “I assume this is Susan Rorke. But, no, I don’t recognize her.”
    He showed me another picture. This time, Susan Rorke was smiling broadly in a sunny, mountainous landscape. Her head was resting on Bennett’s shoulder.
    “Is this the man you claim was your fiancé?”
    “How did she die?”
    “Please answer my question.”
    I was, by turns, sick to my stomach and utterly composed. “May I have a glass of water?”
    When had this photograph been taken? Was it before I met Bennett? The detective came back from the watercooler and handed me an old-fashioned cone-shaped paper cup. “When was this taken?” I asked when I finished drinking.
    “When was your photograph of this man taken?”
    “Is he a suspect?”
    “Please, I need you to answer directly.”
    “Fine. Mine was taken in Maine about a month before he was killed.”
    “He’s dead?”
    “Maybe you read about it. He was killed by dogs. I’m the one who found the body.”
    “This was in New