Composure
"It's just a shock, you know?"
Mr.Hamilton was looking at the floor as he talked.
"I mean you get up in the morning, drink your coffee, go to work and you come home and then....." his voice trailed off.
I knew not to interrupt. Mr.Hamilton paused for minute, then went on:
"I mean, I come home and there's stuff thrown all over the place and I go in the kitchen and she's ...she's.........there."
I kept writing, but once in a while I looked over at him to give him the impression I was paying attention. We'd been at my desk for half an hour at that point and I was writing up a report on a hit and run accident from the day before. He probably thought I was keeping track of what he was saying, but somebody had already taken his statement. That wasn't my job.
"It's awful, just awful. It's the kind of thing that shouldn't happen to your worst enemy, you know? The worst thing in the world to find somebody like that......."
He made a choking kind of noise and I thought he was going to throw up so I pushed my chair away from my desk and looked for the nearest trashcan.
"No, no, I'm ok...it's just...I'm ok. But, do you think I could have some more coffee?"
Mr.Hamilton raised his two handcuffed wrists toward me with the blood stained styrofoam cup in his right hand.
Sure, I told him, waving the hands away, but what say we get you a new cup?
He nodded his head yes, lowered his hands, and went back to talking.