“I didn’t know she was dead,” Wainwright told the cops. “I didn’t know.”
The nude body of the blond hooker lay akimbo across the rumpled bed. Wainwright dropped one of his legs into his Armani trousers, then the other. Next, he tucked in his white Arrow shirt.
“She’d been dead since yesterday, said Detective Gwynne. “We got laws against this kind of sex,” Detective Gwynne said. “The courts and the nuthouses call it necrophilia. Ever hear of it? Or maybe you ain’t much for name calling. Prefer practice, and screw theory, huh?”
“I’m…I’m a college professor.” To Gwynne it sounded like an apology. “I teach British and American Poetry. I write poems. I’m not like..” He pointed to the dead woman.
Gwynne sucked air through his teeth. “Poems? Where you’re going, mack, I’d say, Don’t write any. You’ll either get a shiv through your throat or an engagement ring.”
“My wife,” began Wainwright, “she never moves when we make love. I thought maybe if I went out, found somebody else for a few hours. But she…” he throws his head back at the corpse. “she was the same…”
“Forget the tie,” said Gwynne, motioning Wainwright to put his hands behind his back. “Let’s get out of here. Your story ain’t the only thing that stinks!”
“I thought she was sleeping.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sleeping. Maybe you can write a poem about it, professor. Maybe a whole book of them.”
Gwynne led him down the creaking stairs of the no-tell motel.