turn up soon; something definite.â
Mrs. Klein faced him for the first time; she turned, tilting her head, her arms clasped beneath her breasts. Her protuberant eyes were steady now, attentive and yet distracting still, their transformation from boredom to interest too sudden and complete.
âIs that what you thinkâthat it's the not knowing?â She walked to a chair and sat down in it. âBut then, you're a detective, aren't you?â
âYes.â
âAnd it's your jobâto know, I mean; to come up with something definite.â
âIn a manner of speaking.â
âMy husband's a detective in a manner of speaking.â
âYes, I was told that he was a scientist.â The Detective flinched at his use of the past tense, but Mrs. Klein didn't appear to notice it. âA physicist, they said.â
âYes, a physicist, but a detective nevertheless, a detective in a manner of speaking. Not knowing bothers him too; coming up with something definite is his job too. Matter in motion, that's his field, pieces of matter so small that they can never be seen by the human eye. He worked on the atomic bomb.â
âYes, I believe someone mentioned that.â
âAren't you going to ask if we feel guilty about itâthe atomic bomb, I mean?â
âI don't thinkâ¦â
âWe don't believe in guilt. Oh, it exists, but we don't believe in its importance other than as a corrective adjustment for future behavior. We believe guilt is a feedback mechanism.â
The Detective shifted in his chair. There was no doubt in his mind now; he saw bitterness in her face, heard sarcasm in her wordsâthe overemphasis on the âwe,â the mock blank expressionâand instinctively he began to think of motive. Sarcasm negated meaning: âWe don't believe in guiltâ enunciated that way meant that she did believe in guilt, that she felt guilty. Or at least that she disliked her husband's lack of guilt. But ideas do not motives make, the Detective told himself. Wives do not kill their husbands because they worked on the atomic bomb; it was always more petty, irrational, personal. Murder was a personal act, the Detective had come to learn, though often rationalized by grander notions. Perhaps Mrs. Klein had convinced herself otherwise; but if she had killed Mr. Klein, the true motive would lie in the slough of their everyday lives, the balance of power between husband and wife, the subtle shades of emotional betrayal, the knife-glances and abused intimacies, the resenting of someone who knew her too well.
âAnd you,â Mrs. Klein said, her eyes growing wider, circular and white-rimmed, âdo you believe in guilt?â
A frame, blurred frame, discolored from age (what day, what year, which moment, or is it many moments recomposed into one?); in it a chair, shapeless and unclear (which chair? whose chair? try to remember, to focus the picture but all that appears is the chair , an abstraction, an idea); Sadie in the chair, Sadie not abstract, Sadie now and forever a face in a moment, a profile turning toward him, pride smoldering in silenceâ¦all her accusing glances merged into one: âThe Motive?â âThe Motives?â
âBut of course,â she said, âyou're the detective, the criminal investigator, and the detective must believe in the assignment of guiltâfirst degree and second degree, felony and misdemeanor. That's your job, after all.â
âNo, that's not my job.â The Detective sat up, a sore point struck, an argument he had fought time and time again. âGuilt is subjective; it's assigned by the judge, by the jury. I, I justâ¦â
âYou detect.â
âYes, I detect. I tell them what happened.â
âThe objective truth.â
âThe objective truth; as close as I can come to it.â
âYour subjective view of the objective truth.â
The Detective watched Mrs. Klein,