Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair as the police interrogator paced across the room again for at least the twentieth time. He wanted to know the details of her child's death, and it was clear that he suspected her as the murderer. He asked her why she had allegedly left the child alone in her room for several hours on the night of her death.
"Well," answered Elizabeth, "I thought she was asleep. Once she's asleep I just let her sleep except for checking in on her once or twice during the night." She knew what the interrogator was really asking-"Why are you lying about leaving her alone, when I know that you really murdered her yourself?" She pictured him standing over her with a huge searchlight shining directly into her face, yelling "Admit it!"
The interrogator was actually standing still now, however, and gazing at a nondescript bulletin posted on the wall, looking lost in thought. Elizabeth said nothing. She knew that he was trying to trick her into saying something that would compromise her position in the case, and she was determined not to go along with it. When he finally turned around again to face her, the interrogator looked puzzled. He could not figure out why a woman with a four-year-old girl sleeping in the next room would turn on rock music. Wouldn't that wake up the child?
"Well, I didn't turn it on until I knew she was asleep," Elizabeth answered uncomfortably. "Once she's asleep, she doesn't wake up easily. I do that-did that-all the time."
She felt that his questions were pointed and accusatory, as if he had already made up his mind about her guilt. She knew what he thought of her; he thought she was a cold-blooded killer. Now he was asking her something else, something about a bloody rag. It had been found outside her home with the child's blood on it.
"No, I'm not sure how that got there," she responded. "Obviously, the killer
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