Chapter Text
They don't let him go in the ambulance.
Because they have to question him, he supposes, or maybe because they think he shouldn't see. They don't tell him much. They're quiet, talking to him like they're talking to a grieving widow, using the words "critical condition" and then looking back and forth among themselves like they're unsure if the term is too forgiving. The room seems to spin.
It's freezing in the apartment. He can't get up to shut the balcony door. An officer does it for him, looking sympathetic in a way that makes Joe want to vomit. Even after they leave, filing out of his apartment with their papers and tape recorders and quiet chatter, even after they're gone, Joe can't get up. He can't look in that direction.
Mr. Ray, they kept saying. How well did you know Mr. Ray? (Past tense. Past tense.) Why was Mr. Ray in your apartment? Were you aware Mr. Ray was wanted for questioning in relation to -
It repeats, over and over and over again. Endless babble in his brain. A hollow loop. He can't get up. He can't look outside. He knows what he'll see down there. The ambulance is gone, the sirens faded at least an hour ago, and by now someone's probably down there cleaning up the mess. It might even be gone.
But he can't get up.