A Death in Belmont. Sebastian Junger

District Attorney’s Office because of the grave implications of the case. Eventually the DA himself, John Droney, showed up. Bessie Goldberg’s murder was not just another killing; it was the ninth in a series of brutal sex slayings, and the authorities were still not sure that Bessie Goldberg was the only woman Smith had killed.

      The interrogation started off with Chief Robinson and Lieutenant Maguire of the Belmont police asking Smith to tell them, step by step, what he had done the morning before. Smith said he took the bus to Belmont, asked directions at a local gas station and arrived at the Goldberg house just before noon. He said that Bessie Goldberg made him a bologna sandwich for lunch and then showed him what to clean after he’d finished eating. He said he cleaned the couch and the floors and the windows. He said he cleaned what he thought was the library—“it had a lot of books in it”—and the living room and the dining room. He said that he was paid six dollars and thirty cents—a dollar fifty an hour for four hours, plus thirty cents’ bus fare—and that he left around a quarter to four. He said he knew the time because he happened to see a wall clock when he went into the pharmacy to buy his cigarettes.

      This must have struck the investigators as odd. Not only did Smith have the time wrong by almost an hour—the pharmacy clerk, among other people, placed the time at just after three—but if he was bending the truth in order to cover his guilt, he was bending it in the wrong direction; Smith was placing himself at the murder scene for the maximum amount of time possible. Israel Goldberg had said that he called his wife around two-thirty and then arrived home just before four. If you were Roy Smith and you were guilty, you would say that you left just after the phone call and that in the intervening hour and twenty minutes, someone else must have sneaked into the house and killed Bessie Goldberg. But in Smith’s version there was only a ten-minute window for someone else to have committed the crime.

      If the police were puzzled by this tactic—or lack thereof—they didn’t show it, they just continued prodding him. Smith said that after buying cigarettes at the pharmacy, he got on what he thought was the bus back to Cambridge, but it was going in the wrong direction. Instead of getting off he rode to the end of the line, smoked a cigarette with the driver during the five-minute layover, and then rode back to Harvard Square. He said that he left a card with his landlady’s phone number on Bessie Goldberg’s kitchen counter in case she wanted more work, and that he worked for a lot of different people and that they were all pleased with his work and wanted him to come back to clean for them, and that he had a wallet full of phone numbers to prove it.

      “I ain’t hurt nobody, nothing like that,” he added.

      “You what?” Chief Robinson said.

      “I haven’t hurt nobody, I’m not like that, I take nothing from nobody.”

      “Why do you say you’ve never hurt anybody?”

      “I haven’t, I haven’t. I mean this guy here—”

      “Will you repeat that, Roy?”

      Before Smith could answer, Lieutenant Cahalane of the state police stepped in. “Do you want a drink of water, Roy?”

      “Yes, please,” Roy answered. “When this guy come down here at this girl’s house he had a pistol all in my face, you know what I mean.”

      “Why didn’t you go back to your house in Boston?”

      “Why didn’t I go?”

      “Yes.”

      “Because I was drunk and I was still drinking and I was drinking when the police come by there, I sure was. And besides, I mean, I stay by myself anyway.… I got my own place, four rooms, you know, I go there when I get ready.”

      “Roy, what happened there?” Cahalane finally asked. “Now give us the whole story.”

      “Beg pardon?”

      “Give us the whole story of what happened in that living room.”

      “I told you, I told you.”

      “You’re holding something back.”

      “Mister, I’ve been working my whole life, you understand. I never put my hand on nobody.… I ain’t did nothing but drinking, so—”

      “You weren’t drunk when you landed in Belmont yesterday morning, were you, at twelve o’clock noon?”

      “Of course not, I got drinking last night.”

      “You know what you did out on Scott Road yesterday?”

      “You all got the wrong man.”

      “Why did you do it?”

      “You got the wrong man, you can’t pin all that stuff on me, I ain’t did nothing. I ain’t did nothing to that woman yesterday in Belmont and no other Belmont and no other place. Look, I love myself, do you understand? I love myself. I ain’t going to stick my neck out—you kidding?”

      Smith’s only demonstrable departure from the complete truth came soon afterward, when he was asked about the name “Bell” on his mailbox. Smith claimed that it was the previous tenant, who was still getting his mail there; in fact it referred to Carol Bell, who had been his girlfriend and was the mother of his son, whom he called “Scooter.” Carol Bell had left him five days earlier without any forwarding address. Carol Bell had sent Smith to prison for six months for nonpayment of child support. Carol Bell, in other words, was not a chapter of Smith’s life that he would want the police to know about. Smith did, however, mention that there was another tenant in the building, a woman named Blackstone.

      “You are a male, aren’t you, Roy?” Cahalane asked.

      “What?”

      “Are you a male—sex?”

      “I’m a male.”

      “You don’t use sanitary napkins, do you?”

      Smith addressed the other officers: “I don’t know what he’s talking about now.”

      “Do you wear women’s clothes?”

      “No.”

      “Who do the women’s clothes belong to?”

      “Blackstone. What about her clothes?”

      Smith was refusing to admit to the murder, but neither could the police catch him in a significant lie. Much of a police interrogation consists of asking otherwise meaningless details about a suspect’s day that he can’t possibly keep track of. Once the police have opened up even a small contradiction in the testimony, they have a way into the web of lies that inevitably surrounds any denial of guilt. In the eyes of the police Smith was so obviously guilty that his refusal to make everyone’s life easier by confessing seemed to exasperate them. They were playing their parts, in a sense, but Smith was not playing his. Again it was Lieutenant Cahalane who attempted to break through the denials.

      “Straighten me out, will you? I’m all mixed up.”

      “Go ahead,” said Smith. Cahalane proceeded to introduce himself and everyone else in the room, including the stenographer. He then led Smith once again through every detail of his morning. He asked what time Smith woke up, what he ate for breakfast, where he got off the bus. With slow, grinding thoroughness he asked exactly what work Smith performed in the Goldberg house, which rooms he worked in, and how long everything took. He asked what door he entered through, what door he left through, and whom he saw on the short walk to the bus station. At one point Cahalane asked if he saw three children walking along the sidewalk on Pleasant Street—Dougie Dreyer and his friends coming home from school—and Smith said that he did. The children all placed Smith leaving the crime scene, and Smith would have known that, but he still declined to fall into the trap of lying. Cahalane was getting nowhere.

      “Do you ever black out?” Cahalane finally asked.

      “I never blacked out in my life.”

      “Do you ever find yourself getting into some sort of predicament that you don’t