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“She wasn’t my wife.”

Wilson takes his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and consults it. “Isn’t your wife Arlene Crocker?”

“Not today. Not for the last year.” He considers. “Maybe longer. It’s hard to be sure.”

“Are you saying you killed a stranger? One who just happens to look like your wife of nine years?”

“Yes.” Lennie is looking at Wilson patiently, his face saying eventually you’ll get to the right questions but I’m not going to help you.

“So… when we type and DNA-test the blood on your kitchen floor and all over your shirt, it won’t match that of the deceased woman?”

“Oh, it probably will.” Lennie gives a judicious nod. “I’m almost sure it will. Although I hope your science people will look for peculiar… mmm…” He searches for the right word. “Peculiar components. I don’t think you’ll find any, but it would be wise to check. I expect to go to jail for killing that thing, but I’d certainly prefer not to.”

Now Wilson understands. Crocker has already got an insanity plea on his radar.

“What are you telling me, Lennie? That your wife was possessed? Help me understand.”

Lennie thinks it over. “I don’t think you could call it that, exactly. When a person is possessed—correct me if I’m wrong, Detective—a spirit, or maybe a demon, comes in and takes over, but that person is still there, inside. Being held prisoner. Is that your understanding?”

Wilson has seen The Exorcist and a couple of similar movies, so he nods. “Pretty much. But that isn’t what happened to your wife?”

“No. She died when it came in. They all do.”

“They all? Who all?”

“Not many so far, compared to the population of the earth, which is now eight billion—you can google it—but there’s more of them all the time. They take over, Detective. It’s the perfect disguise. We’re the perfect disguise.”

Wilson pretends to think this over. What he’s really thinking is this interview will be useless to the District Attorney. There’s going to be plenty of rigamarole ahead—a couple of prosecution psychiatrists, plus Crocker’s own shrink. Wilson wouldn’t be surprised if Crocker already had one on speed-dial.

“Aliens?”

Crocker’s face says the penny drops. “That’s right. Aliens. I don’t know if they come from space or from some parallel world. The websites are pretty much split on that. I think space. It makes sense, because…” He leans forward, earnest. “The speed of light, you know.”

“What about it?” Not that Wilson cares. He’s losing interest. What interests him is a ham and turkey club from the deli down the street. And a Marlboro chaser.

“Spaceships can’t exceed it or they go backwards in time or maybe just disintegrate. That’s the science. But pure mind, Detective… that can make the jump. Only once they get here, they need bodies. Would probably die without them. We’re in the preliminary stage of the invasion now, but if the world governments don’t wise up, they’ll be coming in thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions.”

Crocker has been leaning forward over his cuffed and chained hands, but now he sits back. “It’s all on the Internet.”

“I bet it is, Lennie. I bet Kamala Harris is one of those invaders, just waiting for Amtrak Joe to croak so she can get her hands on the levers of power.” He gets up. “I think you need to go back to your cell and think this over before you get arraigned. And, just my advice, I think you need a good lawyer. Because only a good one could sell that to a jury.”

“Sit down,” Lennie says quietly. “You’ll want to hear this.”

Wilson looks at his watch and decides to give Leonard Crocker five more minutes, possibly even ten. Maybe he can decide if the man is really crazy or trying to play him. He should be able to do that; he’s a detective, after all.

“Five or six years ago, someone figured out what’s going on. It’s on the dark web, Detective, and spreading up from there. Like ink in water.”

“I’m sure it is.” Wilson is no longer smiling. “Along with blood-drinking Democrats, Clorox enemas to cure Covid, animal crush videos, and kiddie porn. You killed your wife, Lennie. You need to cut the shit and think about that a little. You stabbed her with a butcher knife and watched her die.”

“They change. They become short-tempered and critical. They’re not content with just being here, they want to dominate. But we have a chance because some computer wizard figured out a way to detect them. If we survive, there’ll be a statue of him in every country, all over the world. The aliens trigger a deep command, okay? Automatic. Foolproof. Only a few people know about it now, but the information is spreading. That’s what the Internet’s good for, spreading information.”

Not to mention mental illness, Wilson thinks.

“It’s going to be a race.” Lennie’s eyes are wide. “A race against time.”

“Whoa, rewind, okay? You killed your wife because she got short-tempered and critical?”

Lennie smiles. “Don’t be dense, Detective. Many women nag, I know that. So do men. It’s easy to dismiss the preliminary indications.” He spreads his hands as far as the cuffs will allow. Which isn’t very far.