For an hour they took turns yelling at me and posing questions with their hands. They were very artful with their gesticulations. I gathered they wanted answers from me. I gave them none; it was a physical impossibility that I could not convey to them. When I had written “I’m deaf and mute” on a pad they provided me, the officer with the mustache tore it in half and smashed me in the face. They left me in a state of abjection, as I writhed internally against the misfortune nature had invested in me. Neither my wife nor the nurse returned to me that day, and I succumbed to sleep shortly after the last rays of western light disappeared from the ceiling tiles above the parted curtains. My last memory of January 7, 1991 is composed of an intense ideation toward self-slaughter. But I could not move in the hospital bed, and haven’t contemplated suicide since. Besides, all my walls are padded here, and I like them so.

On the morning of January 8, 1991, the constancy of a beeping machine eventually convinced me out of hibernation. It was the simple tone of a heart monitor, but the loudest sound I’ve heard in my existence. My hearing had returned, and when I coughed, I could hear it echo like a cannonade off the painted cement wall on the opposite side of the room. I said my name to myself. I said, “Marcel Claude.” I could speak. My ailments of hearing and speech had left me, and I have never been plagued by them since.

My hearing had returned, and when I coughed, I could hear it echo like a cannonade off the painted cement wall on the opposite side of the room.

The nurse came in and informed me that I’d be leaving that day. I said “thank you,” at which she flew from the room. In a matter of moments, the officers were at my bedside again. They put all kinds of questions to me, and I answered them as best I could, to their total dissatisfaction. They called me a murderer, and were clearly more concerned with harvesting an admission from me than an explanation. To them, it was an unshakable truth that I had killed my son and dog with a malignant heart, and they told me they were glad, for my wife’s sake, that she had left the apartment before my murderous rampage wrecked her. I told them I hadn’t murdered Marcel Jr., and that all was an accident and misfortune. They asked me why I hadn’t answered their questions the day previous, and I told them I hadn’t heard them. They asked how I could hear them now, and I said I didn’t know. They asked why I hadn’t explained my case, and I answered that I was mute. They said, “You’re note mute now.” And I answered, “You are right, I am not.” My defense grew none the better.

In fact, it appeared that my case grew worse with the addition of my explanations. The officers were very skillful in their interrogation. I asked how they had trained to perform such an inquiry such as they did. They were not inclined to answer me, but carried on with much ability. I must compliment them, as I did by the time of closing arguments at trial. I represented my own case, and was a good sport in not objecting to anything the prosecutor did. He was very kind to me, and treated me with dignity in front of the press. He always touched his hair before he addressed the press. He was a handsome fellow. In court, the prosecutor told the jury that Elisabeth had witnessed me strangling the dog in our bedchamber. He portrayed the listlessness I displayed to my wife when she found me squeezing the life out of the dog. He showed photographs of my dead son on a big colorful screen from a projector. I particularly remember the prosecutor’s depiction of a young person drowning face down. He put his arms out to his sides and hung his head toward the marble floor for the jury to consider. He made the illustration in front of the table at which I sat, which caused me alarm at the time. Elisabeth did not appear in court. She cut me down in an affidavit filed by her lawyer. Her lawyer had a queer name.