The cop was silent for a while. He didn’t believe me, but he also didn’t have any evidence to back up the 911 call. On the other hand, a bloody knife was still sitting on my bedroom floor, and I wasn’t going to let them inside to find it.

“Why would someone make an accusation like that against you, Mr. Moran? That’s a pretty serious thing to do.”

“I have no idea. All I can tell you is, it wasn’t me, and it isn’t true.”

I tried to hide my impatience. I needed the police to go away, and then I could take the knife and find somewhere to dispose of it. I could wipe down the entire apartment, not knowing what other evidence my double had left behind.

The two cops exchanged nervous glances. I could see them wondering if they’d made a mistake, but my hope that they would leave me alone didn’t last long.

On the street, a gray sedan pulled to a stop behind the squad car. A tall, emaciated man in his sixties got out and grabbed a bulging leather briefcase from the back seat. He wore a loose-fitting white dress shirt and pleated brown slacks, and I could see the gleam of a badge clipped to his belt. His thinning gray hair was as tangled as a bird’s nest, and his face had a cadaverous appearance, sunken around his eyes and hollowed out under his cheekbones. He looked as if he should be lying in a hospital bed instead of walking around the Chicago streets. But his unblinking eyes sized me up like a hawk as he came closer, and his mouth bent into the tiniest cocky smile.

“Guys, I’ll take over,” he told the uniformed cops. “Stick around, though, okay? I may need you.”

The two cops deferred to him as if he were a Mafia don. Without another word, they retreated to their squad car, where they leaned against the doors and watched us. The newcomer extended his hand, and I shook it. His grip was limp, and his skin felt as dry as dust.

“Mr. Moran? I’m Detective Harvey Bushing. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m not in much of a mood to talk, Detective.”

“Well, when you made that 911 call, it sure sounded like you wanted to talk.”

“That wasn’t me,” I told him.

“Really?” Detective Bushing grabbed a phone from his back pocket, pushed a few buttons, and let me listen to a recording of the 911 call from a few minutes earlier. “That’s not you, huh? Because it sounds like you.”

“I don’t think it sounds like me at all.”