I knocked on the door. She didn't answer, so I knocked again, three times. She still didn't answer.

"Come on, come out," I said. "I have to use the bathroom."

Nothing. Listening closely, I heard water running; it sounded like it was coming from the faucet in the bathtub. I pictured Rebecca relaxing, a Zen-like smile on her face, enjoying my discomfort.

"I'm serious," I said. "Open up."

There was still no sound except for the steadily running water. Getting really pissed off, I was about to say something else when I noticed some water leaking out under the bathroom door. I was confused for a few seconds; then the panic set in. I don't know exactly what I did next, but I remember screaming and banging on the door, then ramming against it with my shoulder. I'm not sure how long it took for the door to open, but I'll never forget the sight of Rebecca's naked body bobbing in the overflowing bathwater.

I DIALED 911 and explained to the operator that there had been a suicide. The operator took my address, and then she asked me how the victim had killed herself. I said I had no idea but that her body was still in the bathtub.

Since I'd discovered the body I'd been surprisingly calm, and I remained calm as I sat on the armchair in the living room, waiting for the police and EMS workers to arrive. Of course, I was upset that Rebecca was dead, but I was in shock and didn't have any real emotion about it yet.

A few minutes after I made the 911 call, the buzzer rang. Without bothering to find out who it was I pressed the door button on the intercom. Leaning out into the hallway, I saw two cops a squat white guy with a walrus mustache and a tall, younger black guy approaching my apartment. I had a moment of panic, remembering leaving Ricky's body against the garbage can. I told myself that this had nothing to do with Ricky, but I still didn't feel comfortable having cops in my apartment.

"She's dead," I said, and I stood to the side and let the cops pass.

"Where is she?" the walrus cop asked.

"Bathroom," I said. "First door on the left."

As the cops approached the bathroom I realized I hadn't shut the water off in the tub. I noticed that more water had flowed into the hallway.

The walrus cop glanced into the bathroom, then started talking into his radio, describing the scene in an official, monotone voice. The other cop, wearing rubber gloves, went into the bathroom, and, a few seconds later, I heard the water shut off.

The buzzer rang again and I let the two EMS workers into the apartment.

They were carrying a stretcher. I returned to the living room and sat in the chair, waiting, as the men did whatever they were doing in the bathroom.

After a couple of minutes, the walrus cop came into the living room.

His name tag read Robert Fitch.

"Excuse me," he said, "Mr…?"

"Miller. David Miller."

Fitch took out a small pad and wrote down my name. I just wanted him out of my apartment as fast as possible.

"We're very sorry about your loss," he said, trying his best to sound sympathetic.

"Thank you," I said.

"Do you have a mop?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

I went into the tall kitchen cabinet and gave him the mop. He took it into the bathroom then returned to talk to me in the kitchen.

"So was she your wife?" he asked, getting ready to write in his pad again.

"No," I said.

He looked up, waiting for me to elaborate.

"She was my girlfriend, I guess," I said.

"You guess?"

"She was my girlfriend," I said, more definitively.

"What was her name?"

"Rebecca. Rebecca Daniels."

He wrote this down.

"Did she live here?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Does she have family?"

Rebecca had told me that she hadn't talked to her mother, or any other close family members, in years.

"Her mother lives in Texas," I said.

"Will you contact her?"

"Yes."

He jotted something in the pad. "When did you discover the body?"

"Right before I called nine-one-one. I saw the water coming out under the bathroom door, so I knew something was wrong. I broke down the door and saw her there. Then I went and called for help."

"Did you touch the body or anything else in the room?" he asked.

"No," I said, wondering why he was asking me this. Did he consider this a possible criminal investigation? "I mean, I don't think I… No definitely no."

The buzzer rang and I went to answer it. When I opened the front door Carmen was standing there with the young bearded guy who'd recently moved into the apartment across the hall.

"What's going on?" Carmen said, trying to see into the apartment.

"Nothing," I said. I didn't want Carmen to tell the police about how Rebecca and I had been fighting earlier, but I didn't see any way to avoid it.

"What do you mean, nothing?" she said. "There're police cars and an ambulance out there."

"Was somebody hurt?" the bearded guy asked. He spoke in an uppity, pretentious way; he was probably a self-important grad student or a college professor.

A squat, dark-but-graying middle-aged guy, wearing a black sport jacket, came up behind the bearded guy.

"Do you live at this address?" the man asked me.

"Yes," I said.

"Detective Romero." He flashed a badge. "Can I come in?"

"Yes, please, of course," I said. I was trying not to act nervous.

Then I thought, Why shouldn't I be acting nervous? After all, my girlfriend had just killed herself.

As Romero entered the apartment, Carmen said, "Why won't you tell me what's going on?"

Romero was looking back, and there was no way I couldn't answer.

"My girlfriend committed suicide," I said.

"Oh, my God," Carmen said, looking truly horrified. "But she was okay just an hour ago, when you two were fighting."

Romero suddenly seemed interested.

"It happened when I was gone," I said to Carmen. "Remember, you saw me leaving before. When I came back Rebecca had locked herself in the bathroom."

"All I know is you were throwing her clothes out on the street," Carmen said. She turned to Romero and said, "You can go look some of her things are still out there. You should hear them fighting all the time. It's like I'm living in a flophouse."

"Excuse me," Romero said to Carmen, and he continued into the apartment ahead of me. I glared at Carmen as I shut the door.

Romero went over to Fitch and got an update on the situation. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just stood there, waiting in the living room.

I watched Romero and Fitch go toward the bathroom. They spoke with the black officer, who was standing in the hallway, and then Romero went into the bathroom by himself.

Romero stayed in the bathroom for what seemed like a long time. It might've been ten minutes, but that still seemed like a long time to view the body of a suicide victim.

The buzzer rang again. When I opened the door a young Asian guy with a camera around his neck was standing next to a red-haired guy with a beard.

"Police photographer," the Asian guy said.

"Medical examiner," the red-haired guy said.

I directed the men toward the bathroom, trying to stay calm. I didn't know why a crime-scene photographer and a medical examiner had been called to the scene of a suicide.

Several more minutes passed, and then Romero exited the bathroom. He exchanged some more words with the officers, then approached me.

"Mr. Miller, I want to give you my condolences," he said. "It must've been pretty rough, finding her in there."

"It was."

"Can we sit down?" he said. "I need to ask you a few questions."

"Sure," I said.

I sat on the couch and Romero sat across from me in the chair. I'd thought he was older when he arrived, but now I could tell that the gray in his hair was premature, and he looked like he was about my age, maybe younger.