emilylou06
12-12-2007, 10:49 PM
She had died with suspicion hanging from her breath. She had never known her murderer or why she had fell to his or her will. Her husband had more than likely knelt over her with an odd expression between anger, anxiety and despair. At thirty-nine she was too full of youth to depart from him. But in ten minutes she had given in to death. Never seeing a grandchild, never to feel the benefits of retirement, or to enjoy her golden years she slipped from this earth.
It took the paramedics fifteen minutes to reach the Grand Cherokee that was wrapped around an old sycamore. They recalled how harsh the snow blew and how hard the wind nipped. Surprisingly, the husband hadn’t frozen where he sat on bended knees. They gently picked him up under his arms and led him to the ambulance. They concluded he wasn’t in shock, but, instead was eerily calm.
“Is she dead?” the graying man asked. “Will I ever get to see my wife again?”
The rounded, blonde woman that was shining a flashlight in his eyes stood up straight. She sighed and smiled in the saddest way that would break anyone’s heart, that is, if it wasn’t already broken. “Only if you believe in heaven, sir.”
--------------------------------------
The report came on my desk a week after the car accident. Except, since it landed on a detective’s desk, I knew it wasn’t anything close to accidental. The Grand Cherokee’s brake lines had been sliced. The car had wrecked on a country road after trying to stop for an animal that was crossing in front. The tires had only stopped rolling when the car lodged itself in a tree, with the wife being ejected from the vehicle: no seatbelt. Luckily, the husband was wearing his. His only injury was a shadow across his chest where the strap had held him in. He told the authorities he never failed to wear it in bad weather.
In a few days I had checked their whole back-story. Two kids, went to church, paid their taxes, weren’t in drugs, had no enemies; normal lives. Who would endanger and essentially attempt to murder such nice people? They hadn’t had any suspicious telephone calls or money transfers. Nothing led me to the trail of the suspect.
Meeting with the husband early that week I found him to be completely normal and friendly. He was very confident that whoever had done this to him and his wife would not attempt it again. “It’s a small town” he had said, “They are too scared to get caught the second time.” It still did not ease my state of mind. I looked at the faded picture of my wife and children that sat upon my desk. It troubled me. My head fell into my hands and I rubbed it vigorously hoping for an answer to evolve. Think. Think. My own family flashed in and out of my mind and I blocked out dreadful images that tried to evoke my senses. I thought of my daughter and newborn baby boy and how they would get along without their “mama”. An idea snapped into my overstuffed brain and I picked up the phone to dial the dead woman’s son.
“Hello, Frederick. This is Detective David Blunote. Do you have a second to talk?” The line dripped with silence.
“I told them everything I know. I don’t wish to be bothered again. It’s hard enough reliving it every time.” I sighed.
“I know son, but in order to catch this person we need every clue we can get.”
He paused. “Okay. Talk.”
I asked him all the questions that I knew he had already been drilled on. But maybe, just maybe, something new would erupt into a lead. We talked for over thirty minutes when I heard his wife in the background calling him to dinner.
“Thank you Frederick, and I am very sorry for your loss, she seemed to mean a lot to everyone.”
“Thanks Detective. Sorry for sounding rude when I answered, it just is very hard to cope.” He paused for a moment and then added. “Oh and please don’t badger my father too much. He has had some trying times, uh, mentally.”
My ears perked up like a beagle fresh on the scent. “Oh? How so?” I kept my voice steady, uninterested.
“I thought I mentioned it before.” Frederick paused and I could almost feel him furrowing his brow in remembrance. “Well, about five years or so ago he became very…odd. It was sort of a depression but sometimes he would become almost hysterical, not like dad. I was living at home then and it was very terrifying. We sought out help and the doctors worked with him and gave him medicine to take. Since then he has been fine, but we are all still a little bit sensitive to his emotions.”
“And he still takes these drugs?”
“Has to for the rest of his life.”
After hanging up with Frederick I sat at my desk, numb. I shook my head in disbelief. I had to talk to the husband. I sat another ten minutes staring at my family’s photo. My wife’s sweet gaze filled my heart with longing. When was the last time I told her I loved her? My eyes finally led reality back to the file laying open on my desk. The wife’s haunted face smiled up at me. Somehow, it gave me strength. She needed justice, or at least I did. I picked up the phone again and dialed her husband for the last time. On the way out of my office I grabbed the 40 Caliber Pistol and locked it in my belt. Safety, my captain constantly reminded us, safety comes first.
-----------------------------------------------
The streets were still glazed from the snowstorm that hit Fayville last week. Houses danced in the gleaming white when the sun hit them with a beautiful melody. Children rushed into mounds of creamy milk only to issue from the other side covered with froth. No one seemed aware of the burden I carried. I thought of Jesus. He didn’t know how the people would respond, but He did what He knew was right. My palms sweated on the leather steering wheel. What if I’m wrong, though? I tried turning the heat on high but my car jeered at me and spit a frigid current in my face. I felt the weight of the gun on my hip. It was heavy, cold. The radio did nothing for my nerves and I hit the off button forcefully. Silence. The snow was coming down so gently you wouldn’t notice it until you concentrated on a dark tree or house to watch the tiny particles accumulate to the ground.
I pulled up to the husband’s driveway and honked. Three minutes later he briskly jogged to my car. His movements were athletic, deliberate, confident. His face was charming and open. I figured he had been a basketball or football star in highschool.
“Hey Detective! What can I do for ya today?” the man bounded in my car.
“Just had something on my mind.” I started driving, to where, I didn’t know, I just let my hands lead me. Knowing it would be pointless to beat around the bush I decided, against my nerves, to start the interrogation.
“I heard from a reliable source, sir, that you take meds for some sort of mental disorder?” I glanced quick enough to see his face change from cream to ash. My stomach muscles eased, he was definitely hiding something. He remained quiet for a little more than a minute when I heard a strange noise. It was coming from the husband, and when I looked at him, I could see he was holding in a sob. I quickly went on.
“The paramedics gave you a blood test. You were clean.” I paused. “Why haven’t you been taking your drugs?” The man, at hearing my response burst into tears. I was shocked. This was the last thing I expected. I could barely comprehend his words.
“I.. I..its… my my… Fa..ult she die…d”
“Excuse me?” My heart started pounding. The man finally regained composure of himself. He straightened up and leaned his head back.
“I told her I wanted to go into town that day, knowing the roads were slick. And since we hadn’t had enough money to buy my medicines for that month, my wife didn’t trust me to be alone. She said if I went she would have to drive and she didn’t feel like going. But I insisted and begged. So she went…and now she is dead.” He stared out the windshield in a daze. I stared in disbelief. That is why he thinks he is to blame? Wow, now I feel like the bad guy. I was definitely hoping for more of a story. What more is there to say?
-------------------------------------------------
After arriving back to my office in a stage of shame and relief I plopped into my overstuffed leather chair. Even if the man was a murderer, I had no proof, I don’t even have much suspicion anymore. How could anyone believe he killed his wife? After several hours of contemplating I was distraught. I picked up my small football and started tossing it in the air. I decided I would drop her husband as a suspect, unless by chance I found one small clue. It didn’t have to be hard evidence, but just something to keep my suspicions aroused. I picked up my jacket and left my office.
“Hey David” my coworker, James, had just come into the door ahead of me.
“Oh, hi James, how is life?” The young man smiled ear to ear. I knew he was thinking of his new wife waiting for him at home.
“Never better.” He waved at me as I headed for the exit.
“Oh, hey David,” James swiveled around, “make sure to buckle up, the roads are deadly today.”
“I’m the law, don’t I always?” I stated. James laughed and started to his desk. But I froze instead. All I needed was one simple clue to keep him a suspect. The blood grew cold under my white skin and I felt it pulsing through the veins trying to find an escape.
He did it.
My mind flashed to my meeting with the husband earlier that day. I knew my evidence wasn’t substantial, maybe not even worth the time. But deep in my mind I had already convicted him of murdering the woman he had been married to for twenty-five years.
I sauntered back to my desk and opened the dead woman’s chart again. I placed a sticky note to the inside file and wrote Suspect: husband. I closed it and my memory floated back to this afternoon.
The husband had gotten out of my car and cantered up his walk, leaving the seatbelt hang, unmoved. For a man that always wore his seatbelt in bad weather, it was curious to me he hadn’t touch it today, hadn’t even given it a thought. It also took a sick person, a mentally and emotionally damaged man to cut the brake lines in his own car. But if that man hadn’t taken medicine for awhile, he might even go along for the ride, making sure to wear his seatbelt and watch the terror take over his innocent wife’s face.
It took the paramedics fifteen minutes to reach the Grand Cherokee that was wrapped around an old sycamore. They recalled how harsh the snow blew and how hard the wind nipped. Surprisingly, the husband hadn’t frozen where he sat on bended knees. They gently picked him up under his arms and led him to the ambulance. They concluded he wasn’t in shock, but, instead was eerily calm.
“Is she dead?” the graying man asked. “Will I ever get to see my wife again?”
The rounded, blonde woman that was shining a flashlight in his eyes stood up straight. She sighed and smiled in the saddest way that would break anyone’s heart, that is, if it wasn’t already broken. “Only if you believe in heaven, sir.”
--------------------------------------
The report came on my desk a week after the car accident. Except, since it landed on a detective’s desk, I knew it wasn’t anything close to accidental. The Grand Cherokee’s brake lines had been sliced. The car had wrecked on a country road after trying to stop for an animal that was crossing in front. The tires had only stopped rolling when the car lodged itself in a tree, with the wife being ejected from the vehicle: no seatbelt. Luckily, the husband was wearing his. His only injury was a shadow across his chest where the strap had held him in. He told the authorities he never failed to wear it in bad weather.
In a few days I had checked their whole back-story. Two kids, went to church, paid their taxes, weren’t in drugs, had no enemies; normal lives. Who would endanger and essentially attempt to murder such nice people? They hadn’t had any suspicious telephone calls or money transfers. Nothing led me to the trail of the suspect.
Meeting with the husband early that week I found him to be completely normal and friendly. He was very confident that whoever had done this to him and his wife would not attempt it again. “It’s a small town” he had said, “They are too scared to get caught the second time.” It still did not ease my state of mind. I looked at the faded picture of my wife and children that sat upon my desk. It troubled me. My head fell into my hands and I rubbed it vigorously hoping for an answer to evolve. Think. Think. My own family flashed in and out of my mind and I blocked out dreadful images that tried to evoke my senses. I thought of my daughter and newborn baby boy and how they would get along without their “mama”. An idea snapped into my overstuffed brain and I picked up the phone to dial the dead woman’s son.
“Hello, Frederick. This is Detective David Blunote. Do you have a second to talk?” The line dripped with silence.
“I told them everything I know. I don’t wish to be bothered again. It’s hard enough reliving it every time.” I sighed.
“I know son, but in order to catch this person we need every clue we can get.”
He paused. “Okay. Talk.”
I asked him all the questions that I knew he had already been drilled on. But maybe, just maybe, something new would erupt into a lead. We talked for over thirty minutes when I heard his wife in the background calling him to dinner.
“Thank you Frederick, and I am very sorry for your loss, she seemed to mean a lot to everyone.”
“Thanks Detective. Sorry for sounding rude when I answered, it just is very hard to cope.” He paused for a moment and then added. “Oh and please don’t badger my father too much. He has had some trying times, uh, mentally.”
My ears perked up like a beagle fresh on the scent. “Oh? How so?” I kept my voice steady, uninterested.
“I thought I mentioned it before.” Frederick paused and I could almost feel him furrowing his brow in remembrance. “Well, about five years or so ago he became very…odd. It was sort of a depression but sometimes he would become almost hysterical, not like dad. I was living at home then and it was very terrifying. We sought out help and the doctors worked with him and gave him medicine to take. Since then he has been fine, but we are all still a little bit sensitive to his emotions.”
“And he still takes these drugs?”
“Has to for the rest of his life.”
After hanging up with Frederick I sat at my desk, numb. I shook my head in disbelief. I had to talk to the husband. I sat another ten minutes staring at my family’s photo. My wife’s sweet gaze filled my heart with longing. When was the last time I told her I loved her? My eyes finally led reality back to the file laying open on my desk. The wife’s haunted face smiled up at me. Somehow, it gave me strength. She needed justice, or at least I did. I picked up the phone again and dialed her husband for the last time. On the way out of my office I grabbed the 40 Caliber Pistol and locked it in my belt. Safety, my captain constantly reminded us, safety comes first.
-----------------------------------------------
The streets were still glazed from the snowstorm that hit Fayville last week. Houses danced in the gleaming white when the sun hit them with a beautiful melody. Children rushed into mounds of creamy milk only to issue from the other side covered with froth. No one seemed aware of the burden I carried. I thought of Jesus. He didn’t know how the people would respond, but He did what He knew was right. My palms sweated on the leather steering wheel. What if I’m wrong, though? I tried turning the heat on high but my car jeered at me and spit a frigid current in my face. I felt the weight of the gun on my hip. It was heavy, cold. The radio did nothing for my nerves and I hit the off button forcefully. Silence. The snow was coming down so gently you wouldn’t notice it until you concentrated on a dark tree or house to watch the tiny particles accumulate to the ground.
I pulled up to the husband’s driveway and honked. Three minutes later he briskly jogged to my car. His movements were athletic, deliberate, confident. His face was charming and open. I figured he had been a basketball or football star in highschool.
“Hey Detective! What can I do for ya today?” the man bounded in my car.
“Just had something on my mind.” I started driving, to where, I didn’t know, I just let my hands lead me. Knowing it would be pointless to beat around the bush I decided, against my nerves, to start the interrogation.
“I heard from a reliable source, sir, that you take meds for some sort of mental disorder?” I glanced quick enough to see his face change from cream to ash. My stomach muscles eased, he was definitely hiding something. He remained quiet for a little more than a minute when I heard a strange noise. It was coming from the husband, and when I looked at him, I could see he was holding in a sob. I quickly went on.
“The paramedics gave you a blood test. You were clean.” I paused. “Why haven’t you been taking your drugs?” The man, at hearing my response burst into tears. I was shocked. This was the last thing I expected. I could barely comprehend his words.
“I.. I..its… my my… Fa..ult she die…d”
“Excuse me?” My heart started pounding. The man finally regained composure of himself. He straightened up and leaned his head back.
“I told her I wanted to go into town that day, knowing the roads were slick. And since we hadn’t had enough money to buy my medicines for that month, my wife didn’t trust me to be alone. She said if I went she would have to drive and she didn’t feel like going. But I insisted and begged. So she went…and now she is dead.” He stared out the windshield in a daze. I stared in disbelief. That is why he thinks he is to blame? Wow, now I feel like the bad guy. I was definitely hoping for more of a story. What more is there to say?
-------------------------------------------------
After arriving back to my office in a stage of shame and relief I plopped into my overstuffed leather chair. Even if the man was a murderer, I had no proof, I don’t even have much suspicion anymore. How could anyone believe he killed his wife? After several hours of contemplating I was distraught. I picked up my small football and started tossing it in the air. I decided I would drop her husband as a suspect, unless by chance I found one small clue. It didn’t have to be hard evidence, but just something to keep my suspicions aroused. I picked up my jacket and left my office.
“Hey David” my coworker, James, had just come into the door ahead of me.
“Oh, hi James, how is life?” The young man smiled ear to ear. I knew he was thinking of his new wife waiting for him at home.
“Never better.” He waved at me as I headed for the exit.
“Oh, hey David,” James swiveled around, “make sure to buckle up, the roads are deadly today.”
“I’m the law, don’t I always?” I stated. James laughed and started to his desk. But I froze instead. All I needed was one simple clue to keep him a suspect. The blood grew cold under my white skin and I felt it pulsing through the veins trying to find an escape.
He did it.
My mind flashed to my meeting with the husband earlier that day. I knew my evidence wasn’t substantial, maybe not even worth the time. But deep in my mind I had already convicted him of murdering the woman he had been married to for twenty-five years.
I sauntered back to my desk and opened the dead woman’s chart again. I placed a sticky note to the inside file and wrote Suspect: husband. I closed it and my memory floated back to this afternoon.
The husband had gotten out of my car and cantered up his walk, leaving the seatbelt hang, unmoved. For a man that always wore his seatbelt in bad weather, it was curious to me he hadn’t touch it today, hadn’t even given it a thought. It also took a sick person, a mentally and emotionally damaged man to cut the brake lines in his own car. But if that man hadn’t taken medicine for awhile, he might even go along for the ride, making sure to wear his seatbelt and watch the terror take over his innocent wife’s face.