Guilty, or Not Guilty?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Suspected of murder, Rose Condor is interrogated by a brutal police officer.

Submitted: July 31, 2016

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Submitted: July 31, 2016

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Guilty, or Not Guilty?

By Joseph Logsdon

The body was on the floor, dead as a doornail. He had been shot five times: once in the stomach, three times in the chest, and once in the shoulder. She had blood on her hands, on her feet, and even after everything that had happened, the pain, the heartbreak, everything, she still couldn’t quite wash her memory of him. Rose stared at the body, her heart empty and full of spite, devoid of substance, and as the car arrived in the driveway, she remained perfectly still. The room grew cold, just as his body, the lifeless corpse, the man she had loved, the man she had killed, also grew cold. Her hands started to shake, unnerved by his paleness, by the way the eyes stared at her, open and full of hate, like he still somehow knew of her every move. The gun remained on the sofa, next to it a very special note, one which he had left for her to read, but only in the event of his death.

The officers came through the doorway, both of them looking rather depleted of energy, daylight being just minutes away. Rose leapt to her feet, her eagerness just a little too apparent. They stood between her and the body, ultimately between her and fate itself. On so many levels, lower levels, middle levels, upper levels, every level imaginable, Rose felt betrayed by her own conscience, her own sense of guilt that slowly ripped away at her mind. The two officers, one of them black, the other white, slowly scanned the room, every piece of evidence of the utmost importance. The white officer took her by the hand, surprisingly gentle, perhaps too gentle for his own good. Rose found herself panting, part of what she felt stemming from somewhere inside her, deep within the corners of her own heart, where no one had ever entered.

“Mrs. Condor, do you feel well enough to talk?”

“Yes, yes, go right ahead,” she answered, very little reluctance in her voice.

“Over the phone, you made the statement, and I quote, ‘Please help, I’ve just killed a man,’ was your exact words. Can you please explain?”

“Well, what is there to explain, now that you see it for yourself? He was a good man, my husband of twelve years, so forgive me if I stutter. I’m guilty, no two ways about it. You see the gun, you see the blood on my hands, and before his body even begins to rot, you’re making that police report. Well, before you arrest me, take me to the place where the sun don’t shine, you should hear my story,” she declared.

“Why so eager?”

“Many people love to lie, police officers as well. If the media tells it first, I will almost guarantee you, my side of the story will never be heard,” she uttered.

“By all means, tell us everything,” the black officer said, flexing his hands.

Still somewhat under the weather, Rose gently scanned the room, ripped apart by the idea of confessing the truth, conflicted by the thought, the very concept, of exposing herself. There were so many things that drove her to sadness, and that fact, along with many others, crippled her self-worth, utter madness that refused to be silenced, challenged, or broken. She swayed forward, in an instant moving towards the body, by the very chance that she might, someway, somehow, through some method, recall the events of the evening, most other alternatives simply impossible, due to the very real threat of being discovered.

“It was late, a lot later than I expected, and of course, my memory coming back to me, he was very drunk, way too drunk to actually be responsible for his actions. He had been drinking for years, you understand. He left me quite a lot of money, double the amount I expected, but even more puzzling than that, was his insistence, his blatant insistence, that I belonged to him, leave be the fact that I paid for most of everything. He took advantage of me, to put it the best way I know how,” she said.

“You should get to the point, I must insist,” the white officer said, frustration in his voice.

“He just stood there, this evil look in his eyes, almost akin to something out of a movie. He said, ‘Rose, you stupid fool, how can you do this to me? Don’t bother denying it; I know you’ve been seeing another man. I might be older than you, not as healthy as you, but I’m not blind.’ I replied to him, at last saying, ‘One hundred percent of the time, without question, I’ve been faithful to you. You can believe me, there’s nothing to worry about. All of what you describe, the paranoia, the sense of loss, the anger, most especially the anger, has made you despise me, your wife of all people.’ Even after saying that, telling him how much I loved him, how much I needed him, it didn’t really make a difference, at least any that would have an impact, to which I can finally say, accurately and honestly, that it did not,” she cried, tears running down her face.

Rose had traveled quite a distance, all the way from being happy and content, two emotions that didn’t last very long, to incredibly frustrated and angry, exactly the right amount of frustration taking control of the situation. She continued to stare at the body, quite devious while doing so. The white officer grabbed her hand, patience clearly not one of his strongest qualities, so much of his anger a direct result of her unrelenting stubbornness.

“Get to the point, else I’ll be forced to use more persuasive methods,” he threatened.

“Well, what is there to say, really? He was drunk, he stumbled into the living room, he tried to strangle me, and I shot him; I shot him five times, all of it done in self-defense, and for no other reason,” she uttered.

“How long before you called us?”

“Just a few minutes, give or take an hour, during which time I tried to collect my thoughts, sadly all for nothing,” she remarked.

“One of the greatest actresses of all time, you’ve certainly managed to fool a lot of people, me the only exception,” the white officer huffed, slapping her face.

Rose removed his hand, blatant defiance emerging from her heart. There were two expressions in her eyes, one devious and one sad, accompanied by countless emotions, nine of which ripped away at her heart. She glared at both men, surrounded with enough anger to make all people, anyone and everyone, regretful of the actions committed against her. The white officer, very much unconvinced by her behavior, unlike the black officer, who had tears in his eyes, pulled her closer to his chest. Rose attempted to scream, like she had done so many times before, consistent with her results, only to be silenced by his powerful hand.

“Enough of this talk, you’re going to tell me the truth. As you said, you shot him many times, five in all. What woman in her right mind, anyone for that matter, would shoot her husband five times, at point-blank range, just because of a little fight? It sounds fishy, just the right amount of fishy to bring you in, or at least question you further, which I intend to do. You know what I think happened? You were having an affair with somebody, a younger man probably, who you thought you could manipulate for your own wicked purposes. Fast-forward a few months, your husband found out everything about the guy, the one you had been fucking crazily, under the very light of day. Quickly, you had to make a choice, neither option really the ideal situation, and with very little time left, you had to act. You killed him for love, mostly for money, with very little regard for anything else,” he claimed.

“You have it wrong,” Rose said, holding the note in the air.

“What’s that?”

“It will explain everything: why he was drunk, why he tried to attack me, and, probably more than anything else, why I had to kill him. I was having an affair; I will freely admit that. Maybe if you had been in my shoes, had the experiences I’d had, you’d understand the reasons for why I did it. I had to care for him night and day, seven days a week, Sunday through Saturday. I was alone, just me and no one else, the air empty and devoid of meaning, absent of any kindness or warmth, forever condemned to be a lonely woman,” she whispered, staring into space, as if in a trance like state.

The white officer examined the note, skeptical of what he would find. His eyes went from enraged, to calm, to angry, all the way back to enraged. They moved back and forth, never in the same pattern, always changing speed and direction. He finally looked up at her, twenty times more skeptical than he had been before. Rose started to back away, all of her other options exhausted and useless.

“Without even reading the entire thing, and I’m glad I didn’t have to, I know this is fake, a forgery of the worst caliber,” he grunted, moving towards her.

“How do you know? Not even two minutes ago, you thought things were completely different,” the black officer said, caution in his voice.

“It was written very recently, no earlier than a few hours ago, and that’s being generous. Believe me, I’ve studied letters all my life, handwritten and typed, so when I say it’s a forgery, as I have many times, you must take it as an absolute fact. Better than a confession, this is enough evidence to convict you,” he exclaimed, rushing towards her.

Many miles ahead of being frightened, Rose entered the point of pure hysteria, speechless as he grabbed her, pinned her against the wall, and pulled out his gun, hints of pleasure in his eyes. She struggled to break free, all with no result to show for it. Rose cried into the heavens, met only with dead silence, not one scream even remotely seduced by his powerful grip. She screamed in his face, hissed like a deadly snake, nothing seemingly impacted by her actions.  

“The note is real, legitimate all the way. Why are you doing this to me? I’m not lying about anything, the note especially so. I have a daughter, she’s four, who needs me more than anything, even more than your stupid investigation. I’ll give you anything you want, say anything you want, just as long as you promise to let me go. You’ll take a confession, nothing less than a full admittance of guilt, as a way of showing everyone, your friend here, all those men at the station, men who could care less about you, your family, how tough you are. It’s pathetic, just plain pathetic,” she cried.

“At the end of the day, that’s all there is to life: a little sad, a little bad,” he exclaimed, handcuffing her.

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


© Copyright 2017 JL reaper. All rights reserved.

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