Authors: Draven Madpen
37
I find late at night after an
adventurous day, one always sleeps soundly. A kind of tranquility falls over
the body… Which is why I found this strange…
My peaceful slumber was
disturbed when I inexplicably found myself awakened in the early morning hours,
still dark outside, and I drenched in a cold sweat. Sitting upright in bed,
listening intently. A dull vibration. A soft pounding on the walls, growing
ever stronger. A shaking of the floor. And there it is – haunting me… The all
too familiar sound of my strident nemesis -- the nefarious clanks echoing
throughout the room. Could it be?
CLINK! CLANK!
Each clashing noise
timed in rhythm with the quivering house. As if my head were stuck inside an
old church bell and the maniacal villain down below is tugging fiercely on the
rope – jumping up and pulling down with all his might and weight. The bone
rattling tenor is being visited upon my body in waves of ear shattering clinks
and clanks – leave me to crawl along the bed. So loud, so harsh the noise has
deafened my ears. I look around to investigate but still I cannot determine
where the effect is coming from.
Suddenly a tremendous clank
fills the air as I struggle to upright myself. I’ve never felt one holding such
power, such force; it is completely overwhelming. My innards are sloshed about,
vibrating intensely, crushing my organs, cracking my bones… With my vision
beginning to blur and my strength fast evaporating, I sense death is
approaching quite rapidly. A moment or two is all I have left. The mysterious
clanking consumes the room like a sinking ship filling with dark and salty
water. The walls moving in the shadows, swaying and booming, tremble and
pulsating.
CLANK! CLINK!
I know just what has happened.
Wilmer Cromwell must have discovered the poison – he has sneaked into my room
with bowl and spoon, a vengeful act to take my life in retaliation. That must
be it! He’s hiding in the closet banging away at the bowl with every ounce of
strength within those swollen muscles! And I hate to admit, but his plan is
working, I cannot even hold my head aloft any longer. These puny arms of mine
are too heavy to lift, the scrawny legs have gone numb. There’s nothing I can
do but topple over, rolling out of bed and down onto the floor, where upon I
stare at the closest, awaiting my imminent doom…
AHH! I jerk upright in bed
just as the morning rays of sunlight strike me in the face. The clinking noise
is gone, nonexistent. Jesus Christ… It was only a dream. Thank God. What a
relief, eh? However, there is one constant which remains true to the dream. I’m
still soaked in sweat with my heart beating speedily. Nothing is blurred,
although, I still retain full power over all of my limbs.
I can tell it’s going to be a
glorious day as I walk to the window, tear apart the curtains and embrace the
golden rays of morning.
No matter how enthusiastic,
excited, or delighted a murderer is he must never let these feelings show. To
do so is the kiss of death. Each killer must remain the same as he always has,
and no more so. The days after his deed are the most crucial. Did his demeanor
change? Was he meeker than normal? Was he more outgoing than usual? These are
telltale signs of guilt or involvement in the eyes of wily detectives. You want
friends, fellow employees, and peers to see nothing out of the ordinary. Give
them no ammo. Just what today’s word of the day calls for…
Equipoise
. A
balanced state.
And so, on my way to work I
replay these hard fast rules in my mind again and again, over and over. Be
normal. Act as you always have… Avoid eye contact; speak to no one, except for
a few insults directed at the overweight water jug man, provided he runs across
my travels. Creep out every woman I happen to cross paths with. Mmm, good.
A few more days of playing
myself can’t be too difficult, can it? But you wouldn’t believe the number of
people who fail to maintain their common traits in the days after committing
wicked deeds. In the eyes of a paranoid criminal, everyone is inspecting him.
They know he did it. And under this immense, although self-created pressure,
many criminals crack. I’ve worked too hard, studied too long, imagined this
crime too many times, too often, to make such an amateur mistake. Go ahead
world! Try and break me. I’m unassailable! Throw your best at me! Lock those
eyes onto my cold, unflinching gaze. Peer into the very heart of stone.
Oh look… Ted, the bug eyed,
pig nosed idiot from the second floor scrutinizes me as I pass him on my way to
the elevator. Like he has a clue. Try Ted, I’d just like to see you try! Grill
me! Ask me if I know Wilmer’s been murdered! Ted doesn’t try anything, of
course not, just like I knew he wouldn’t. What a spineless twerp.
The elevator door opens as the
corpulent, foul smelling woman with tangled hair from the third floor smiles
deviously and exits the lift. Is that supposed to get to me? Her ignorant
looking expression is meant to unsettle me? Make me think she’s onto me but
doesn’t want to let me know? Playing coy, are you! Listen fatty, I’ve murdered
a man! Your mind games are pitiful! Worthless! I’m an indomitable force! A
veritable safe!
She doesn’t try anything fishy
either. Nobody will – not if they know what’s good for ‘em. I get into the
elevator, contemplating on the way up, just what the office will be like
without Wilmer Cromwell and his vile presence. How liberated I’ll feel to enter
that wretched place and never have to worry about a glass bowl ever again. I’m
a free, burdenless man! This emotion is so sublime that I cannot help but
perform a little jig, right there in the elevator. But as the doors break a part,
I cease dancing immediately, once again resuming my reserved nature. The walk
to my office is a joyous one, indeed. I’d like to say I wasn’t smiling from ear
to ear, walking with my head angled downwards, but I cannot say with any
certainty that I wasn’t.
Ah, what a refreshing face to
take sight of. It’s Ellington Fairfield coming towards me. The nervous demeanor
from yesterday has deserted his body completely. In fact he looks downright
cheerful. The damn fool! As I said, this a flaw if you’ve recently committed a
crime. You must maintain your equanimity, making sure not to overdo it.
“Morning JT,” he says to me.
“Hey, Mr. Fairfield,” I reply
in my normal apathetic tone.
We give each other a look that
lets me know all went well. He is unaware of my late night deed, although I’m
sure Ellington would approve.
Fairfield calls from over my
shoulder, “I’ve got to tell you about something, come on o—“
“No!” I hiss, “Not now.”
Ellington stutters as I
continue the walk to my place of employment.
The office is silent when I
open the door. No lights have been turned on. Wilmer’s door is slightly ajar.
Percy Sullivan’s is shut tight. He’s still out on
business,
I assume.
All of these are excellent, auspicious signs. My chair feels extra warm today
when I plant myself in it. I didn’t bother turning any lights on – there’s
enough filtering through the window shades. Now… How long do I wait
before…working? Working? That is a foreign word to me as of now. What exactly
did I do? Took some calls, wrote down a few numbers and names, but mainly
played Go Fish! …It’s a paycheck.
I guess I’ll message
Sexkitten69 and see if she’s up for a game.
And here it strikes me – The
miraculous realization… I seem to have gotten farther than I actually thought
possible! By golly, Wilmer is dead… The duncepot is really gone! What happens
now…? Evidently I never saw myself getting this far. I didn’t plan for the
aftermath. And so…
A real conundrum arises. Do I
call the police and report Wilmer’s absence?
Oh no, I don’t suspect foul
play but I’m getting worried…
Nah. That sounds too phony, too transparent.
In many cases, usually those involving kidnaps, there’s a good chance whoever
reported the crime is also the one who committed it. Because of this statistic
I can’t report Wilmer’s absence, not yet. He’s got a few clients scheduled for
today. That gives me quite an opening. I’ll just wait for them to show up, say
Wilmer
hasn’t come in today; he left no note and gave no reason.
Then I’ll wait
and see what they do. Something along those lines. Let’s not get carried away
here! Perhaps no note, no, no note.
Maybe one of the twits will be
alarmed enough to report it to the police. I could try my acting chops out and
hint that they should do as much. It’s risky…but an option nonetheless.
Sexkitten69 accepts my invite
-- the game is on. I’m dealt a marvelous hand. We exchange damaging blows back
and forth, stealing and taking, acquiring and pillaging. The game grows heated.
Fiery. She’s asking for my eights. Damn… I’ve got two. All is not lost. I
request if she has any jacks; the little dame hands me over three, giving me a
total of four. You want threes? Hah! Go Fish! slattern! We continue this war
for an interminable span of time. There’s an unsurpassed focus in my mind,
dialing in like a laser. And because of this I hardly notice the figure leaning
against the doorframe of my office.
He’s wearing a tan trench coat
and brown shoes. His hair is a bit messy. The man’s overall appearance is
somewhat disheveled. In fact it looks as if Detective Columbo himself has just
stumbled into my office.
“Excuse me…?” He has a gruff,
gravely voice. The intruder tilts his head to one side as he speaks. Ah, of
course.
“Judson, is it?” he asks.
“That’s what the guy down the hall told me.” Of course…
“Oh, hello,” I reply, rising
slightly from my chair. “…Yes?” I say after a brief pause ensues, where I for
certain, felt the man’s eyes cutting through me, looking for a crack of any kind.
The smallest bit of give to pounce on.
“Hi, kid. I’m Detective
Simmons.”
Of course you are. I smile,
minimize the game of Go Fish!, and extend my hand.
“How can I help you,
detective?”
He shakes my hand. A good firm
grip, perhaps a little too hard as if he’s trying to instill fear in me.
You
can’t break me, Simmons!
“I’d like to ask you a few
questions. About your boss. A mister—“ here the man looks down at a slip of
paper. “Mr. Cromwell is it?”
“Yes, that is correct.” I
reply.
“Mr. Cromwell didn’t show up
to work today, did he?”
“No, not yet. He’s been late a
few times in the past. Why?”
“You may want to sit down,
Jules. I’ve got bad news.”
He pauses, staring at me. I
decide to do as he bids, sitting down. My body is angled forward in eager
anticipation. The posture of a worried loser.
“Earlier this morning we
discovered Mr. Cromwell’s body. He’s dead.”
“My God!” I scream, trying not
to overdo it. “Dead? How?”
“Killed.”
“What, how! Who found him?”
“It appears Mr. Cromwell had
scheduled a morning massage last night while at the gym. His masseuse, a Mr.
Myles McGee called the police when he saw Mr. Cromwell lying on the kitchen
floor in a bloody me – Well, but I can’t give out all the details at this juncture.
The investigation is still ongoing.”
“That’s terrible,” my voice is
low and concerned. Even though I’m not looking upward, I can feel Detective
Simmon’s eyeing me over.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. There’s
an awkward pause before either of us says anything. Finally Simmons breaks the
silence.
“Actually, Jensen, I’m here
making the rounds so to speak. I’ve got to take your statement and ask you a
few questions.” There’s a peremptory tone to his voice.
“Sure.”
“Fine. First off, when was the
last time you saw Mr. Cromwell?”
“Yesterday when he left work,
right around 5:15, just as usual.”
Detective Simmons whips out a
notebook and begins jotting something down.
“Did he say anything about
meeting anyone?”
“No.”
“Uh huh,” Simmons writes
something else down. Then came the question I’d been waiting for. “Where were
you
last night?”
I answer after a slight pause.
This short hesitation deters him from thinking it’s a prepared response. But
not quite long enough to raise suspicion.
“I stayed home and read a book.
My
normal
routine.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“Hmm,” I tilt my head feigning
thought. “No I don’t believe so. I live alone and don’t socialize much.”
“Okay. These are just standard
questions. Don’t go thinking you’re a suspect or anything. Now, do you know of
any enemies Mr. Cromwell might have had?”
“Enemies? Hmm… I can’t say
that I do. Other than the typical people who hate lawyers.”
“Uh huh, such as?”
Part of me regrets mentioning
it at all.
“You know, people who lost in
court and hold a grudge. Especially if they went to prison as a result.”
His hand goes still. The
Detective eyes me from over the notepad.