In three hours I would either figure out who the killer could be, or I’d have to go to work. The chief wouldn’t let me leave the scene just yet, thinking that maybe with me there I could pull a coup over these local cops. Even if I wanted to these local cops weren’t letting me leave just yet, or letting me help. And I still had a mountain of paperwork from other cases I had to tackle, and a lead I had to chase down on one case. But for now, I’m both inside and outside of this case and this one was way too close to home. Literally.
The facts so far: early this morning, on the most idyllic street I could find as a home for me and Carla, a real tree-lined slice of suburbia, a quiet mix of neighbors walking their dogs or sending their kids to school, a murder happened somewhere between 6:15 and 6:30am right next door to me. A family of three, a 36 year-old husband, his 32 year-old wife, and their 8 year old daughter, were brutally hacked to pieces as they prepared for the day, presumably with an axe. The killer came in through the back door and left the same way. The neighbor on the right side of their house heard the screams and called the cops. As far as anyone could tell there was no motive, no attempted robbery, no sexual assault, no clues. Well, one clue: the killer ran through my backyard, on the left side of their house. He left a bloody trail of footsteps that led out of the back door and into my backyard. The trail led almost to my cellar door before fading away, which means he must have made it to the street, running right past my kitchen window. If Carla was in the kitchen making coffee like she was supposed to be she would have seen him as he ran past. Where was she by the way? Upstairs I guess. Good, I didn’t want her to see this.
I stood on my front porch watching the parade of the local uniforms at work. First thing in the morning and my street is littered with police cruisers, all with their lights strobing away. Some of the cops were directing traffic, others were keeping back the onlookers. Some were canvassing the crowd. An ambulance was trying to make it’s way down the street, making those who were headed out to work suffer through their autonomy. Up and down the street were my neighbors either standing in their front doorways or looking through their windows. True enough, this was something no one would expect here. It’s why I chose to live here, the perfect neighborhood for me and my wife.
I took a sip of my coffee while leaving my other hand in my pocket. I’d like to think I cut quite the figure of what a detective looks like. A real detective, with my white shirt and belted trousers, hanging just above my scuffed shoes, the kind that looks like they’ve been chasing people down. I do my fair share of chasing, tackling, arresting, then “interviewing”. The only hard part was the paperwork. Sometimes I wished these felons would just confess instead of me beating it out of them. Would sure save me a lot of time.
It was interesting being on the outside of a crime scene. Usually when I get to a scene I go straight to it, not looking at all of this busy work happening in the background. The taping off of the area, the evidence gathering, the witness questioning, keeping the onlookers back, all unseen by me. I would get there and focus on the crime, nothing else, while all of the puppets move about behind me. Now here I am watching the show, this well rehearsed puppet show. Everyone moves about as usual, the uniforms and the voyeurs, while the real people do all the real work. People like me. They are just doing their part, letting the unseen strings drive their actions. It never changes, from one scene to the next. This time I get to watch the unseen strings at work. There, a young mother trying to shield her kids from the show. There, an angry motorist is trying to gain some headway through the street. There, more onlookers doing their standing dance, leaning this way and that to whisper. There, another cop is denying any knowledge to the event. They’re all puppets, moving through their day, trying to make it seem like it’s their own will that makes them do the things they do. Even the ones hanging out of their windows play a part in this show.
I wanted to help, but as it is this was not my jurisdiction. The local cops made sure I understood this when I offered. They were both polite and stern, with a hint of hostility. Maybe that was because they wanted to search my house. After all, the tracks did kind of lead there. Nothing really definitive, but it never hurts to check, that’s what they said. Now they’re mad because I forced them to get a warrant. After all, it’s not my jurisdiction, and if they want to be hard-asses about it, so can I. Besides, I know what’s in my home. Everything has a place, just like Carla has a place. If someone were here I would know it. So now I’m the puppeteer, making these guys jump through hoops before they come tearing through my home, just to be jerks. So what if I was going through a tough time right now. They wouldn’t care. No one cares.
I wish Carla were here. She would know just what to say. She would make everything feel better, tell me not to worry, it’ll work out for the best, get me another cup of coffee. She had that way about her, her charm, her dignity. She knew things were very stressful at work, and she always greeted me with a scotch when I got home. One ice cube, just the way I liked it. I could sit in my chair and just let the day melt away while she got dinner ready. Sometimes when the stress was too much we would have sex anywhere we happened to be. In the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, the pantry. Nothing like a strong release to make everything ok for a while. The house was clean, the beds were made, the laundry was in the hamper, my clothes were neatly pressed and ready for the next day. My home was perfect, and she helped make it that way, with a little encouragement. Sometimes I would bring home flowers and she would always be surprised. Always have a smile on her face. Always grateful for any little thing I did. Always.
Which reminds me, where is she? She can’t be far, probably making the beds or something. I could really use that second cup of coffee. Bad enough I had to make it myself. I’ll probably have to remind her of her duties later. A little tweak never hurts, just keeps us on our toes. I’ll wait a bit to give her that tweak. Right now I’m watching the puppets at play.
Arid Testimony 