melody
"So, what, you think I killed my wife? My own wife, for chrissakes?"
The cops across the cheap desk said nothing. Just looked at him, waiting to provoke a reaction. No more good cop, bad cop; no more stupid cutesy games. On the desk in front of him lay one of his last pictures of her, their vacation to Cancoun. The woman that was the lead investigator sat oppossite him, eyeballing him hard, waiting for what he had to say. The cops in the corners, who he had come to call Shorty and Skinny in his head, wore the bored expressions he had come to know all to well.
Alex sat back, hitting the wooden chair hard, exhaling a cloud of smoke in disbelief. He knew that this was what the days of sideways questions had been getting at, the days of not-so gentle interrogation. "How was your marriage? You have another woman? How's your temper? You ever hit your wife? Just a little?" They even sent in a big, beer-gutted detective, almost certainly a wife beater himself, who talked to him about how they all did it, right? No big deal, gotta keep your woman in line, right?
Like he could ever hit his Melody. Beautiful Melody. The picture on the desk was her at her best; her tanned skin against a thin bikini and a delighted smile on her face. He knew he had been the source of that smile.
Even knowing that they had been trying to nail him on this for days, his mind reeled when the accusation was finally said out loud. They were going to try to pin her murder on him.
She had been found three days before, after being listed missing for an entire agonizing week. Seven days of not knowing where she was; alive or dead, suffering or simply run away. A week of torment until they found her, naked and mutilated, on the side of a highway.
They thought he could do that. To his own wife, cut her up and turn her into an almost unrecognizable piece of meat in the dust on the side of the road. He stared at a small stain, probably blood, on the institutional desk between him and his accusers. He saw the blood, but was also seeing the blood in the photographs he had insisted on seeing. The crime scene photos where his wife had been found; blood everywhere, dust and bits of trash sticking to the gore. The pool of blood surrounding her filled his vision until all he could see was dark red blood, everywhere he looked.
He lashed out.
Later on, when he could look at the situation rationally from his cell, he knew this was a huge mistake. He should have calmly told them no, he didn't have anything to do with his wife's murder and he wanted them to catch the bastard that did. He knew they were grasping at straws, accusing him. But at that moment, all he could see was the blood and dust stuck to his wife's body, and the people accusing him of putting her there. He acted on that, instead of rationality.
He didn't say anything. He reached quickly across the table, grabbed the cop opposite him by the hair, and smashed her face into the table. She was a big woman, but she wasn't expecting it; she would leave another bloodstain on the table as she lay there, bleeding and unconsious.
The other two cops reacted quickly. Shorty, about 5'6" and 280 pounds of linebacker material, came straight at him. As soon as the woman's face was buried in the institutional green of the desk, Alex stood up, grabbed the wooden chair he had been sitting on and brought it straight down on Shorty's head as he bulldozed in.
Shorty was on the ground, but Skinny was smarter. He had headed out to the desk to get help. By the time Alex laid aside the broken chair, there was a half dozen cops in the doorway, jostling to get a bead on him. He put up his hands, knowing he couldn't beat them, knowing he had just doomed himself.
But forefront in his mind was still his wife, smiling on the beach at Cancoun, then dead on the side of the road. His mind snapped, coming to a decision.
No matter what it cost or who he had to hurt, at that moment he dedicated his life to finding out who had murdered his wife. She was always his first priority; now, she became his only priority. He would find her killer, and he would do to that person what he had done to Melody.
He surrendered to the police. But as they put on the handcuffs, he held thoughts of torture and murder, and began planning.
The cops across the cheap desk said nothing. Just looked at him, waiting to provoke a reaction. No more good cop, bad cop; no more stupid cutesy games. On the desk in front of him lay one of his last pictures of her, their vacation to Cancoun. The woman that was the lead investigator sat oppossite him, eyeballing him hard, waiting for what he had to say. The cops in the corners, who he had come to call Shorty and Skinny in his head, wore the bored expressions he had come to know all to well.
Alex sat back, hitting the wooden chair hard, exhaling a cloud of smoke in disbelief. He knew that this was what the days of sideways questions had been getting at, the days of not-so gentle interrogation. "How was your marriage? You have another woman? How's your temper? You ever hit your wife? Just a little?" They even sent in a big, beer-gutted detective, almost certainly a wife beater himself, who talked to him about how they all did it, right? No big deal, gotta keep your woman in line, right?
Like he could ever hit his Melody. Beautiful Melody. The picture on the desk was her at her best; her tanned skin against a thin bikini and a delighted smile on her face. He knew he had been the source of that smile.
Even knowing that they had been trying to nail him on this for days, his mind reeled when the accusation was finally said out loud. They were going to try to pin her murder on him.
She had been found three days before, after being listed missing for an entire agonizing week. Seven days of not knowing where she was; alive or dead, suffering or simply run away. A week of torment until they found her, naked and mutilated, on the side of a highway.
They thought he could do that. To his own wife, cut her up and turn her into an almost unrecognizable piece of meat in the dust on the side of the road. He stared at a small stain, probably blood, on the institutional desk between him and his accusers. He saw the blood, but was also seeing the blood in the photographs he had insisted on seeing. The crime scene photos where his wife had been found; blood everywhere, dust and bits of trash sticking to the gore. The pool of blood surrounding her filled his vision until all he could see was dark red blood, everywhere he looked.
He lashed out.
Later on, when he could look at the situation rationally from his cell, he knew this was a huge mistake. He should have calmly told them no, he didn't have anything to do with his wife's murder and he wanted them to catch the bastard that did. He knew they were grasping at straws, accusing him. But at that moment, all he could see was the blood and dust stuck to his wife's body, and the people accusing him of putting her there. He acted on that, instead of rationality.
He didn't say anything. He reached quickly across the table, grabbed the cop opposite him by the hair, and smashed her face into the table. She was a big woman, but she wasn't expecting it; she would leave another bloodstain on the table as she lay there, bleeding and unconsious.
The other two cops reacted quickly. Shorty, about 5'6" and 280 pounds of linebacker material, came straight at him. As soon as the woman's face was buried in the institutional green of the desk, Alex stood up, grabbed the wooden chair he had been sitting on and brought it straight down on Shorty's head as he bulldozed in.
Shorty was on the ground, but Skinny was smarter. He had headed out to the desk to get help. By the time Alex laid aside the broken chair, there was a half dozen cops in the doorway, jostling to get a bead on him. He put up his hands, knowing he couldn't beat them, knowing he had just doomed himself.
But forefront in his mind was still his wife, smiling on the beach at Cancoun, then dead on the side of the road. His mind snapped, coming to a decision.
No matter what it cost or who he had to hurt, at that moment he dedicated his life to finding out who had murdered his wife. She was always his first priority; now, she became his only priority. He would find her killer, and he would do to that person what he had done to Melody.
He surrendered to the police. But as they put on the handcuffs, he held thoughts of torture and murder, and began planning.
posted by francisthegreat at 12:33 AM
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