“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the Minister intoned.
My grim expression was the result of weeks of practice in front of the bathroom mirror. I tenderly place a white rose on top of her empty, polished coffin and turned away, as if overcome with grief.
Overcome with joy, is more like it.
The very next day I sat calmly in a tiny interrogation room with two local detectives.
“Do you mind if we tape this?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to have an attorney present? If you can’t afford one, one will be…”
“I don’t need an attorney. I didn’t do anything.”
“Uh-huh.” The smarter of the two dimwitted detectives eyed me grimly.
Four hours later he says, “So, whattaya say we go over it one more time.”
They were trying my patience: Little did they know it was my greatest asset.
Oh, I killed her, all right. I’d been planning it for five years. Who plans a murder for five years and doesn’t get away with it? Only an idiot, right? And I’m no idiot.
We were married ten years ago. Five years later, when we realized she couldn’t have kids, we made out our wills. She left me everything, and me, well, I didn’t have much to leave.
She didn’t care. She had it all: A soaring career, lots of money, friends, admirers, loving parents, a string of houses, rocketing investments and a brand new Mercedes.
She owned me too. I was like her pet husband and full time housekeeper, we fired the regular cleaning service when I lost my job. I do it better anyway, I’m much more meticulous than they ever were. You won’t see a speck of dust in this house.
I’m a pretty good cook too, although we ate out about five times a week: where she would often leave me sitting by myself, picking at my food or staring into my drink while she flitted about the room, graciously befriending everyone she met.
A couple of times, she actually left me at the restaurant: Forgetting me entirely.
Humiliating? Kind of. Oh yeah, I killed her all right. Good luck proving it Mr. Dumb-ass-detective.
Detective Not-so-dumb said, “So, you and your wife didn’t have a cleaning service, correct?”
They’d been over this a dozen times. “No sir. I do all the cleaning.”
“Yeah,” the detective said, “the place is nearly spotless.”
Nearly? They’re just trying to rattle my cage.
I know all about their forensic techniques: The Luminol, the black lights. Did I research it on the Internet? Not a chance. They’re probably going through my computer with a fine-toothed digital comb at this very moment. They’ll find nothing there, or anywhere else.
I put half a sleeping pill in her wine. After she went to sleep, I laid down plastic sheeting beside the bed, and then startled her out of sleep at four in the morning. She got up, took two steps, and I stabbed her right in the chest, once. She collapsed on the plastic drop cloth. I placed the knife in the wastebasket, carried the basket out to the car, returned for her body, wrapped her in the drop cloth and carried her out to the garage. I drove her out to a remote area in the stolen car, submerged it, walked a mile to where I had left my own car, drove home, and went to bed.
There were no bloodstains, no weapon, no body, and no evidence: All they had was motive, if that.
“Yep, your place was nearly spotless, Mr. Krumm. You’re one hell of a housekeeper, I’ll give you that.”
I didn’t want to appear smug, but it was hard not to.
Detective dumb-ass leaned on the table. “We have a witness, you know: the best kind, too. The victim herself.” He smiled.
I gave him a blank look. What did he expect?
“It seems that your wife—Patti? Didn’t die instantly, as you must have assumed.”
The detective slid a large, glossy photograph across the table.
I stared at the image.
Just under the edge of the bed, scrawled in a thick layer of dust with the tip of her finger, written as her life ebbed away, were the words: ‘My husband has murdered me. Pat Krumm.’
My grim expression was the result of weeks of practice in front of the bathroom mirror. I tenderly place a white rose on top of her empty, polished coffin and turned away, as if overcome with grief.
Overcome with joy, is more like it.
The very next day I sat calmly in a tiny interrogation room with two local detectives.
“Do you mind if we tape this?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to have an attorney present? If you can’t afford one, one will be…”
“I don’t need an attorney. I didn’t do anything.”
“Uh-huh.” The smarter of the two dimwitted detectives eyed me grimly.
Four hours later he says, “So, whattaya say we go over it one more time.”
They were trying my patience: Little did they know it was my greatest asset.
Oh, I killed her, all right. I’d been planning it for five years. Who plans a murder for five years and doesn’t get away with it? Only an idiot, right? And I’m no idiot.
We were married ten years ago. Five years later, when we realized she couldn’t have kids, we made out our wills. She left me everything, and me, well, I didn’t have much to leave.
She didn’t care. She had it all: A soaring career, lots of money, friends, admirers, loving parents, a string of houses, rocketing investments and a brand new Mercedes.
She owned me too. I was like her pet husband and full time housekeeper, we fired the regular cleaning service when I lost my job. I do it better anyway, I’m much more meticulous than they ever were. You won’t see a speck of dust in this house.
I’m a pretty good cook too, although we ate out about five times a week: where she would often leave me sitting by myself, picking at my food or staring into my drink while she flitted about the room, graciously befriending everyone she met.
A couple of times, she actually left me at the restaurant: Forgetting me entirely.
Humiliating? Kind of. Oh yeah, I killed her all right. Good luck proving it Mr. Dumb-ass-detective.
Detective Not-so-dumb said, “So, you and your wife didn’t have a cleaning service, correct?”
They’d been over this a dozen times. “No sir. I do all the cleaning.”
“Yeah,” the detective said, “the place is nearly spotless.”
Nearly? They’re just trying to rattle my cage.
I know all about their forensic techniques: The Luminol, the black lights. Did I research it on the Internet? Not a chance. They’re probably going through my computer with a fine-toothed digital comb at this very moment. They’ll find nothing there, or anywhere else.
I put half a sleeping pill in her wine. After she went to sleep, I laid down plastic sheeting beside the bed, and then startled her out of sleep at four in the morning. She got up, took two steps, and I stabbed her right in the chest, once. She collapsed on the plastic drop cloth. I placed the knife in the wastebasket, carried the basket out to the car, returned for her body, wrapped her in the drop cloth and carried her out to the garage. I drove her out to a remote area in the stolen car, submerged it, walked a mile to where I had left my own car, drove home, and went to bed.
There were no bloodstains, no weapon, no body, and no evidence: All they had was motive, if that.
“Yep, your place was nearly spotless, Mr. Krumm. You’re one hell of a housekeeper, I’ll give you that.”
I didn’t want to appear smug, but it was hard not to.
Detective dumb-ass leaned on the table. “We have a witness, you know: the best kind, too. The victim herself.” He smiled.
I gave him a blank look. What did he expect?
“It seems that your wife—Patti? Didn’t die instantly, as you must have assumed.”
The detective slid a large, glossy photograph across the table.
I stared at the image.
Just under the edge of the bed, scrawled in a thick layer of dust with the tip of her finger, written as her life ebbed away, were the words: ‘My husband has murdered me. Pat Krumm.’
The Letter.
When I pluck the letter out of a pile of bills, I can see that it has the wrong address. I live at 4412 Lemon Tree, the letter is addressed to 4421 Lemon Tree, in clumsy block letters. But my name and address are in the upper left hand corner. How odd. I walk to the living room window and look out. I can see their house from here, across the street and a couple of doors down. Why would my name and address be on the return address of a letter I didn’t mail?
I open it and read it. It says: ‘You’ve beat her for the last time, you S.O.B. I’ll put you where you can’t hurt her anymore.’
The words are cut out of a magazine and pasted onto the page, like a ransom note in an old movie.
I don’t really know the people at 4421 Lemon. I’ve seen the couple arguing a few times in their front yard. Some people love drama. I don’t. I’ve never seen him strike her.
I’m tempted to throw the letter in the garbage. I’d rather not get involved.
As I’m thinking this, the woman across the street comes out her front door.
Before I can change my mind, I go out my front door and start walking towards her, diagonally across the neighbor’s lawn.
Ironically, she’s heading to her mailbox, and sees me coming. She acknowledges me as I approach.
I hand her the letter. “I opened it before I realized it was meant for you, or your husband rather, sorry.”
She frowns, accepts the envelope, opens the letter and reads it: Cut-out words pasted to a sheet of paper. Her expression is unfathomable.
“Is there something I can do?”
“No,” she says. “I can handle this.” She doesn’t look up.
“It sounds pretty serious. Maybe I should report it to the police.”
She glances at her front door, then looks at me. “No—I’d much prefer that you didn’t. It’s complicated.”
I’m at a loss for words.
“I have an admirer,” she says.
No doubt. She’s pretty. “A rather crazy one, at that,” I say. “Perhaps you should call the police, just to play it safe.”
“No. That would only make it worse. Please, let’s just keep this between the two of us.”
“Are you sure? Because it seems pretty serious, maybe we should…”
“No, it’s all right. I can handle it.”
“All right, if you say so.” I imagine my relief shows.
“Thanks for not making a big deal out of it. What’s your name?”
“Hank,” I reply.
“Thanks Hank. My name’s Gloria.” We shake hands briefly.
“You sure you’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll work it out,” she says. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”
Next morning there are two detectives in my driveway, and a slew of police cars up and down the street.
I step outside. “What’s going on?”
The detectives are polite. “I’m Detective Williams, this is my partner, Detective Boone.” We don’t shake hands. That seems ominous.
“What’s going on?” I repeat.
Detective Williams clears his throat, while his partner looks around casually. Before they can answer, Gloria comes flying out of her front door. “That’s him! That’s him right there!” She’s pointing right at me and has to be restrained. “You bastard! How could you? You fucking bastard.”
The detective pulls an envelope out of his pocket. It’s the letter. “You know anything about this?”
“I’ve seen it.”
He stares at me impassively, while his partner is looking in my garbage can.
He says, “It’s got a return address, and it happens to be yours.”
“Yeah, I know, and I can explain that.”
Gloria has collapsed on her front lawn, she’s wailing like a broken siren. All the other neighbors are outside too, watching the spectacle.
His partner walks over with a discarded magazine in his hand. “Do you recognize this?”
I do. It’s my magazine; the little white label with my name and address is clearly visible on the cover.
He’s flipping through the magazine and then stops. He holds it up for everyone to see: A page, with several words cut out of it.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he says.
I open it and read it. It says: ‘You’ve beat her for the last time, you S.O.B. I’ll put you where you can’t hurt her anymore.’
The words are cut out of a magazine and pasted onto the page, like a ransom note in an old movie.
I don’t really know the people at 4421 Lemon. I’ve seen the couple arguing a few times in their front yard. Some people love drama. I don’t. I’ve never seen him strike her.
I’m tempted to throw the letter in the garbage. I’d rather not get involved.
As I’m thinking this, the woman across the street comes out her front door.
Before I can change my mind, I go out my front door and start walking towards her, diagonally across the neighbor’s lawn.
Ironically, she’s heading to her mailbox, and sees me coming. She acknowledges me as I approach.
I hand her the letter. “I opened it before I realized it was meant for you, or your husband rather, sorry.”
She frowns, accepts the envelope, opens the letter and reads it: Cut-out words pasted to a sheet of paper. Her expression is unfathomable.
“Is there something I can do?”
“No,” she says. “I can handle this.” She doesn’t look up.
“It sounds pretty serious. Maybe I should report it to the police.”
She glances at her front door, then looks at me. “No—I’d much prefer that you didn’t. It’s complicated.”
I’m at a loss for words.
“I have an admirer,” she says.
No doubt. She’s pretty. “A rather crazy one, at that,” I say. “Perhaps you should call the police, just to play it safe.”
“No. That would only make it worse. Please, let’s just keep this between the two of us.”
“Are you sure? Because it seems pretty serious, maybe we should…”
“No, it’s all right. I can handle it.”
“All right, if you say so.” I imagine my relief shows.
“Thanks for not making a big deal out of it. What’s your name?”
“Hank,” I reply.
“Thanks Hank. My name’s Gloria.” We shake hands briefly.
“You sure you’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll work it out,” she says. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”
Next morning there are two detectives in my driveway, and a slew of police cars up and down the street.
I step outside. “What’s going on?”
The detectives are polite. “I’m Detective Williams, this is my partner, Detective Boone.” We don’t shake hands. That seems ominous.
“What’s going on?” I repeat.
Detective Williams clears his throat, while his partner looks around casually. Before they can answer, Gloria comes flying out of her front door. “That’s him! That’s him right there!” She’s pointing right at me and has to be restrained. “You bastard! How could you? You fucking bastard.”
The detective pulls an envelope out of his pocket. It’s the letter. “You know anything about this?”
“I’ve seen it.”
He stares at me impassively, while his partner is looking in my garbage can.
He says, “It’s got a return address, and it happens to be yours.”
“Yeah, I know, and I can explain that.”
Gloria has collapsed on her front lawn, she’s wailing like a broken siren. All the other neighbors are outside too, watching the spectacle.
His partner walks over with a discarded magazine in his hand. “Do you recognize this?”
I do. It’s my magazine; the little white label with my name and address is clearly visible on the cover.
He’s flipping through the magazine and then stops. He holds it up for everyone to see: A page, with several words cut out of it.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he says.
True Believer.
I’m nobody’s fool, that’s for certain.
I could see he was a huckster, a thespian with a flair for self-promotion. Just last night he gathered his little flock together for what he called a final, ceremonial dinner: The wine flowed freely, the food was good and plentiful: All were in a festive mood. My cup runneth over, with disdain.
It was he who put the damper on the occasion, not I. He bade us all be silent, and spoke in his usual rhymes and riddles. Some would face trials, and some would have doubts. Some would deny his fellowship, and still another would betray him. Yet he girded us to be resolute, to have faith. It was all I could do to keep from laughing in his face.
He seemed cognizant of my cynicism. His eyes met mine many times that night. Each time, he seemed to find amusement in my face, my expression. It infuriated me beyond description. It was part of his personae, to know his fate, and our hearts. It was all a scam.
I went along with it for the sake of my church. I wanted to know his secret, his methods, his ultimate game. I had no doubt about his motives. They were the same as any huckster. Money, personal gain, though he played the impoverished mystic with inerrant accuracy: From his bearded face, to his sandaled feet.
I was not fooled, not for an instant.
I knew he’d never go through with it. He would put on his little show of omniscience, then scurry out of town in the middle of the night with his ill-gotten gains.
I refused to stand idle while this self-proclaimed mystic made a mockery of my faith, my lifelong devotion to the God of my father, and my father’s father.
And so it came to pass, that once the phony merriment dwindled to a close, we all went our separate ways. I went to the Governor’s house to speak with the Captain of the Guard. They made it known that they were looking for this peddler of strange ideas: This mystical trickster. So grateful was the Guard that they paid me for the information. I tried to refuse the money, it was a trifling amount, and I am not a poor man by any measure. I am a priest, after all. They ignored my protestations, threw the money at my feet, and sent me on my way like a common street urchin.
But today I stand beneath him. Looking up at his face, contorted with pain and despair. His mother and his woman grovel in the dirt before him, pleading with the guards, who respond by tormenting him further. He dies a lonely, painful death, and as the spirit leaves him, it is as though the whole earth shudders with remorse: And me with it.
Storm clouds form in a matter of minutes, the sky is seared with fearful bolts and thunder roars with such force and number, it fills the air with a terrible and wrathful vengeance. I’m so suddenly frightened, I pray to my God for surcease and protection, but the sky only grows darker, the lightning closer and the thunder louder.
I clutch my robe about me tighter, preparing to run for the shelter of my stone house. But a guard grabs my arm with terrible strength, holding me fast, and points at the specter who is nailed to the cross.
“Your name,” says the guard, who knows me not, with words that cannot come from his own ignorant tongue, “shall forever and ever, be known as the name of a traitor.”
A bolt of lightening smashes the ground no more than two rods distant. Even the great muscled guard looks to the heavens in fear. I break free of his grasp and scurry down the hill, and in my haste, I bump into a patron of my church. He recognizes my visage and proclaims for all to hear. “I know you, do I not? Your name is Judas. Judas Iscariot.”
That night I prayed, that his fearsome God would somehow forgive me.
I could see he was a huckster, a thespian with a flair for self-promotion. Just last night he gathered his little flock together for what he called a final, ceremonial dinner: The wine flowed freely, the food was good and plentiful: All were in a festive mood. My cup runneth over, with disdain.
It was he who put the damper on the occasion, not I. He bade us all be silent, and spoke in his usual rhymes and riddles. Some would face trials, and some would have doubts. Some would deny his fellowship, and still another would betray him. Yet he girded us to be resolute, to have faith. It was all I could do to keep from laughing in his face.
He seemed cognizant of my cynicism. His eyes met mine many times that night. Each time, he seemed to find amusement in my face, my expression. It infuriated me beyond description. It was part of his personae, to know his fate, and our hearts. It was all a scam.
I went along with it for the sake of my church. I wanted to know his secret, his methods, his ultimate game. I had no doubt about his motives. They were the same as any huckster. Money, personal gain, though he played the impoverished mystic with inerrant accuracy: From his bearded face, to his sandaled feet.
I was not fooled, not for an instant.
I knew he’d never go through with it. He would put on his little show of omniscience, then scurry out of town in the middle of the night with his ill-gotten gains.
I refused to stand idle while this self-proclaimed mystic made a mockery of my faith, my lifelong devotion to the God of my father, and my father’s father.
And so it came to pass, that once the phony merriment dwindled to a close, we all went our separate ways. I went to the Governor’s house to speak with the Captain of the Guard. They made it known that they were looking for this peddler of strange ideas: This mystical trickster. So grateful was the Guard that they paid me for the information. I tried to refuse the money, it was a trifling amount, and I am not a poor man by any measure. I am a priest, after all. They ignored my protestations, threw the money at my feet, and sent me on my way like a common street urchin.
But today I stand beneath him. Looking up at his face, contorted with pain and despair. His mother and his woman grovel in the dirt before him, pleading with the guards, who respond by tormenting him further. He dies a lonely, painful death, and as the spirit leaves him, it is as though the whole earth shudders with remorse: And me with it.
Storm clouds form in a matter of minutes, the sky is seared with fearful bolts and thunder roars with such force and number, it fills the air with a terrible and wrathful vengeance. I’m so suddenly frightened, I pray to my God for surcease and protection, but the sky only grows darker, the lightning closer and the thunder louder.
I clutch my robe about me tighter, preparing to run for the shelter of my stone house. But a guard grabs my arm with terrible strength, holding me fast, and points at the specter who is nailed to the cross.
“Your name,” says the guard, who knows me not, with words that cannot come from his own ignorant tongue, “shall forever and ever, be known as the name of a traitor.”
A bolt of lightening smashes the ground no more than two rods distant. Even the great muscled guard looks to the heavens in fear. I break free of his grasp and scurry down the hill, and in my haste, I bump into a patron of my church. He recognizes my visage and proclaims for all to hear. “I know you, do I not? Your name is Judas. Judas Iscariot.”
That night I prayed, that his fearsome God would somehow forgive me.
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