I’ve just been arrested. Charged with second degree murder. My wife was found in our bed riddled with bullets. Found with this guy. He bought it, too.
The powers that be believe I committed the ultimate crime of passion–supposedly caught my wife in bed with her new lover and went, like, haywire. But I say, “No way.” My most compelling argument is–I’m a sociopath.
Experts would say something like, “He has shallow affect.” But in layman’s terms, basically, I’m passionless. Passion-less.
“So, how could I commit a crime of passion?” I ask you.
How could I reach the level of fervour necessary to riddle two people with bullets?
Point of fact–never loved my wife. She was okay and everything. Nothing wrong with her. We had good, regular sex, and that’s the point, right? Then, not too long ago, she caught on to the fact I probably wouldn’t jump in front of a bus to save her, and she asked me to leave but, to tell the truth, it didn’t bother me much.
Being honest here.
There’s more fish in the sea.
I’m thinking, and correct me if my thinking is wrong, I might not mention all this sociopath stuff to my lawyer. If he uses it in court as the alibi that it truly is, the jury might get the wrong impression. Might hear mentally ill. Might conjure up Norman Bates. Might assume psychopath.
I’m right here, aren’t I?
See, you can’t admit shit like I was only in it for the sex and I know it. Have a high level of social cognition, get the rules, play the game well. But–listen closely here–I am not violent. Don’t have to be violent. I’m charming. Smart. Did I mention handsome?
And in case you’re thinking, Nah, don’t believe him. He’s smart enough to lie about all this, I don’t lie, either. Not because I can’t–because I can (and very well)–but because lies reveal themselves.
Look at Nixon.
Look at Clinton.
Who needs to end up in shit like that?
Did I tell you I’m a cop?
Or rather, I was a highly respected detective. Which adds another layer of irony. Got all the skills to figure out who really did this but, obviously, not only can I not investigate my own case, I can’t even leave this freakin’ cell. But I can still ponder. And here’s where you come in.
Who benefited from the deaths of my wife and her boyfriend if I didn’t, as I’ve clearly explained?
My wife’s lover’s ex-girlfriend or something?
As a detective, I’ve often seen jealousy raise its ugly head.
Yeah, and then there’s greed.
What about greed?
Not my greed but somebody else’s greed?
Who inherits from lover-boy, say?
Ambition is a valid motive.
Hey, I was up for promotion before this happened. Maybe one of the guys, who was in line for the same position, deliberately smeared the heck out of my reputation to knock me out of the competition. Don’t give out fat promotions to detectives jailed for murder.
Man, you’re not saying much. Help me out here. What about the writer? The one listed under the title? If there were no marital bed riddled with bullets and no wife and lover found dead in it, she wouldn’t have this story. And she wouldn’t have been able to sell it to this e-zine and make…
Nah–that doesn’t work either.
Ahh–you, dear reader, benefit from these here murders. Entertainment, while you sit surrounded by a bunch of other normal people just like you in a café, in a park or on a subway train, and dozens of stops whiz by.
But you didn’t kill my wife and her new boyfriend–you’re not responsible, right?
Well…I’m never giving up and I’ll find out who killed my wife if it’s the last thing I do. You gotta understand, if nothing else, we sociopaths are high-performers.
A member of Crime Writers of Canada, International Thriller Writers and Short Mystery Fiction Society, Cynthia has one award for fiction and has been a writing contest judge. Cynthia’s novels are A Purse to Die For and A Killer Necklace, co-written with Melodie Campbell and published by Imajin Books.
Copyright © 2016 Cynthia St-Pierre. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or medium without express written permission of the author is prohibited.