Sandy’s Story Continued…

Sandy’s Story Begins

She nervously paced the hallway, eyes flitting in all directions as she drew in deep breaths, trying to settle wrangled nerves.  With shaky hands she rummaged through her purse for a cigarette, dismissing the “No Smoking” sign.  Let them try to stop me she groused to herself as she defiantly moved the forbidden to her lips.  Ahhh, the scent of tobacco – with closed eyes and head back she reveled in the familiarity, until a firm hand grasped her left arm.  Jarred from her euphoric state she froze.

“Claire.  Claire, it’s time.”

Her shoulders drooped as she reluctantly dropped the cigarette back into her purse.  With resolve, she turned and faced the messenger.

Sandy’s Story Continued…

She was ushered into a bare-walled room with pale green walls, one metal table, bolted to the floor, and two industrial style chairs, one on each side of the table.

“Please take a seat,” said the detective.

As she sat, Claire noticed the large one-way mirrored glass window opposite her and a ceiling-mounted camera aimed at her. She smiled to herself, a nervous laugh escaped her lips. “Just like on TV cop shows,” she mumbled under her breath.

“Excuse me?”, questioned the detective.

“Nothing,” she replied. “Nothing at all.”

“I’m Detective Phillips,” he announced, rather officially.

“I remember,” Claire responded. “You told me at the house last night.” Her right hand fingered the pocketbok latch — an involuntary gesture toward extracting that loose cigarette she craved.

“I know what I saw,” she announced unprompted.

“And what was that?”, Det. Phillips inquired.

“I told you already.”

“I’d like to hear it again.”

Her lips widened slightly into a tight smirk. He thinks I’ll slip up and change the littlest detail, she thought to herself. And the spouse is always the prime suspect.

“I was in the bedroom,” she began. “I heard the sound of breaking glass downstairs. I thought Jerry had dropped the glass of water he’d gone down to get. But then there were muffled noises, followed by a cry of pain. It sounded like Jerry, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Go on,” Phillips urged.

“As I told you before, I stayed upstairs, afraid to move. I listened for a sound – Jerry’s voice or a stranger’s footsteps. After I don’t know how long, I tip-toed to the top of the stairs and waited awhile longer.”

“Then you went downstairs?”, Det. Phillips inserted.

“Yes,” she responded quietly, as if reliving the moment. “I thought maybe Jerry had had a heart attack or slipped and fell, hitting his head.”

Det. Phillips cut in before she could go on, “And what did you think when you saw your husband lying face down with a kitchen knife sticking out of his back?”

“Well, that he’d been attacked, of course,” she retorted indignantly.

“And the attacker, Claire?”, Philips probed. “He took nothing? He was gone before you got there…maybe ran out, afraid of your five-foot-two 120 pound strength?” The sarcasm was obvious.

“I certainly don’t know,” she snapped. Her fingers played with the purse’s latch again, tempted to release the tobacco scent within.

“And then there’s the question of the broken glass from your back door,” Det. Phillips announced.

“When you ended your call to 911, you probably thought you’d turned off your phone. But in your haste to set the scene as you described it, you forgot to turn off your phone. So your 911 call ended in the sound of breaking glass!

Glaring at the Detective, Claire snapped open her purse, pulled out the loose cigarette that had been taunting her for the past hour, and asked, “Got a light?”

M. Sacher

2/21/18