the United States Postal Service and their model of efficiency
should be considered one of the World Wonders, and I say that without a hint of
sarcasm, regardless of what the media will tell you about their troubles) I
felt a fleeting, flickering trace of panic.
Officer Planck had
reacted with so much concern over me entering Kerry’s home that I began to
consider the possibility that I might be implicated in the crime.
Finding my stuff in her
home would lead to questions I didn’t have the ability to answer. It might
indicate that I’d been spending time there. It might indicate that a
relationship was involved. I hadn’t completely examined every inch of her
house, so who knew what else they might find that belonged to me?
Now, let me tell you this:
I am absolutely, one hundred percent aware that tampering with evidence at a
crime scene is against the law. I’m well-informed in legal matters, having
spent so much time defending myself against baseless allegations from Shayna
and others, who shall remain nameless, mostly because I don’t feel like going
into such detailed personal matters, but there comes a time when you just can’t
afford any more trouble.
I couldn’t risk being
pulled into an investigation with the inability to provide answers. The
guttural shoulder shrug, the word “Uh” does not preclude guilt in any way. In
fact, I’d be willing to say that, in certain situations, it’s often perceived
as more of an admission than a hesitation.
I looked down at Kerry,
shook my head, and said, “I still don’t understand.”
I ignored Officer
Planck’s advice to stay put and walked, briskly (no need to make the meddlesome
Mrs. Epstein wary), back into Kerry’s house, counting the seconds. Given the
response time, and given that it might’ve taken him a couple extra minutes to
make a call, I figured I had, at the very least, five or six minutes to remove
my things before they arrived.
I don’t care what
anyone says about me, truth or lies—and more often the latter—my heart is
always, always in the right place. You want to know what I did?
Call me a hero, call me
an idiot for wasting precious ticks of the clock, but I took the time to feed
Kerry’s fish.
There. Are you happy?
Call me a wretch, but
you can’t say that I don’t make sacrifices once in a while.
I tried to wipe down
anything I may have touched. Fish food container included. Both downstairs
and up. Kitchen drawers. Hand railing of the stairs. The Louboutins.
With approximately
three minutes remaining, I went back into Kerry’s bedroom and gathered up my
things.
Including a tempting
diary I found underneath the shoebox full of photos.
CHAPTER 7
If you’ve never been
questioned by an irate detective that’s not too pleased with your desire to “ help ,”
(his acidic emphasis, not mine), let me assure you, it’s not the most pleasant
experience.
The word “reaming”
comes to mind. And it wasn’t gentle. He didn’t bother with lube, that was for
sure. For whatever reason, he took severe offense to my suggestions on how to
improve their effectiveness. I could tell from the start that they were going
about it all wrong—they don’t do it like that on television at all .
It’s most definitely not the way I would’ve done it. Give me a badge and a
gun, I’ll show you.
Things went south in a
hurry, both my mental state and their perception of me when they initially
suggested, “self-inflicted gunshot wound,” and I redlined just shy of going
primeval. He quickly turned on me with the phrase, “prime suspect,” at least
until Officer Planck stepped in and diffused the situation. It took a while,
but an older detective with a level head, the partner, managed to wrap his mind
around the concept of my innocence and things died down.
I have no qualms about
admitting I cried when they took Kerry’s body away.
If you’re still with
me, because I know it’s a
should be considered one of the World Wonders, and I say that without a hint of
sarcasm, regardless of what the media will tell you about their troubles) I
felt a fleeting, flickering trace of panic.
Officer Planck had
reacted with so much concern over me entering Kerry’s home that I began to
consider the possibility that I might be implicated in the crime.
Finding my stuff in her
home would lead to questions I didn’t have the ability to answer. It might
indicate that I’d been spending time there. It might indicate that a
relationship was involved. I hadn’t completely examined every inch of her
house, so who knew what else they might find that belonged to me?
Now, let me tell you this:
I am absolutely, one hundred percent aware that tampering with evidence at a
crime scene is against the law. I’m well-informed in legal matters, having
spent so much time defending myself against baseless allegations from Shayna
and others, who shall remain nameless, mostly because I don’t feel like going
into such detailed personal matters, but there comes a time when you just can’t
afford any more trouble.
I couldn’t risk being
pulled into an investigation with the inability to provide answers. The
guttural shoulder shrug, the word “Uh” does not preclude guilt in any way. In
fact, I’d be willing to say that, in certain situations, it’s often perceived
as more of an admission than a hesitation.
I looked down at Kerry,
shook my head, and said, “I still don’t understand.”
I ignored Officer
Planck’s advice to stay put and walked, briskly (no need to make the meddlesome
Mrs. Epstein wary), back into Kerry’s house, counting the seconds. Given the
response time, and given that it might’ve taken him a couple extra minutes to
make a call, I figured I had, at the very least, five or six minutes to remove
my things before they arrived.
I don’t care what
anyone says about me, truth or lies—and more often the latter—my heart is
always, always in the right place. You want to know what I did?
Call me a hero, call me
an idiot for wasting precious ticks of the clock, but I took the time to feed
Kerry’s fish.
There. Are you happy?
Call me a wretch, but
you can’t say that I don’t make sacrifices once in a while.
I tried to wipe down
anything I may have touched. Fish food container included. Both downstairs
and up. Kitchen drawers. Hand railing of the stairs. The Louboutins.
With approximately
three minutes remaining, I went back into Kerry’s bedroom and gathered up my
things.
Including a tempting
diary I found underneath the shoebox full of photos.
CHAPTER 7
If you’ve never been
questioned by an irate detective that’s not too pleased with your desire to “ help ,”
(his acidic emphasis, not mine), let me assure you, it’s not the most pleasant
experience.
The word “reaming”
comes to mind. And it wasn’t gentle. He didn’t bother with lube, that was for
sure. For whatever reason, he took severe offense to my suggestions on how to
improve their effectiveness. I could tell from the start that they were going
about it all wrong—they don’t do it like that on television at all .
It’s most definitely not the way I would’ve done it. Give me a badge and a
gun, I’ll show you.
Things went south in a
hurry, both my mental state and their perception of me when they initially
suggested, “self-inflicted gunshot wound,” and I redlined just shy of going
primeval. He quickly turned on me with the phrase, “prime suspect,” at least
until Officer Planck stepped in and diffused the situation. It took a while,
but an older detective with a level head, the partner, managed to wrap his mind
around the concept of my innocence and things died down.
I have no qualms about
admitting I cried when they took Kerry’s body away.
If you’re still with
me, because I know it’s a
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