Live to Kill Another Day

While I imagine policing is much different than it appears on television, the interrogation room is exactly as one would expect. Drab white walls, a large one-way mirror, and a simple table-and-four-chair set up in the center of the room. An analog clock, which reads 10:03 p.m., makes the only sound in the room as it ticks forward slowly. I sit opposite the one-way mirror, finding it hard to stop staring at it. My lawyer, Davis Elm, sits next to me, a stark contrast to my anxious, knee bouncing demeanor. He sits straight backed, expensive suit without a wrinkle at this late hour, confidence pouring from his pores.

Detective Shurm, an older white-haired gentleman who has mentioned more than once that he retires tomorrow so long as this case is solved, glares at me from the opposite side of the table.

“Ms. Billings, according to your own book you played a very stupid game, and as your very stupid prize, you are here, under arrest, talking to me now.” Shurm has a deep, slow southern drawl that is almost soothing to me. “So, I need you to tell me one more time, how you came to publish a murder manifesto. And this time, I want to know everything you know about the murders of Michael Pizzaro, David Wright, James Huntley, and Carl Meyers – all Henrico residents, all murdered exactly as you describe in your manifesto.”

“It wasn’t a manifesto. Live to Kill Another Day is a novel,” Davis jumps in before I can say anything, ensuring I do not give the police anything they can use against me in court.

“Manifesto, confession, novel,” Shurm shrugs. “Potato, puhtotoh. I just need to know why Ms. Billings’ bestselling work of fiction details four real murders.”

Davis stares at Shrum as he speaks to me. “Charlene, go ahead and tell the detective one more time how this misunderstanding came about.”

“Hmph…misunderstanding,” Shurm snorts under his breath.

The tale sounds farfetched even to me. But as unrealistic as it comes across, I don’t think anyone could create something this sordid even in the darkest recesses of their minds.

“I was at the library on Bank Street last year doing research for a freelance piece I was working on when I noticed this little well-worn, black, leather bound journal on the table next to mine,” I began. “I was there for hours and no one ever came to sit at the table or claim the journal. When I finished my research, I decided to grab the journal and take it with me – “

“So instead of turning it in to the librarian, you decided to steal property from a public library?” Detective Shrum jumps in.

“As a writer, I couldn’t imagine losing my draft journal. I thought maybe there was something inside that would help me identify the owner and I could get it back to them.”

“So, you’re just a regular neighborhood superhero?”

I ignore the detective’s quip and continue. “I leave the library and head to my editor’s office to drop off my article and see what new assignments are available. I sit down my laptop, purse, and the journal in the editor’s office and run to the bathroom before we meet. When I come back in the room, she’s thumbing through the journal and she’s excited! Hooked. She tells me this story is a page turner and she would love to pass it along to a book publisher she knows.”

“And let me guess. You were happy to oblige?”

“Not at first. I tried to protest, but she was so pushy and persistent, not letting me get a word in edgewise. Then she offered me $20,000 cash right there on the spot to shop it around. She was so sure it would be a hit she was willing to give me a $20,000 advance out of her own pocket for a cut on the back end.”

“So, you sold your integrity for 20 grand. Got it. What happens next?”

I roll my eyes, but continue. “Well, she strokes me a check and I tell her I needed to put the finishing touches on the story. I mean, I hadn’t even opened the journal yet. I had no clue what I had even agreed to have published! She gave me two weeks. I go home and start reading the journal and, ohmigod! She was exactly right. I’ve never read anything like this before. The plot, the detail, the way the author made you see the victims simply as prey – like killing them was the most natural thing that could happen. Like they were turkeys at Thanksgiving, and it’s just how things work. I was mesmerized.

“I read the entire journal in one night. While it was gripping, it was poorly written. I couldn’t imagine at the time how such a strong writer could have such poor grammar and mechanics. I edit it, change a few things here and there for dramatic effect, and boom! I get it back to my editor within a week and two days later, I have a taker.”

“And you never stopped for a minute to think about what would happen if people found out you were a fraud?”

“Of course I did,” I reply incredulously. “Every second of every day. But I needed this win.”

“You’re sitting in a police interrogation room, Ms. Billings,” Shurm points out. “I’d hardly call this a win.”

“Well, this wasn’t part of the plan, Detective! I mean who would’ve known this book would catch on like wildfire?”

“Everyone! Literally everyone – but you, seemingly – knew this was going to be big!” Detective Shurm looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “Someone handed you $20,000 of their own money. They were able to sell the story in two days. Everyone knew this was going to be a huge deal, but you!”

“Let’s be clear,” Davis pipes up. “It’s not within my client’s expertise to know what will sell or what won’t. She’s simply a writer.”

Shurm growls. “So, let me ask you, Charlene. Who are you covering for? I mean, that’s a clever story, but you can’t expect me to believe it.”

“No one cares what you believe, Detective!” Davis once again interjects. “We both know at five foot three, barely 100 pounds, there’s no way Charlene could’ve taken down one man, let alone four men at separate times.”

“Maybe she drugged them with something that doesn’t show up on our toxicology report,” Shrum throws out quickly. It’s obvious this is an angle they have been exploring. “Or maybe she hits them with an okey doke during sex.”

“Have you found my client’s DNA on any of the victims?”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

“She wasn’t there. But even if she was, without DNA it definitely makes it much less plausible she killed them during sex.” The detective sits quietly, giving my lawyer the evil eye. “And I’m presuming you’ve searched her home and office at this point. Did you find any signs of drugs other than the hydrochlorothiazide she takes for her high blood pressure?” Again the detective is silent. “I see. So, in that case, the only thing you have to go on is the journal?”

“The journal is all we need to get a conviction.”

“These murders started three years ago,” Davis says, scouring his notes. “According to the file, before Charlene showed up on your radar, the profile pointed to a white male in his late 30s. Loner. Mechanically inclined. My black, 26-year-old black female, creative writing client does not fall into any of those categories.”

“Profiles are not absolute,” Shurm advises, obviously on the defense.

“But they’re solid enough that police departments over the country feel confident relying on them to find criminals. You can’t have it both ways, Detective. Either you use the profiles because they’re known to be accurate, or you don’t use them because they’re not reliable.”

Shurm crosses his arms and leans forward on the table. “So, what do you propose, Davis? You think we should just let her go because she says she didn’t do it?”

“We both know she didn’t do it. I think you need to get her arraigned and convince the judge to set bail. She’ll cooperate and hand over the journal.”

“You still have the journal? Where is it?” Shrum sounds excited.

“Of course,” I retort. “It’s someplace safe.”

Shurm looks at the two-way mirror, then turns back to me. “Excuse me for a moment.” His chair scrapes the floor loudly as he pushes it away from the table and exits the room.

It takes twelve hours, but I’m released on bail after my arraignment the next morning. Davis gives me a ride home and we decide to meet again at the police station that afternoon to hand over the journal.

But as soon as I open my front door, something strikes me on my head and the room goes dark.

I wake up hog tied on the floor of a strange basement.

“Hi, Charlene,” I am greeted by an average looking white man. His features are pretty non-descript. He doesn’t seem threatening, but I’m instinctively terrified. “You know, when I realized I left my story at the library, initially I panicked. I was scared someone was going to find it and take it straight to the police. But then you saved me.”

It hits me like a ton of bricks. “Y-yy-you’re the mm-murderer.” I stammer. “How did I save you?”

“You publishing my story does so much for me. Number one, infamy. I’m not just some newspaper article now. I’m a bestselling novel.” He puffs his chest and gives me this weird, proud smile. “Oh! And you gave me someone to frame.”

“For what?” I croak, my voice sounding weaker than I intend.

“For my crimes, of course,” he answers icily.

“The police are already looking into other suspects. They know it wasn’t me.”

“Yeah, but once they find out you showed up here to kill me, all of that will go up in smoke.”

“What? You kidnapped me! I’m not here to kill you.”

“But they’ll never know that.”

FOUR HOURS LATER

Detective Shurm is exhausted by the time the crime scene is processed. He watches as the coroner drives off with Charlene’s body. He could hardly believe she broke into another man’s home and tried to commit another murder mere hours after being bailed out.

Shurm interviews the victim, a 38-year-old white male, there at the house. The guy said he’d overpowered Charlene when she broke into his house and pulled a gun. He was pretty shaken and decided to go stay with his sister out of town until he felt comfortable being home again. Something about the guy seems off, but Shurm has no reason to hold him. After getting the address of his sister, Shurm lets him go.

On the way to his vehicle, Shurm bumps into one of the crime scene techs, toppling the mountain of evidence the tech is carrying out of the guy’s house. Shurm apologizes and bends down to help the tech. The first thing Shurm touches is a book. On the spine he notices a Dewey decimal tag, indicating the book belongs to a library. He opens the book and sees the words Bank Street Library stamped on the inside cover. That’s when it hits him like a ton of bricks. And even though Shurm quickly puts two-and-two together, he decides this time, for the sake of his retirement, it doesn’t equal four. He sneaks the book into his coat pocket, then helps the tech return the rest of the items to the box.

“Thanks,” the tech says, shyly. “You normally don’t get something this open and shut, do you?”

“Nope,” Shurm agrees quickly. “It’s not often we close a cold case this easily.”

Shurm opens his car door and climbs inside slowly, almost difficultly, the book in his jacket pocket weighing him down.