Frozen Assets

I let her talk me into things, then later resented her when I was not happy. I did so when it came to marriage, house hunting, and moving to New Hampshire. I also agreed when it came to living so far out into the rural areas of New England—and when she decided we must start a family.

I felt trapped in a house and community I did not enjoy, trying to get my wife pregnant when I wasn't sure I wanted children. I know the trap was one I built for myself through dishonesty and some degree of going with the flow like a good little puppet. But trapped is still a terrible feeling, even if you constructed the cage yourself.

Shortly after moving here, I discovered a small pond near the hindmost border of our property. It was nothing to brag about, so much so that I forgot to tell Amy I found it. It's simple to forget the details, particularly when arguments occurred over things for which you no longer cared.

I take a lot of walks. Amy works from the house as a freelance writer, and she detests any noise while writing. That means no radio, television, or watching online videos. I work nights as an engineer at a local automobile parts company, keeping things running smoothly on the third shift crew.

It was easy to resent Amy's rule of silence; it was my time off to enjoy life. I tried to get her to write in the evenings when I was out, but she wouldn't try. She liked her schedule as it was.

We'd been married for eight years, most of them good until lately. I had surrendered to my wife's whims on so many issues that it was easier to stay pissed off at her than to try to see things from her perspective. It still amazes me how hard it is to break a mindset of hate and indifference.

There were so many projects I wanted to do on the house. I always wanted to be a DIYer and make some significant changes I could call my own (leave my mark on the place, so it didn't seem to be just hers). But she liked things as they were and would never have tolerated all that dust and noise while she tried to work. Snared like a rat, caught in the trap I baited. Good job, I sarcastically opined.

We fought that night. It started out much as any other disagreement, but it accelerated into something more. Some things we said could never be unheard, anger from both sides fueled the fighting.

"You don't even try to get along," she accused me.

"Don't see the point."

"We are supposed to be trying to have a baby, yet you show me limitless disdain."

"About that, Amy: I don't want kids, and I don't want this fucking cage you call marriage. I am tired of you trying to ruin my life."

"Then leave," she said. And then she attacked my sexual skills and my potency. Amy said something hurtful enough that I would not share it, even as it drove me to the brink of rage.

My hands were around her throat, squeezing—wringing—the life out of her. Her struggles delighted me, for she could not escape my grip, and she was in no position to tell me what to do. It was the first time I felt in control in years, and I am not sure I could have stopped even if I wanted. It provided a release I never thought I could feel again. I was winning.

She stopped fighting me, and I let her limp body slump to the floor. The muscles in my hands were twitching from holding that grip so long. I knew they would ache tomorrow, but now I was feeling a surge of ecstasy coursing through my entire being. At last, the long fight was over, and I was the one still standing.

I waited for darkness before moving her body. I tied a rope to a cement block, using a secure fisherman's knot I'd learned years ago. My cousin Manny is a cod fisherman and taught me the knot while out sport-fishing with him one summer holiday. I didn't hook a damn thing that day, but I still remembered the knot.

I put the cement block, the rope, and Amy onto a thick canvas tarp I found in the garage. I was going to drag the tarp to the pond and rid myself of evidence. I only hoped the little pond was deep enough to conceal her.

At the pond, I tied the other end of the rope to Amy's waist and tossed the cement block into the center of the pond. The block sank, but it only partially submerged her corpse. I had to gather more blocks and get into the water to pile them on top of her to weigh her down.

When done, I stood shivering on the pond's edge, looking for signs of her in the water. I could see none and was at last content my job was over. I dragged the tarpaulin home behind me, cold and exhausted and soaked in pond water. I folded the tarp and hid it behind a stack of drying firewood in the shed.

It was snowing that day, the first substantial snow of the season. I was glad to see several inches of the pure white stuff, all the better to cover my night's activities. When the weatherman announced a cold front following the storm, I was trying not to grin. The snow could cover the tracks, and the cold front could freeze the pond's surface. It was hard to believe, but I might have a clean slate. I thought it over and then allowed myself that grin.

I thought I would let Amy winter there in the pond. She had no family or close friends to be alerted by her absence, and so I guessed the only calls coming in for her would be from her clients looking for their copy work. I could tell them she left, and I did not know where. They would give up after a bit and merely look for a new writer.

Two weeks later, I heard laughter coming from the small patch of woods behind my house. I walked out there and discovered two boys shoveling off the pond. They wore ice skates, hung by their shoelaces, strung around their necks.

They looked worried when they saw me arriving.

"We shoulda asked first, Mr.," the older boy said.

"Nonsense. I just wanted to say hello, and ask that you be careful. If you even suspect the ice is not solid, please don't attempt it, okay?"

They promised, and I headed back to the house, nervous as all hell. What if they saw Amy when they cleared the snow off the ice? Why didn't I chase them off? I knew why, though. If I had run them off, people would later wonder why I didn't want anyone near my pond. It was better to take a chance than to bring suspicion upon myself. I waited for screams, but none came, and I relaxed.

So the winter dragged on. Occasionally the boys skated, and I stayed in my house enjoying all the things Amy had taken from me. I was hammering, sanding, drinking, binge-watching television, and listening to music—loudly.

One day, late in April, I heard the screams I always dreaded. I ran to the pond to find the boys in a panic. They were trying to fish the pond when their hook caught on the rotted rope. When they tried to reel their line in, it snapped, and Amy floated to the surface.

Her face was staring upwards from a few inches below the pond's surface. Her eyes were filmed over with a milky-bluish haze, and her skin was puckered and gray. If I hadn't known it was her, I would not have recognized her.

"Who is that?" one of the boys cried out.

"I think it's my wife. I thought she ran off somewhere. I had no idea she was here..." I allowed my voice to falter, to let the boys see how upset and shocked I was.

I ask the boys to run home and call the police.

The investigation begins. There is little to go on, however. Amy's car is still in our garage. There are no records of bank activity, cell phone records, credit card purchases, or airline tickets. None of this makes any sense to the police.

There was nothing to tie me to this other than the fact I was her husband. That made me suspect numero uno, but they quickly decided I had nothing to do with her killing.

We both had life insurance, but the policies were purchased back at the start of our marriage, and there were no recent upgrades. Those policies were not large enough to trip the 'red flag warning' level. I didn't have a lot of motive—at least not on paper.

One of the detectives, Mark Finlay, had suspicions. He attended the autopsy and was there when the findings showed no water in her lungs. The report also indicated that there was subcutaneous bruising around her throat. The lengthy submersion in freshwater had destroyed the epidermal layer of skin at her throat, showing damage to the flesh beneath. Hoping that might be proof of assault, the detective watched the rest of the autopsy. He wanted to be sure he had all the facts.

"That bruising, does that mean the victim got strangled?" he asked the M.E.

"It could."

"But, is it proof of that?"

"I'm afraid not. Blood pools in the body and causes all sorts of staining and what appears to be hematomas. She was submerged so long I can not swear the marks are from an injury. Bodies decompose twice as quickly in water. There's not enough left here to say with any certainty what occurred. Sorry."

"What about the lack of water in her lungs? How does someone drown with no water in their lungs?"

"They can't. The body got placed in the water post mortem."

"But I still have no proof it was him."

"I don't know what to tell you, Finlay. All I know is she died above water, whether in that pond or elsewhere."

The case refused to leave his thoughts. Something was very wrong here, and he needed to get to the truth.

He remembered a rope tied around the victim's waist. Had they ever determined what the other end of that rope was attached to—or had they relied on the body itself for all their clues?

He had a bit of difficulty obtaining a search warrant, but in the end he prevailed. He was authorized to return to the pond with a diver to search the bottom. It was the last hope of catching a killer, but he would see it through. Maybe then he could finally accept they had tried everything to bring her killer to justice.

It was not a large pond, and within minutes, the diver was resurfacing with evidence. He handed up a concrete block with

a short length of rope tied to it. It had silted with algae and sludge, but it was there—the proof he needed was at last in his hands.

The rope had been tied to the block using a special knot. Detective Finlay had seen this knot when he was a boy scout, earning his badges.

It was a knot known to mariners, but was it likely known to your average housewife?

Not so much.