The Misdial Murderer

I've been sweltering in this police interrogation room for what feels like an eternity. The cops took my phone, so I can't be sure if an hour has passed or three. Sweat is running down my back and causing wet strikes to form on my new green silken blouse. I've tied my dark brown hair into a clumsy ponytail, but it doesn't help to cool me off. I sense the cops must be watching me behind the two-way glass mirror, but I'm so exhausted it's hard to care.

I barely slept a minute last night.

This morning, five cop cars turned up at my office, sirens wailing and lights flashing. Policemen stormed in and arrested me as if I were a violent crime boss or the leader of an international drug cartel instead of a twenty-year-old data entry employee at a small medical billing company. They handcuffed me. Read me my Miranda rights. And hauled me off in a cop car like a criminal as my co-workers looked on wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

Just as I laid my head down on the cold metal table of the interrogation room, two cops walk in and slam the door behind them, startling me straight in my seat.

"I'm Detective Anders and this is Detective Jennings. I brought you some water," says the tall female cop as she sets down a cup in front of me.

Detective Jennings, a fit middle-aged man sporting manicured facial hair, pulls a small voice recorder out of his pants pocket and turns it on. "Can you state your name?"

I try and fail to clear my constricting throat. "Stephanie Peters," I say with a crackle in my voice. "Why am I here?"

"Why do you think you are here?" Jennings asks in the rhetorical manner of an irritated father.

"Is it because of the text messages?"

"It's about a young woman named Ginger Hall. Do you know her?" asks Anders.

"I've never met her. Is she okay?" I ask, feeling my eyes go wide.

"No, she's not, but I think you already know that. We could really use your help figuring out what happened to her," Anders says, and her face is kind and encouraging, as if she really, really does need my help. And for some reason, I feel myself anxiously wanting to help her.

"She's been murdered," Jennings states, crossing his arms over his chest, watching for my reaction, and getting a nice payoff. I bury my head in my green shirtsleeves and begin to sob.

Then, Jennings asks, "Who's the 'Hit Man'?"

"You seem like a smart girl. I'm sure the last thing you want is to be involved in a murder investigation. Why don't you tell us everything you know?" Anders says soft and low, as though she is a loving, concerned mother working to elicit a confession from a naughty toddler: Just tell me what happened. It'll all be okay.

Maybe it's the gentle purr in her voice or the burden of the week that finally gets to me, but I begin my story:

"This has been a terrible week. A couple of days ago, while sitting bored at my desk at work, I'd received an odd text message from a number I didn't recognize."

"The text message had read: I've thought about it. I'm gonna do it."

"At first, I shrugged it off as a misdial. I didn't recognize the number. I think, surely, this message isn't meant for me. I put my phone back in my desk just as my boss approached my station with a stack of bills to enter into our database."

"Can you have these done by the end of the day?" my boss asked.

"No problem," I told him and watched him grin his stupid crooked tooth grin at me and then walk back to his office. Look. My boss is a nice enough guy, but his constant high-five, can-do attitude annoyed the hell out of me. I've never been a Kool-Aid drinker, and I hated the way he was so fond of using motivational quotes to get employees to do the most mundane tasks around the office as though we might save the world. He'd say it in that gosh-jolly tone of his - Your attitude determines your altitude! - and stupid shit like that, while I wiped down the tables in our small breakroom as if I were a fast-food worker at McDonald's, wearing dry-cleaned slacks and high heels.

The company (mostly me) was going on week five of re-entering a year's worth of old data into a new computer system they'd invested in. I was slowly losing my mind.

Secretly, I'd been slipping off for job interviews during lunch, but nothing had panned out so far and I felt discouraged. In truth, I was desperate for a change. 

I wasn't supposed to end up in a dead-end job like this. 

I'd graduated at the top of my high school class. Not Valedictorian, not Salutatorian - but third place. While it did earn me a full-ride scholarship to college, which pleased my folks, coming in third place academically renders you basically invisible behind the top two spots. Once in college, I all but disappeared into a sea of thousands of other ridiculously smart people. At the end of my first year, I dropped out and came home. I certainly regret that now, but what can I do? At the time, the decision felt right to me. My parents and I still weren't talking.

"A misdial?" Jennings repeats, exchanging unconvinced glances with Anders.

"Yeah. So, I got this odd text message completely out of the blue while working at my desk and I ignored it. Well, I tried to anyway, but while I clicked away at my keyboard, page after page of data, my thoughts kept returning to the mysterious text message I had received. What could it have been about? Who was the text from?" I tell Detective Anders and Jennings.

"And then for some reason…," I chalk it up to boredom, "…I picked up my phone and texted the stranger back: That's great news. When?"

"I put my phone down and felt my heart beating in my chest while I waited for a response. It wasn't until the following afternoon that I received a reply to my message while I was eating three-day-old birthday cake in the company breakroom: Tonight."

Anders and Jennings sit patiently, hanging on my every word: "When I heard the text notification from 'The Hit Man' come through, my heart skipped a beat." 

What is so crazy - so ironic - is that I saved the misdial in my phone as 'The Hit Man' just for fun.

"That's the stone-cold truth. At this point, I really didn't know who or what this person was up to. I swear to God. I just found seeing the name 'Hit Man' in my phone amusing. This person could have been up to almost anything. For all I knew, they could have been quitting their job, proposing marriage, buying a new car, or getting a puppy - almost anything," I tell the cops.

"You really expect us to believe you don't know this 'Hit Man'?" Jennings pressed.

"I swear, I don't," I tell him.

Like an actress in a movie - playing a fictional role, "I texted back: Let me know when it's done." Then, I hacked off another slice of chocolate birthday cake with cream cheese frosting and went back to work at my desk, wondering if I'd hear back from my messenger.

"I decided to go to bed early that night, but I found it difficult to sleep. My mind kept drifting back to my new friend and imagining what they might really be up to. Around ten o'clock, I still couldn't sleep so I took a swig of cough medicine right from the bottle."

"At midnight, a notification from my phone woke me up in a medicinal haze. I laid in my bed, pulse racing, afraid to check it. When it pinged again, I finally worked up my nerve. There it was. A message from the 'The Hit Man.' I swiped my phone open and clicked on the message, surprised to find it was only a picture. The photo was hard to make out at first - so much was going on - but it appeared to be someone's living room, furniture tossed around and turned over as though the place had been robbed. I enlarged it and was shocked to see a slender woman with blond hair sprawled face down on the floor in a pool of blood. A knife by her side."

"That must have been difficult for you to see. What did you do next?" Anders asks.

"It was. It was awful. I screamed and tossed my phone across the room. I just wanted it as far away from me as I could get it." My heart was beating out of my chest and my body felt as if it was being consumed by fire. 

"I ran to the bathroom and yanked up the toilet lid just in time to lurch green bile into the bowl. I sat back on my knees panting after I had finally stopped heaving. What the hell had I just seen? Had I really encouraged someone to commit a real-life murder?"

"You received an image of a dead girl, and you did nothing?" Anders asked, disbelieving.

"I paced the living room trying to decide if I should go to the cops. The girl was dead - obviously. There was just too much blood for that not to be the case. It's not like I could do anything to save her now. I was scared for my life. This person probably knew who I was and could come after me."

Jennings says, "We could have protected you. You should have come to us."

"In my kitchen, I found an old pack of stale cigarettes and tapped one out. Puffing and pacing, I tried to think. Finally, I worked up enough nerve to text back: Who is this? And what have you done?"

"The response came almost immediately: You know who this is. Don't be upset with me. I did this for us."

"I texted back: I don't know you and I didn't want this!"

Feeling unsettled and unsafe, "I grabbed a jacket from my coat closet and slipped on a pair of old sneakers, and got out of my apartment. I went for a walk around the block and then kept on walking. I must have walked for two or three hours."

"By the time I got back to my apartment, it was late. I went back to bed, but I just laid there on top of my blankets, staring at the ceiling, until morning. When the sun came up, routine took over. I got dressed and went to work."

A mere three hours later, I was arrested and put in this interrogation room smelling of mold and black coffee.

"So that's your story…" Jennings asks. "…you thought it was a misdial, and you were just fucking around? And were supposed to believe that you don't have any idea who this mystery messenger is?"

"A woman was killed," Anders says. "This is your chance to be honest with us."

"I'm sorry. I had no idea anyone would do something like that. Honest to God," I say emphatically, my face tight with dried tears. "Of course, I would never willing urge someone to kill another person."

"I don't understand. What would make you respond to those messages like that?" Anders asks.

"I guess I was bored. It was innocent on my part. I found it a little amusing - like a fantasy or a game or something. I don't know. I am so sorry. If I could take it all back, I would! Please believe me," I plead.

"And you've never met Ginger Hall?" Jennings asks.

"We've never met," I say.

There is a knock on the door of the interrogation room and my two inquisitors get up and leave the room. When they return, Anders says, "You're free to go."

In my mind, my jaw drops to the floor, but I only ask feebly, "So, I can leave?"

"Yes. But don't leave town though. This is still an active investigation," Jennings clarifies, as if I have so many places to go.

Anders asks, "Do you have somewhere safe you can go?"

"I do. Thanks for asking. I'll head to my parent's house."

"We need to hold on to your phone for evidence," Anders tells me as I stand up on wobbly legs and buzzing off the adrenaline in my veins as if I'd just escaped death myself.

"Sure. It's no problem," I say, as I hold my breath, relieved I won't be sleeping in a jail cell tonight. I collect my things from the station (minus my phone) and get the hell out of there as fast as possible.

The thing is this girl had it coming.

Am I sorry Ginger's dead? Sure. But that piano was dangling over her head the day my boyfriend, Brent, pulled into her gym and bought a membership.

She ruined my life, and she didn't even know me. That's why I killed her.

Ginger with her tanned, toned athletic build and those wild blue eyes and her glorious gym know-how. I knew the first day I saw her on the workout floor with a client, that I never had a chance. I stood there at the front desk, redeeming my one-week guest pass, belly hanging over my spandex workout pants, pale chubby arms sticking out from my cheap tight t-shirt - I'd never felt so disgusting and ridiculous in all my life.

I could feel a vibe of excitement radiating off my boyfriend like a bad fever as he said, "Oh. That's Ginger. Good God, the stuff she knows about fitness. I bet she could really help you." Brent's eyes watched her move around the gym floor like a starving man awaiting his turn at an all-you-can-buffet table.

"I'm sure I'll be fine. Maybe you could show me the ropes?" I said, trying and failing to recapture his attention. That week, Ginger and I never crossed paths.

At the time, I was one hundred pounds overweight. It might surprise you to hear this, but being that fat didn't really bother me. I've been chunky since childhood. Brent didn't seem to mind either - or so I thought. He was drawn to my intellect - at least that is what he said. And he'd gotten pudgy, too. It's not entirely my fault that'd we'd settled into a 'Netflix and Chill' kind of relationship, ordering take out and watching murder mysteries every night, but that's where we were a year into living together. 

Brent was my first boyfriend. We grew up two blocks from each other and started dating our freshman year of high school. Maybe I missed the signs because honestly, I'd snuggled into our cozy lifestyle, but I didn't catch on that he was getting depressed over it.

One day, out of the blue, driving home from work, Brent pulled into a fitness studio near our apartment and got himself a membership. After that, Brent completely changed. If Brent wasn't at the gym working out, he was talking about it or reading about it or planning for it. He stopped eating take-out and drinking alcohol with me and he even bought a blender to make these gross, green protein shakes that smelled like dirt. I had known Brent since high school, and suddenly he became someone I no longer recognized. Brent got into great shape, and he looked amazing. He was happier than I'd ever seen him.

Just like that, I lost my best friend and the love of my life.

And before you lecture me - just know - I tried. I really did. I bought some workout clothes and even went with him to the gym on a guest pass for an entire week, but it all seemed so damn hard.

After the first few days, I wondered out loud, "Was I in a car wreck? My body hurt so bad!" Surely, I wasn't doing it correctly.

"I felt the same way at first," Brent had told me. "Just keep going. Pretty soon you'll get the hang of it, and you'll feel so much better. I promise." He said it like he was so damn sure he was right, I felt sure he must be.

"I'll give it another try next week, after I get back from Rebecca's bachelorette party this weekend," I agreed with a meager nod.

When I told my girlfriends that weekend about the changes in Brent, they convinced me that I'd be an idiot not to join the gym with him - if not to get into better shape myself - to at least keep an eye on him, and the manstealing gym rats that hang out in those places.

The thing is, when I got back to our apartment that Sunday night Brent and all his stuff was gone. Without even a hint of his plan, Brent had moved out while I was hanging out with my best girlfriends at the beach, completely unaware.

When I realized what had happened, I tried calling him, but after all that we'd shared, after everything we'd been through together, all I got from him was this text message: I'm sorry. We've just grown apart. This is better for both of us. Love Always, Brent.

To say that I was heartbroken would be putting it far too mildly. At first, I wanted to die. I cried for two weeks straight. Then, I got angry. It took some time, but eventually, I came to realize that Brent was probably right about us. We had needed a change in our lives. 

I couldn't bring myself to join the gym after that, but at the urging of my friend, Rebecca, who had been trying to lose a few pounds for her upcoming wedding, I got on the Keto diet. One year later - and frankly, I don't admit this to most people - I'm proud of myself. Was it difficult? Oh, you bet. Serious dieting - like the kind I'm doing - is a lonely journey; sitting at home and eating dry salads and plain chicken night after night, refusing all social get-togethers and cake at work. It sucked. It was an exercise in careful planning and discipline - the sort I never knew I had in me.

But the diet totally worked, and recently, I splurged on a brand-new wardrobe for myself. All that painfully slow sacrifice totally paid off. It's sort of embarrassing to say this out loud and I hope you won't think I'm vain, but before I lost the weight, I never caught any guys checking me out but now it happens all the time!

As I arrive back at my apartment from the police station, I pull the cell phone from my packed duffel bag. No, not my cell phone. The cops took that one.

This is one of two brand-new disposable phones I've just recently purchased, with Brent's credit card. After I wiped down the first one, good and clean, I tossed it under the sofa in Ginger's apartment for the cops to find the night I stabbed her to death. What kind of an idiot just leaves their back door unlocked at night? A girl could get murdered doing something like that.

Now, don't go feeling sorry for Ginger. She was a man stealer. A home wreaker. The worst kind of woman. She knew Brent had a girlfriend and she still couldn't keep her French-tipped fingers off him. I had known him my whole life. He'd been my first. First love. First kiss. My first…well, you know. I thought we were on the verge of getting married but then she happened, and Brent left me, fat and alone in an apartment I could barely afford on my own.

So why point the finger back at me by doing something silly like placing the disposable phone under her sofa before I left? That was part of my plan. After I purchased the phones in Brent's name, I had them delivered to his house. I snagged them right off his stoop while he was at work. Then, dressed in his beanie and an old jacket he'd left behind, I showed up at Ginger's. Her place is real nice - not like mine - of course it has cameras. Any dummy knows that.

Right now, the cops are doing just enough digging to pull this little mystery together. They've probably already realized that the disposable phone they'd found at Ginger's that led them to me was Brent's all along. Next, they'll find his clothes with her blood on them stuffed down deep inside his trashcan out behind his garage.

Why would Brent want to kill Ginger? Regret. Because he wanted me back. And now the cops had my statement about the misdial and the text transcripts that prove the whole damn thing. And when they follow up with me after arresting Brent? They'll find my place trashed, my gorgeous new green silken blouse ripped and dotted with my blood.

But me? I'll be missing. Another one of Brent's casualties.

As I walk past my car in the parking lot of my apartment, I open the door and drop my keys on the ground. Then, I shift my duffel bag on my shoulder, packed tight with my brand-new wardrobe, and turn north for the bus station.

Brent had said we needed a change in our lives. At first, I was angry with him, but I've come to believe he was dead right.