Connie's Dead
by Salvatore Buttaci
“I won’t try to kid you,” Davison said. “I killed her.”
The two detectives nodded. It was no surprise. The bloody corpse of Davison’s wife sprawled on the rug a few feet away attested to that. And, of course, the blood splattered on the husband’s gray sweatshirt, his trembling red hands. The three of them sat now at the dining room table. The one named Thompson jotted Davison’s words into his pad. The other, Morgan, finally said, “When?”
“When did I––? Two days ago. I waited for the day to end. It broke my heart. And then another day and night passed. I just sat beside her bed where I had––God! ended her life, and I stared at her open blue eyes, the frozen look of horror on her mouth that dying left behind. “
Davison looked away from the body on the rug. Darted his eyes back to first Morgan, than Thompson. “I loved her! Connie was my whole life. The woman I swore to love forever. And I will! I will!”
“Calm down,” Morgan said with a tight hand clamping Davison’s shoulder. “Still can’t figure why you waited another day. Police station’s open twenty-four hours. Could’ve called it in right after––”
The phone rang. All three men turned their heads towards it. Morgan motioned with his head and Davison lifted the receiver. “Jim,” he said. “Yes. Yes. I know that, but still––Yes, I understand.” Without a goodbye, he returned the phone to its cradle on the wall. “My father,” he explained. “Word’s out. Connie’s dead and I killed her.”
Just then Thompson answered the loud knock on the door. “Forensics,” he said. “Like there’s a question these guys need to answer.” He laughed, but it wasn’t because murder was funny. It was never funny, no matter what.
“You killed her in bed?” Morgan was asking now. “And dragged her out here into the living room?”
Davison said, “Yeah, I couldn’t go on looking at her lying there in the same bed for years we… Well, the same bed. But since she turned on me, it’s been her bed and she spent her days lying in it. I’ve kept away, trying to make a decision to decide what to do. Not much choice. Kill her or be killed. That old jungle law that takes down the best and the worst of us.”
Morgan was crouched down at the body. By now so were the two gloved forensic guys with their shiny instruments, their little plastic baggies, their head-shaking, lip-biting faces.
Morgan turned back to Davison who was still hunched over at the table. “You made this weapon? “ Davison said he did. “And this is the hammer?” Davison said it was. Morgan stood. “We’ll fill out the report at the precinct, Mr. Davison. And we’re sorry for your loss.”
Davison’s voice rasped with emotion. It was all a nightmare that had begun months ago. Maybe now he would get some peaceful sleep. He knew Connie would.
Meanwhile Thompson asked the forensic team of two, “Keeping busy, boys? How many this week so far?”
One of them held up the ten fingers of both hands. “Who could’ve believed we’d come to this? Old Bram Stoker and his bloody book of ––” Then Thompson bit his tongue, shrugged his shoulders at Davison by way of apology and left the apartment with Morgan and the two forensic cops.
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Salvatore Buttaci’s poems, stories, articles, and letters have appeared widely in publications that include New York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Cats Magazine, and Christian Science Monitor. He was the recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award in 2007. Retired from teaching, Salvatore Buttaci lives with his wife Sharon in Princeton, West Virginia. Contact Sal.
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