Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  “You ready?” she finally asks.

  Am I ready? Really? To leave this house and possibly be locked up and never look back? Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s every upper-middle-class suburban housewife’s dream to be placed in the back of a cop car and driven down to the station to be interrogated again. Only this time, I’ve just confessed to killing my husband.

  I’d be pretty suspicious of me. I don’t see the next few hours going well.

  “The paramedic,” I say hesitantly.

  “We’ll check you out at the station,” she says. That sounds less than official. Did girl cop go to medical school since the last time we spoke?

  “Do I need my lawyer?” I ask, dreading having to tell Stanley about this latest incident.

  “No, you’re not being charged with anything. But if you want to call him, you always have that option.”

  I say nothing and get up. I grab my purse and walk to the door, checking to see if Kate is following me. She is. I don’t think she’s going to let me out of her sight for now, though I don’t really know where she thinks I could run. One wrong move and officers would be all over me. I’ve already lost one of my nine lives today; I’m not really up for running full speed with no end to this marathon in sight.

  Once we’re outside, I strut to the car, having slipped on some fancy high heels that were by the door instead of the flats I should be wearing. Then again, why should I go down looking anything other than fabulous?

  There’s no way on earth I’m opening the door to the backseat of Kate’s car myself. No way on earth. I’m not letting myself into the seat where a few hundred true criminals have sat. I don’t belong there, and I’m not making it any easier for her to put me in this position.

  We look at each other. It’s not necessarily glaring, just looking. We’re in a standoff. I see her passion for her job. She thinks she’s going to get me. Not on this, but on Lana’s death, because she knows it all intertwines. Her hair is pretty, shiny when the sun hits it. Her blouse is probably a little sheerer than she realized, but we’ve all done that once or twice. If we met under different circumstances, maybe we’d be friends. Not best, lifelong, call-me-in-the-middle-of-the-night friends, but friends all the same.

  Kate finally gives up, knowing I’m not opening that door. She reaches for it, one eye on me the entire time. Does she think I’m going to trip her or pull out a wrench and smack her right in the cranium? I’ve got enough blood on my hands for one day.

  I get in and pray silently: “God, let this bitch screw up. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  God knows the whole truth, I think. Maybe that’s not such a good thing, since I pushed the little angel off my shoulder a long time ago.

  Now it’s just me and my bitter demons.

  Chapter 19

  Kate

  I wish Ryan wouldn’t have fucked up so much. He could be here getting ready to interrogate this ruthless bitch with me. I can’t do it alone. I won’t do it alone.

  I locked her purse up before putting her in an interrogation room, telling her it was just a formality. It’s not, but I don’t know what kind of weapons this lady could have on her. Patting her down and telling her to bend over and cough wouldn’t exactly have seemed routine considering we’re not taking her overpriced, newly purchased designer clothes and swapping them for an orange jumpsuit just yet. But this woman could have a knife hiding in places I don’t really want to think about, so I will not be in a locked room without someone at the ready to save me. I’m probably just getting paranoid.

  Will’s been helping me a lot with Ryan out of commission, so he’ll sit in the viewing room and watch the action, ready to pounce and assist me should the need arise. He can’t come in during questioning. Margaret Moore would eat him alive. Look what she did to Ryan. Sure, some of it was his own fault, but the lady framed him, and I’m going to prove it.

  Oh, and if she calls me Kate one more time like she did during the ride over, trying to be all friendly and break me down, catch me off guard, bad cop Kate is going to come out. It seems like Ryan always did all the dirty work, but I get things done when I need to.

  “You ready?” Sarge asks. He takes me by surprise and I jump like I just saw a spider.

  “Yeah, can’t you tell?”

  “You’ll be great. You can handle her.”

  “I know. We’re just talking.”

  “And then we’re charging her with Dave’s death.”

  “Seriously,” I say.

  “She wanted to kill him. She had the fucking knife on her.”

  I nod my head, almost unable to believe that after chasing this case so long we actually have a shot at getting a conviction and putting her away for a long time. The DA and I had a long chat about this the other day. She’s not getting off with just probation, or that godforsaken ankle monitor.

  “Self-defense is bullshit,” I say. “There’s barely a scratch on her, no strangulation marks on her neck.

  “Take a deep breath,” Sarge tells me, his hand on my shoulder.

  I do as he says and walk confidently into the interrogation room where Margaret sits, cool as a cucumber, even though the room is stuffy and hot, the air thick with late-summer heat. I will not let her shake me.

  “How’re you holding up?” I ask, starting slow.

  “Well,” Margaret says, “considering that I just killed my husband, the day’s not exactly in my top ten.”

  She came to play. I have a feeling Margaret has woken up every day of her life ready to play. I’m sure she’ll say otherwise during our time together today, as well as during any subsequent conversations we have, but I swear it’s as if she was planning this. Like my dream was to be a ballerina and Sarge’s was to play in the NFL, and Ryan’s, to be a detective, I think hers was to be on the front page of the newspaper, the top story on CNN, the topic of conversation around the watercooler. Maybe she was okay with Dave and Lana’s love for her, for a while, but once they began slipping through her fingers, she wanted more, and saw murder as the only way to get it.

  “What brought on Dave’s attack?” I ask, taking a seat opposite her, angled so I can make a quick escape through the door if necessary.

  “I wish I knew. He came home from work and the next thing I knew, his hands were around my throat.”

  “What were you talking about before he grabbed you?”

  “His day at work. Finding someone new to mow the lawn. Typical things.”

  “Did you talk about Lana?” I ask.

  She hesitates. She’s about to lie to me.

  “No. I mean, Lana’s spirit is always in the house—it hovers over us and all of our conversations—but no, we weren’t talking about Lana in particular.”

  “And then what happened?” I ask. I can’t wait to hear what she’s going to come up with.

  “Well . . . umm . . .”

  Margaret tugs at her top, trying to pull it away from her neck even though it’s not that close. I notice a bit of blood on her shirtsleeve and wonder why she didn’t ask to change before we left her house.

  “He just . . . he just . . . I’m sorry,” she says, “this is all a lot for me to deal with. I can’t believe he attacked me. I can’t believe Dave’s dead. It’s just starting to sink in.”

  “I understand that, Mrs. Moore, and I’m very sorry for everything you’ve gone through, but I need you to tell me how you went from having a simple conversation with your husband to him placing his hands around your throat, trying to kill you, to you fatally stabbing him.”

  “I don’t know. How does any sane, normal human being go from that to murder? Huh? You tell me, Detective.”

  The way she said “detective,” like it was a personal challenge to me. Like I needed to prove that I had earned the title. Like I needed to prove I am in control.

  “I wasn’t in the room, so I need to k
now what happened right before Dave grabbed you.”

  “It all happened so fast,” she says, “I don’t really know.”

  “Did he grab you on the first floor and drag you up the stairs? Or did you walk up the stairs to him?”

  “The first one, I think. I was sitting on the sofa and he just grabbed me in a fit of rage. He started dragging me up the stairs by my neck.”

  “At what point did you stab him?”

  “Right before I died—at least, that’s what it felt like to me. I swear I saw the light and Lana reaching for me. I told her I wasn’t ready to come to her quite yet, and I grabbed the knife and stabbed him.”

  “Where’d the knife come from?” I ask. I can’t speak for Mrs. Moore here, but I don’t typically walk around my house with a knife, prepared to stab and kill someone at any moment. But maybe that’s just me.

  “My pocket,” she says.

  I can’t help but chuckle.

  “What’s so funny, Detective?” she inquires, clearly pissed that I’m not taking her plight seriously.

  “You just happened to have this knife in your pocket? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, believe it. I was eating a peach. The peaches are so good this time of year, so juicy and sweet, right on the cusp of overripe. I was sitting on the sofa, cutting up a peach and eating it. Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Actually, it is. Where was the plate? Or at the very least, a napkin? And what made you put the knife in your pocket when Dave grabbed you?”

  “I’d already loaded the plate in the dishwasher.”

  “Yes, of course, you put the plate in the dishwasher and the knife in your pocket, like we all do when we eat,” I say, growing frustrated. I hate that this woman thinks she’s in control right now. I’m the one in control, despite what she may think. I am the one with all the power.

  “I loaded it after I killed him,” she says calmly, correcting my obvious blunder. Obvious to her, anyway.

  “You almost died. You killed your husband and then you loaded the fucking dishwasher before you called nine-one-one?”

  “Yes, I wanted to clean up. Can’t have the house a mess.”

  I lean back in my chair and cross my legs. I forgot to shave them this morning, and maybe a few mornings before that. I stare at the stubble, forcing it out of my mind. I am lead detective on the biggest case this city has seen in years. It doesn’t matter whether or not I shaved my legs or washed my hair or even put deodorant on. What matters is that I lock this woman up.

  “And tamper with evidence?”

  “What evidence? I admitted to killing him. I would have washed the knife, but once I caught my breath, I ran away from him in case he wasn’t really dead. You know, like in the movies? I just left the knife right by him.”

  “And then turned your back on the husband you thought was going to come back to life to load the dishwasher. This all makes perfect sense.”

  I flash a bit of a smile. I can’t help it. She’s crafted such a lovely story here, I almost hate to question it.

  She says nothing, so I continue.

  “See, here’s what I think happened. I think you wanted to kill Dave. Maybe because he’d threatened your life, or maybe because he was going to turn you in with some evidence he had hidden, evidence that proved you murdered your poor innocent daughter who you made out was crazy, when you were the crazy one all along.”

  Margaret’s watching me intently, listening to my story as though we’re sitting around a campfire, with interest and detachment, certain this is about someone’s life other than hers. It is almost entertainment to her.

  “And then when Dave told you he had something on you, you plotted. You put that knife in your pocket and you followed him up the stairs and plunged that knife into him. You didn’t want to die yourself, but if that had to be the price paid for killing your husband, you were willing to pay it. Luckily for you, everything worked out according to your little plan. You came out of this unscathed . . . physically.”

  Margaret starts clapping.

  “Bravo, Detective, bravo. It sounds like you have me all figured out. Now, if only you could prove a single word of what you just said.”

  “Oh I can. Dave and Lana, and the officers on scene, are making sure of that right now, collecting evidence. I know you’re not hurt like you said. I know you had Lana’s DNA on you. I know you are guilty. So, Margaret Moore, you are under arrest for the murder of David Moore. Please stand and put your hands behind your back,” I say, before cuffing her hands together again. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney,” I say, continuing to read her her rights. Will comes in the room and helps me walk Margaret to her holding cell. I take the cuffs off once we’re inside the cell, Will and a couple of guards keeping a close eye the entire time.

  I’m scared standing in that cell with her. I’m not scared a lot in this job. That sounds weird, even to me. I don’t spend my days wrangling criminals, busting into buildings, not knowing what to expect. Sure, I’ve fired my gun before. I’ve been in danger. But those are all things I’ve been trained for and have come to expect. No one can be trained to deal with people like Margaret Moore.

  I’m relieved to walk out of that cell, leaving Margaret Moore alone, just her and her thoughts, no other inmates to get into trouble with, no one to harm but herself. I’d really like to take this case to trial and stick it to her, but if I walked into the station tomorrow and found her dead, I think I’d sleep okay at night.

  When she’s out on bond again tomorrow after her lawyer plays the grieving-mother-and-widow card, then I might not sleep so well.

  “I arrested her today,” I say.

  “Who?” Ryan asks.

  I shoot him a look.

  “Oh, good old Maggie. She’s locked up again. She’ll get out on bail, though.”

  “Yep.”

  Orange isn’t Ryan’s color. He’s waiting for his trial to start and the judge wouldn’t give him bail, unlike Margaret, even though he has a decent lawyer. Too many people think he’s a dirty cop for the evidence to matter enough for the judge to see clearly. The evidence, the lack of other suspects; there’s no label other than “dirty cop” for those who don’t know Ryan.

  I don’t know everything about Ryan, but I don’t think he’s a dirty cop, and I know for certain he did not kill Tracy. It’s hard to explain, but I just know he didn’t do it. I’ve worked with Ryan for years, and to think he killed Tracy, a woman I know he loved, is unfathomable to me.

  “When’s your trial start?” I ask after an awkward silence. It’s weird visiting someone you know, a friend, in prison. Seeing them beaten down, locked up, fearing for their lives every moment of every day. I hate it. I’ve planned visits and then changed my mind. I’ve learned never to tell Ryan in advance. I don’t want to get his hopes up and then disappoint him, as his life must be a series of disappointments right now.

  “A month, I think.”

  “That lawyer your friend got is pretty good.”

  “Yeah, but come on, no one can defend me.”

  “Don’t say that. I’ll testify for you. I’ll do whatever I can to help you get off.”

  “I’m not going to do that to you. I’ll deal with my shit. I’ve done this to myself; it’s no one else’s fault.”

  “Come on, Ryan.”

  I grow angry on his behalf, because he seems unable to show any radical emotions right now. He’s this melancholy lump of a flat line that just happens to still have a pulse and heartbeat, though I often wonder for how long.

  “Don’t say that. This isn’t all your fault. Sure, some of it is.”

  “Way to make me feel better, Kate,” he says with a slight smile.

  I smile back; that’s the first time I’ve seen so much as a glint of the old Ryan in him since he’s been locked up.

&nbs
p; “A smile? What’s gotten into you?”

  “If I have to be locked up, at least I’ll sleep better—well, not really, but at least my mind will be clearer—knowing Maggie’s locked up too.”

  “I hope it sticks,” I say, grabbing for his hand, which he pulls away.

  I’m not attracted to Ryan. I never have been. We’re just friends and partners. He’s like a brother to me, not a boyfriend. I don’t want to change that; I’ve got a boyfriend, whom I love and am probably going to marry. I just want to offer Ryan some comfort now, since I know he needs it. I get it, though. I get that he doesn’t want to embroil me too much further in this mess. And it is a mess.

  But it’s not unlike one I’ve seen before. My brother was into some bad shit when we were growing up. He went to juvie. It didn’t work. He wasn’t scared straight. He didn’t turn his life around. He got out and ran away from home at sixteen. I don’t know exactly what he did during a lot of that time. I didn’t ask too many questions once we reconnected, after he was arrested and pleaded guilty to armed robbery, possession of an illegal firearm, and drug possession. I didn’t want to know the truth, and even if I did, I didn’t think he’d tell me.

  I went to visit him. Maybe I was young and naive then, but I never chickened out when I told myself (or him, or my parents) that I’d go visit. I always showed up. At first he wouldn’t see me. I’d check in and a few minutes later, the guard would call me up to the window surrounded by bulletproof glass and tell me my own brother didn’t want to see me.

  The first couple times this happened, instead of leaving, mad at him for being a further jerk than he’d already proven to the world he was, I’d sit back down in the uncomfortable plastic chair and sob, wondering if for some inexplicable reason this had been my fault. If I’d demanded too much of my parents’ attention, or was mean to him. If I’d been too popular, or too smart. Maybe if he’d had a little more of the spotlight, he would have turned out differently.