Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  I’m not ready to go home, so I grab a smoothie from my favorite shop and go sit in the park and drink it. The late-afternoon sun is almost too hot, but I relish it, the comforting warmth radiating through my entire body. The smoothie cools me, creating this juxtaposition in my temperature, my world, that is somehow soothing, even though it should be alarming.

  I’m sitting on the hood of my car like I used to do when I was a teenager, and somehow I’m happy. Some alone time, pretending like I’m a high school student with few responsibilities and cares in the world, instead of a detective facing real life, has reset my being.

  When the smoothie is gone, I take a few more deep breaths, get in my car, and go home, excited to see Emmitt, maybe make dinner with him. All of this is behind me now, and I am ready to begin the next phase of my life.

  I come home the next day after a long day at the office and notice there’s a car in the driveway. Emmitt would have told me he had company coming over, wouldn’t he? It’s all right; I’ll deal with it.

  I walk into the house and my world comes crashing down. My worst nightmare has come true. How did I not think of this when I saw the car in the drive?

  “Kate, it’s so good to see you,” Margaret says.

  Nothing comes out of my mouth in return. I just stare at her and Emmitt. Her and Emmitt. How does my boyfriend not know who she is? Okay, so she does look a bit different, with that obnoxious red wig, heavy makeup, and what looks to be some very expensive clothes I bet she stole from Saks.

  “Maggie was just telling me how she used to babysit you, and how you two stayed in touch. You never told me about her,” Emmitt says.

  I manage what must be the most awkward smile ever and say, “Yeah, I must have forgotten. Maggie was some babysitter,” I reply, shooting her a look that I really wish would kill her.

  Emmitt pats the sofa next to him, inviting me to sit down, but I am under no circumstances going to sit down and pretend like this is okay. I’m not going to permit this woman to be in my house, to contaminate my world with her mere presence. I won’t do it.

  “I was going to see if you wanted to grab dinner; it’s been such a long day, I wanted to get out,” I say to Emmitt.

  “But we have a guest,” he says, smiling at “Maggie.” “I’m sorry; she’s been dealing with a difficult case,” he says, trying to explain my behavior.

  “I understand. I could never be a detective. You’re so brave,” Margaret says.

  “Yes, that’s me, the brave one.”

  “I should go,” Margaret says.

  Only she’s made a new friend in my fiancé, who says, “No, really, you don’t have to.”

  “I’m going to get something to drink,” I say to Emmitt. “Would you help me?”

  “Oh, allow me,” she says.

  A good response fails to come to me.

  I walk into the kitchen and Margaret follows, grabbing the wrapped box sitting next to her on the sofa.

  As soon as I hit the entrance, I grab a knife in the rather likely event I will need to defend myself.

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” I whisper fiercely, so as not to raise Emmitt’s suspicions.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” she says.

  “Oh, yeah, and I’m just supposed to believe that?”

  “I saw you in the courtroom, thinking you had this all figured out. I just want to let you know that I am the one who’s in control.”

  “Of me?” I respond. “No, I can assure you, you are not in charge of me. I’ll get you. I will. Mark my words.”

  “You’re wrong on that.”

  She sets the box on the counter and leans in close to me; she’s right in my face. She grabs my hand and then moves to get a grasp on my throat, but I’m stronger than her physically, even if she has proven otherwise mentally.

  Emmitt must hear some of the commotion, because he yells, “Everything okay in there?”

  Margaret yells back, “We’re fine. Be right there.”

  I should have said something. Screamed “no,” but I was keeping all my focus on her. I throw her to the floor and hold the knife over her. I lean down and the blade almost touches her flesh. I could end it all right her. Vigilante justice that no one would blame me for. I’d be on desk duty for a bit and then everything would go back to normal.

  I shake as I fight the urge to plunge the metal into her flesh.

  I stand up. “Get out of here right now,” I say sternly.

  She coolly pushes herself off the floor and brushes off her dress.

  “Who’s in control?” she coos.

  I say nothing.

  “Who’s in control?”

  “I am,” I say, getting into her face and showing her the knife still in my hand.

  “You just keep telling yourself that,” Margaret says.

  “You fucking bitch,” I manage to spit out.

  “Oh, and you’re such a sweetheart, thinking you’re going to get me. I’ll leave you and your adorable fiancé alone, so long as you let me be free to roam the world, and stop trying to wrongly imprison me. You’ll want to open that box after I leave before it starts to smell. Have a nice life, Detective. I’ll see myself out.”

  She leaves. I hear her mutter something to Emmitt about how nice it was to meet him, that she has to go—how she wishes us well and hopes to see us again one day soon. Although I hear the door open and close, it fails to give me peace of mind.

  Emmitt walks in. My breathing is heavy and fast, but I’ve won this small battle and feel a sense of pride rush over me.

  “Your friend had to leave,” Emmitt says, failing to notice my bright red cheeks and slumped posture.

  “She’s not my friend,” I reply, “that was Margaret Moore.”

  “Oh my God!” he shouts. “The woman you were telling me about? The one who killed her family?” I nod. “Shit,” he continues. “How was I so stupid?”

  “It’s okay. She was disguised, but I knew it was her the moment I saw her and heard her voice.”

  “Did she hurt you?”

  “No. I can take care of myself. I thought she might try to hurt me, and I just proved to myself that I got this,” I tell him.

  “What if she catches you off guard? I can’t believe I let her in here. How could I be so stupid?” He’s pacing the room.

  “We’re okay. She’s done with us, I think—except for this.”

  We both stare at the box, trying to summon X-ray vision that will allow us to see what unwelcome surprise waits beyond the shimmery paper. I tear it off and lift the lid while simultaneously backing away from the package.

  Emmitt looks in and jumps away, covering his mouth. I walk over to it as slowly as I can, trying to avoid the inevitable. Finally, I look in. I back away instantly, like Emmitt, and steady myself against the counter, feeling all the blood rushing to my head and adrenaline flooding my system. I feel like I might faint, but I close my eyes, force a few steady, deep breaths into my lungs, and press onward.

  “That’s . . . that’s a . . . it’s a hand,” Emmitt says, as if I haven’t already figured that out.

  “It’s a hand,” I repeat.

  “Call Sarge,” Emmitt says, since the only sound between us is our breathing. “Get the guys over here so they can deal with this, and put that woman behind bars.”

  I do as Emmitt suggests. I call Sarge and tell him that Margaret was here and she brought a bloody hand with her. He says they’ll be right over. I go and lie down on the sofa to try to compose myself, even though I don’t really think that’s possible.

  Emmitt sits on the end of the sofa and rubs my feet. He’s a good guy. I’m lucky to have him.

  “Are you okay?” Sarge asks when I open the front door and let him, Will, and the rest of the team into my house.

  “I don’t even know,” I say.

 
They immediately begin looking around and collecting evidence. I follow along so they don’t miss anything.

  Sarge puts his hand on my shoulder. “We’re gonna get her.”

  “Yeah, we have to lock her up for good. For life.”

  “We will. What happened to you here was awful, but now there’s no doubt, we have her.”

  I rub my face and run my hands through my hair. It’s impossible for me to remain still. I’m exhausted, yet full of energy. It’s toxic energy, though, energy I want to run away from, energy I want to exit my body. It’s making my skin crawl, making my heart flutter.

  “We have to get her this time,” I say.

  “I know this case was personal for you,” Will says.

  I like Will, but I don’t want to talk to him right now. He has no idea what this case is really about. I just want to talk to Sarge, and Ryan. God, I wish Ryan was here.

  “No, you don’t know!” I interrupt Will. “She’s a killer! She fucked Ryan over, and when I got home today, she was in my fucking house. She was in my fucking house!” I double over in tears. “Something worse could have happened. What if I didn’t get here in time?”

  The guys say nothing. I can’t handle the silence.

  “Say something,” I scream. “Fucking say something!”

  “I’m sorry,” Will says.

  “We’ll station a couple officers in front of your house until we have her,” Sarge adds.

  “Like that’s going to do anything,” I yell.

  “It will protect you, and we will have her in no time. We’re gonna run fingerprints and DNA on the hand and find the victim. Then we’ll charge her and lock her up,” Sarge says in a soothing voice.

  “You need to tail her and bring her in before she kills someone else! You need to promise me we’ll get her, put her away for good, end this nonsense once and for all. Promise me that.” I stare both of them down.

  “I promise,” Sarge says.

  I wasn’t sure he’d say that, but he did, and Sarge never breaks his word.

  “I just don’t know why she did it,” Sarge says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Cut someone’s hand off? Bring it here, to taunt you? She probably would have gotten off.”

  I shake my head vigorously. “No, she wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have rested until she was behind bars. Plus, if there’s one thing we know about Margaret Moore, it’s that she’s crazy.”

  “I guess,” Sarge says.

  “We have to get Ryan off, too. I know he has some issues, and he was fucking her sister, but it was all part of Margaret’s little plan. He didn’t kill anyone,” I say.

  “Ryan and Tracy were on the rocks,” Sarge says.

  “Yes, they were, but he never would have killed her. Margaret did it!” I say confidently. I’m certain about this. No one is changing my mind.

  “But witnesses saw a man leaving the property,” Will says.

  “She hired someone.”

  Will rolls his eyes, and I continue. “Oh, please, after everything this woman has done, and you don’t believe she could have hired an assassin?”

  “It’s possible,” Sarge declares.

  “So let’s prove it!” I exclaim.

  Chapter 25

  Kate

  I insist on riding along when Margaret is arrested. Although we still don’t have any real evidence that she murdered Lana, Dave, or Tracy, we know she’s guilty. For some strange reason I will never, ever understand, it wasn’t enough for her to have killed three human beings, she just had to go and do it again.

  Luckily, the fingerprints from the hand were in the system. The guy, Ron Klein, had been busted for solicitation a few years back. We went to his house and found his body with Margaret’s DNA all over it. All of this damning evidence, along with bringing the severed hand to my house, and her incredibly checkered past, is more than enough to get a jury to convict her. Hell, they’ll probably want to hang her right there in the courtroom.

  Still, for some reason I’m nervous as we pull up to her house, only a couple of days after she was sitting in mine. It all seems surreal, and because of that, I’m imagining all the ways this could go wrong. All the ways I know it will go wrong.

  A car has been tailing her since they caught up with her after leaving my house, but I figure she could still think of a way to lose it. Or she’ll run out the back door and into the woods, never to be seen again. She’ll be sitting behind her front door with a machine gun, ready to end all of us. She’ll convince another jury that she is somehow the innocent victim here.

  This will all go wrong. That’s how things work for us. For me.

  Sarge is driving and I’m sitting next to him, the car off, neither of us moving.

  “You ready for this?” he asks.

  “I am,” I say, knowing it’s the truth. I am ready for this to finally, officially, and truly be over.

  We get out of the car and join the other officers, all of us walking in formation, guns drawn, to her front door.

  Sarge pounds on it. “Margaret Moore, this is the police. Come out with your hands up.”

  We stand there for a moment and hear nothing, nor do we see any movement through the windows.

  “We have to go in,” I say to Sarge. He nods in agreement.

  “Stand back,” he says to us, and kicks the door down.

  We move into the house, through the foyer, into the kitchen, and find Margaret sitting there, calmly drinking a cup of tea. I know the house well. From that first visit with Ryan, not knowing what we were getting into, nor what this woman was capable of, to now, with all my fellow officers by my side, ready to arrest perhaps the worst criminal our town has seen.

  “Hello there,” Margaret says calmly, as though we are old friends instead of officers of the law with guns pointed at her, ready to take a kill shot.

  “Margaret Moore, you are under arrest for the murder of Ron Klein.”

  “It was worth it,” she says, in a monotone. “He was a really good fuck. Too bad he had to die.”

  “Stand up,” I say, lowering my gun and walking over to her. I grab the handcuffs out of my pocket and hold them, ready to shackle her. She just sits there, legs crossed, one foot swinging. I take some satisfaction in knowing that her little game is over and she lost.

  “Stand!” I say firmly, letting her know once and for all that I am the one in charge.

  The tension fills the room; it’s growing so hot, I can barely breathe. Sarge and the other officers watch intently, their guns aimed at her in case she takes a run at me. Before one of them takes a shot, even accidentally, she stands up.

  “Turn around,” I say.

  She does as I ask.

  I put the handcuffs on her a little more roughly than I should. While I read her her Miranda rights, we walk her out of the house. I watch as she looks around, hopefully realizing that she’s not ever coming back here.

  I stuff her in the back of the car that Sarge and I drove over here in, and the three of us drive back to the station in silence. She’ll be processed and interrogated before she can ask for a lawyer. Or at least, before she actually gets one. And I get the first crack at her.

  Chapter 26

  Margaret

  They’ve got me holed up in the worst interrogation room in the place, the assholes. The chair and table are dirty and the room smells. I’m not sure what is causing such a foul odor to fill the room, and that’s probably a good thing.

  I’m mentally betting against myself about who will question me first. My money is on the girl detective. I’m pretty sure she hates me—with good reason, considering I brought her a hand and had a nice chat with her boyfriend. I suppose I would hate me too. I’ve been sitting in here for what feels like forever, but they took my watch, so I don’t know what time it is.

  I should h
ave asked for a lawyer. I should have asked for Stanley, but I can’t afford him anymore. Any attorney I can afford won’t be as smart as me. I’ll stick with my knowledge and instincts. Sure, Stanley helped a little at the last trial, but we all know that without my natural charm, I would have been found guilty. I am more than up for the challenge of a repeat performance.

  I’m looking at my nails, wishing I had gotten a manicure, when Kate walks in. I win!

  “We meet again,” she says, placing one of those nice leather folders on the table.

  “We do. I was hoping it would be under different circumstances, like at the grocery store, or your fiancé’s funeral.”

  “Well, I can see you’ve mellowed out,” Kate says, taking a seat across from me.

  “A murder trial will do that to you.”

  “Then I can’t wait to see you after the next trial, especially since it’s going to be a guilty verdict this time.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I snap.

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “Do what?” I reply, tucking my hair behind my ears. I’m sitting up straight, as though a metal rod is attached to my back. I can barely move, frozen by the situation.

  “Kill Lana.”

  I roll my eyes, a reflex I can’t stop. “I didn’t kill my daughter, Kate, and twelve people agree with me. Twelve very important people.”

  “Oh, come on, you can tell me the truth. You can’t be tried again.”

  I look around. I want to tell her the truth. I want her to know it, firsthand, right from my mouth. It’s such a big secret to keep; telling Stanley isn’t the same as telling Kate. And I want some credit, you know? I want someone to know what I did. And the fact that on top of killing Lana, I managed to get away with it. That is no small feat. And here I sit, no one knowing how brilliant I am. No one understanding what it’s like to be me.