How to Kill Your Wife

by James Hockings

  “If you can just tell us where you were during that time, you might not need a lawyer, and we won’t arrest you.”

  “I want to call my lawyer right now,” Peter choked out between some hearty guffaws. “I have my cellphone in my running-shorts pocket, and he’s on speed dial, and I’m going to reach into my pocket now and pull it out and call him. You can’t stop me.” Peter was doing a good logical job now that he’d switched over to autopilot.

  “Yes, I can stop you, but I won’t just now. I’d like to caution you that your lack of co-operation and your bad attitude at this stage in our investigation are casting you in a poor light. I am sure withholding evidence won’t impress a judge. Just tell us where you were when your wife died, and we can avoid a lot of unpleasantness.”

  “I won’t say a word about anything without my lawyer,” Peter snickered.

  “It’s a crime to obstruct an investigation, Mr. Broviak. We could take you in for questioning, you know, and make your life very unpleasant.”

  “I’m on my own property, minding my own business and I want to talk to my lawyer before I talk to you.”

  “We know you were separated from your wife and we know you were having difficulties in your marriage before that, Mr. Broviak. You don’t seem at all upset that she’s dead. Look at you, laughing like a jackass. What do you expect us to think? Who do you think we like for a suspect? This isn’t the joke you seem to think it is. It’s possible that our investigation will reveal that your wife was murdered. Do you know that a murder investigation is never over? We’ll be looking over every detail of your life for the rest of your life.”

  “I want to talk to my lawyer. I want you to get off my property. I want to be alone.”

  “Go ahead and call your lawyer, Mr. Broviak. We can wait. We’ve been waiting for a day and a half for you to show up and we really wonder what you’ve been doing all that time. You haven’t even been answering your phone. So go ahead - call your lawyer.”

  “If you get out of my way, I’ll make the call. I want some privacy.” Peter clamped his jaw shut to stifle a laugh and the laugh ended up blowing out his nose, spewing snot on his shirt.

  “Certainly, Mr. Broviak.”

  Peter phoned Wilbur on speed dial and Molly answered.

  “Molly, I have four cops in my yard and they’re threatening to arrest me for killing Kathryn. Put Wilbur on.”

  Peter had quit his involuntary laughing. His utter calmness amazed him, even as he continued to see every blade of grass in his lawn and detect the infinite shades of green and brown, tan and blue in each blade. He could hear every bird within a block and pinpoint the bird’s location just inches from the sound. Time had slowed to the point that Peter could think volumes in the few seconds it took Molly to recover herself and answer.

  “Mr. Broviak, don’t be a silly goose. Mr. Dupuis is in a meeting, and I’ll let him know you called.”

  “Molly, this isn’t a joke. Kathryn is dead and they’re questioning me.”

  “Oh my goodness, Mr. Broviak, I’m so sorry! I’ll get Mr. Dupuis right away!”

  Peter waited for Wilbur, and while he waited, he remembered being in the sixth grade and looking out the window on a warm spring day and doodling pictures of airplanes in his notebook, imagining he could fly out the window in one of them.

  “Peter, what the fuck did you just tell Molly? She’s really upset.”

  “I told her that Kathryn is dead, and I have four cops in my driveway.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Are you nuts? No. I want you to come here.”

  “Well, if you didn’t do it, why bother me? Just tell them the truth and they’ll go away.”

  “Really? That’s your advice? That’s it?”

  “Of course, don’t be such a pussy. You don’t need me. I’m busy right now.”

  “Fine. I’ll just talk myself into getting arrested.”

  “Nonsense, my lad. I am a criminal lawyer and that is my advice. Good day, sir.” And with that, Wilbur hung up.

  Peter just folded his phone and stood looking at the grass. Each blade was moving with its own unique motion as little puffs of breeze rolled across the lawn.

  The detective came up to Peter again and got into his personal space. “You have one last chance to clear this up before I handcuff you and take you in. You are pissing me off.”

  “You don’t need to play ‘bad cop’ any more. My lawyer told me to talk to you and tell you the truth.”

  “Who’s your lawyer?” the cop asked, raising an attitudinal eyebrow.

  “Wilbur Dupuis.”

  “Well, he gave you excellent advice. Now where were you between 7 p.m. Saturday and 1 a.m. Sunday?”

  “I was out of town with a friend, having supper and sharing some wine and talking the whole time. I never left her sight, except to go to the bathroom.”

  “Does this friend have a name and a phone number?”

  “Yep.” Peter opened his phone and found Frannie’s number and gave it to the cop.

  “You won’t mind if I call her in private?” the cop said as he walked away from the driveway and got back into his car. The more mild-mannered cop was already there waiting for him.

  Peter just stood in place and resumed his fantasy about being in the sixth grade. After he flew his plane out the window, he circled the school in slow loops and then dove like a Nazi Luftwaffe Stuka over Spain during the Civil War. Peter pulled the red bomb-release lever. When the teachers began running out of the wreckage of the school, Peter took his craft around again in another slow loop and came in low and slow to machine-gun the fleeing figures. The teachers scurried like ants but they couldn’t escape his deadly aim. They fell in rows like wheat before a combine.

  “Your friend backs up your story, but she’s out of town and we need to interview her in person, so you’re only rid of us for a day. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Broviak, but you know it’s always the husband who did it. If from now on you notice you are being followed, that’s because we are following you. Later …”

  Peter flew back to the base to pick up more aviation gas, machine-gun ammo and bombs. It was a great day for killing.

  Chapter 47

  When the police left, Peter walked into his house and poured himself a big glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey, garnished with a single ice cube, and sat down at the phone. Peter was moving like a robot and not swinging his arms. Various parts of his brain were cut off, and other parts were going off like fireworks.

  “Frannie, it’s Peter. Did you just talk to some cops about Saturday? Give me a call back.”

  “Elaine, it’s Peter. Give me a call back.”

  “Bobby, it’s Peter. Give me a call back.”

  His phone rang. “Frannie, is that you? How come my call display says ‘Zsanett Lakatos?’”

  “Look, Peter, I borrowed a phone because the cops told me not to talk to you until I talked to them in person. They wouldn’t tell me anything. What kind of shit are you in?”

  “They think I killed Kathryn. But I was with you in the country when it happened.”

  “The bitch is really dead? Did somebody drive a wooden stake into her heart?”

  “Hey, she wasn’t always a bitch. Well, she was but not always. You know what I mean. Fuck, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  “Peter, wipe your call display list. Do it now. I don’t want to get in any trouble. I want to avoid making my life difficult; it’s bad for business. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t feel a thing, and I’m gonna feel even less soon. I’m into the whiskey.”

  “You’d better get out of the whiskey. I need some product from you soon. You already have a lot of my cash. Take a day off or something, but get your ass in gear. I don’t care that your wife is dead; I have a business to run. Look, I have to go now. My meeting is about to start up again.”

  Peter looked at his computer after Frannie hung up and thought about working on Frannie’s file for about one secon
d. Was Frannie nuts? The cops wanted him for murder, and he had a whole book about killing his wife on his computer. Peter was paralyzed with fear about what would happen if the cops found his manuscript. In his state of shock and moving at about quarter speed, he began to erase all the files that had to do with the book. Peter also erased files from the external drive he had on his desk. He made one copy of the book on a flash drive and put it in double plastic bags. He intended to bury it later.

  He poured himself another glass of whiskey. He was finally getting smart about this. He wondered how come Wilbur hadn’t told him to erase the book, and then he remembered that he had never told Wilbur he was writing one. Peter was feeling pretty good and pretty smart just before he passed out from drinking on an empty stomach before noon.

  Chapter 48

  Peter woke up in the afternoon with a surprisingly modest hangover. He was filled with a strange energy. He made coffee. He buried the flash drive in a corner of his yard under the compost pile, and began to fantasize about the checks from his wife’s insurance and pension that would soon be rolling in. He even sat down at his computer to work on Frannie’s project, until a nagging thought about erasing computer files crept into his awareness. He’d read that erasing files didn’t really remove the information from the hard drive; it just got rid of it in the file catalogue. You had to do something extra to keep them from being retrieved by an expert. So Peter worked Google over pretty thoroughly and found the fly in the erasure ointment.

  A person has to overwrite erased information with zeros or ones to get rid of it. He found software advertised online that could do this, but he didn’t own any such software. He could probably pick it up from the new computer store in the village. Peter checked the time and thought it might still be open.

  He walked over to the computer store and was not impressed with the meager collection of software it carried, none of which would work on his Mac. So he walked home and got in his car and drove to the city to find secure erasing software.

  Within 15 minutes of his return empty-handed, there were four cops on his porch banging on the door. They had a warrant to search his residence and seize a number of things, including his computer. There were two uniformed cops and two casually dressed men. One of the casually dressed men looked familiar, but Peter, in his state of shock, couldn’t place him. Something had come loose in that part of his mind.

  He skim-read the warrant, let the cops in and called Wilbur immediately. He kept staring at the detective he couldn’t quite recognize.

  “Molly, the cops are searching my house. Get Wilbur for me, please.”

  “Mr. Broviak, I’m so sorry, but Wilbur’s in court and won’t be checking in until recess. I’ll have him call you back immediately.”

  Just as he hung up, his phone rang. It was Elaine.

  “Hi, you called, what’s up?”

  “Elaine, sit down.”

  “I’m a lawyer, trained to think on my feet. What’s up?”

  “Kathryn is dead, murdered, and the cops questioned me earlier today, and now they’re here with a search warrant for my computer and cellphone and paperwork and financial records and sports equipment. They’re taking pictures of the walls with the nasty shit that she wrote on them. Now they’re taking an interest in her vandalism; when I called them before, they didn’t seem to give a fuck.”

  “Have you obtained legal advice?” Elaine hesitated for a second and answered her own question. “Oh, shit, you called ‘The Asshole,’ didn’t you?”

  “I called Wilbur earlier, and he told me to tell the truth and the cops would go away.”

  “Did that idiot even go to law school? I think he knows about us and is pissed-off jealous. Never mind that. What did you tell the cops?”

  “I said I was having dinner with a client out of town when it happened, and it’s true.”

  “Did they check with your client?”

  “By phone.”

  “And they still came there with a search warrant for your computer and paperwork? I guess they didn’t believe him.”

  “Her, actually.”

  “Her. Did you call Wilbur and tell him about the search?”

  “Yes, but he’s in court until noon or so.”

  “Look, I have some depositions scheduled with people I’ve been trying to get in here for months, and I have a deadline to take them, but I’ll call you back when I’m done. The damage Wilbur has already done can’t be undone. Watch them like a hawk to see they’re not fishing for things that aren’t listed on the warrant. Don’t piss them off, but try to keep watch. Don’t say anything to them at all, not one word, if they question you. Repeat after me: ‘I will not say one word if they question me.’ Come on, say it.”

  “I will not say one word if they question me.”

  “Say it again, and mean it.”

  “I will not say one word if they question me.”

  “Good. I have to go now.”

  Peter almost said, “I love you.” But instead, he said, “Goodbye … and thank you.”

  Peter stood there looking at the cops who were methodically raping his privacy. He saw them taking things out to a van, parked in front of a black car with tiny hubcaps and a lot of antennas. They listed the items on a form on a clipboard. Peter got a clipboard of his own and started his own list of the things he saw going out the front door.

  Peter knew it could all be over for him. They had his computer, and would find not only what he had tried to erase but probably also when he had erased it. That ineffective erasure, and the fact that he had told most of his friends about the book, would look really bad. It was even worse that he had conspired with that surly criminal Jamie from the garage. Jamie and his criminal buddies could sink Peter’s boat. His pharmacist could rat him out. Even the librarian … His only salvation was that he had an out-of-town alibi. He was, consequently, not at the scene of the murder, wherever that might have been.

  Peter saw a long road ahead of him … a road filled with jails, trials and endless tribulation before he got any of the money from the previous administration’s insurance and pension. The insurance people might never give him anything because he’d been the subject of a murder investigation. He stood by with his clipboard and kept writing things down as the police went out the door. He felt a lot like an impala brought down by a lion in one of those nature documentaries. Once the impala hits the ground with the lion on top, the impala just relaxes and doesn’t struggle. It bares its throat. Peter didn’t have much struggle left in him either.

  “Well Mr. Broviak, it’s a good thing we got your computer when we did. The guy at Galaxy Computers down the street says you were trying to buy software that permanently erases things. What’s on this baby? Plans for murder or a conspiracy to murder, and maybe some kiddy porn thrown in for good measure? Tell me, are our techies going to have some fun looking at your hard drive?”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “I heard that the famous Wilbur Dupuis himself told you to talk to us and tell us the truth. Don’t you believe your own lawyer?”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Okay, Mr. Robinson. Do you still have nothing to say? Why don’t you chat with us and we’ll see what kind of arrangement we can make. Maybe if you co-operate, we can get you a sentence that will allow you to get out of prison before you die of old age. Or is that where you want to die, Mr. Robinson?”

  Peter’s heart almost stopped when the cop used the word “Robinson.” His mind raced and he remembered that “Robinson” was the name that this man - whom Peter now recognized all too well - had given him to use as a contact word. It all fell into place. There were no “mobsters” in the steakhouse. That ex-con, rat-prick, tattooed-fuck Jamie had set him up to be entrapped by two cops.

  This was not going to look good. He shouldn’t have erased the book; it was his only excuse for talking to the detectives in the restaurant about contracting a hit. “No, wait,” Peter thought, “I don’t need an excuse for an
ything because I have an alibi. I was not at the scene of the murder, so they can’t have any physical evidence against me either. I never contacted the mobster-cops a second time to actually arrange a hit and pay for it.” His logical mind told him it was going to be all right, but his gut told him differently. His whole world began to wobble and he couldn’t get a grip on any one thought.

  “We have what we need here, Mr. Broviak, but we’ll be back and maybe take you along with us too. If you think of anything that may help us in our investigation, please feel free to call. Here’s my card.” The card said, “Detective Eric Robinson.”

  Peter looked at his office. He looked at his workstation, empty of computer and external drive. He looked at his file cabinets and drawers and closets. All the drawers were open and the paperwork was a mess. They hadn’t torn the house apart or flipped the beds or slit the cushions on the sofa, but the house had nevertheless been violated. Peter no longer wanted to be in it anymore. Despite that, he set about methodically cleaning up the mess because there was nothing else to do. His guns and his tiny bag of dust-dry pot were still there. Peter knew that when cops seized guns, they didn’t return them for years, if ever, and a dope charge was all he needed to add to his woes. Small mercies …

  After cleaning up most of the mess, Peter phoned Gregor.

  “Gregor, I need some help.”

  “No shit! The cops were just here taking a statement. I had to tell the truth about you hating Kathryn, and I had to tell them about that sick book you’re writing.”

  “That’s okay, you just tell the truth again if they come back. They can’t really hurt me, since I have an airtight alibi. I was with Frannie.”

  “Isn’t she a stripper or something? They won’t believe her.”

  “Or something … But she’s also a sane adult human and I was with her discussing a legal business venture. Besides, I didn’t do it.”

  “Oh, and I told them about the sniper rifles you wanted to steal from the army base. Well, I had to. It’s illegal to obstruct an investigation. And I told them you shot your dog.”