Warning: Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

by Thomas J. Aron

pregnant, probably eight to ten weeks.” As if to prove his point, he removed a tiny fetus and held it up.

  With most of the attention directed toward the doctor’s raised hand, Robert managed to glimpse the other young cop exiting the room. Two less witnesses now. This was going well for Robert, for Cromwell.

  The doctor slowly rotated the fetus in his bloody glove. He seemed to be in deep thought. Hillard’s attention was captured by it. The sergeant grew restless, but remained quiet. Robert sensed that this was a critical moment, a turning point in the case.

  “Guys,” the doctor began slowly, “I can’t say what killed her.” He continued to turn the fetus slowly. “I don’t know the cause of death. Ideas? What do you think?”

  Robert suddenly knew. “Doc, you’re holding the cause of death,” he thought. Immediately there was validation.

  The sergeant was disgusted. “Doc, I figure that they had sex and then she surprised him with a marriage offer she thought he couldn’t refuse. You know, knocked up and all.”

  His voice grew angry. “He lost it, beat her up and strangled her with his belt. We found it around her neck.”

  He became animated, getting even louder. “Christ, she’s got bruises all over her, bad ones on her neck, which you didn’t talk about, and a footprint in the middle of her back. Didn’t you see it, Doc?”

  He looked at Hillard, who was still lost, and then back at the doctor. Seeing that both of them were unresponsive, he shouted, “Shit, he strangled her! He finished her off by holding her down with his foot on her back and pulling up on the belt. A big, strong guy like that could’ve broke her neck too!”

  The doctor slowly nodded, “sounds okay to me.” Hillard continued to stare at the fetus, unaware that his First Degree Murder case had just been lost.

  Robert looked up at the microphone, then over at the clock. Again he made a mental note of the time. This case was all his, no problem. “Thank you, doctor,” he muttered to himself.

  He would lead with an insanity defense. The storyline would be that it was crazy to make love and then immediately kill your lover. It obviously was crazy to go out to a bar, pick up another woman for more sex and try to kill her too.

  The surviving waitress had called Cromwell “a crazy son-of-a-bitch,” right? Hadn’t Cromwell lost it in the jail, in full view of the cops? He certainly had all the outward appearances of an insane man.

  With the botched autopsy as a powerful back up, good things should happen with an insanity defense. Yes, the big man had a lot of dumb luck going for him. In the arraignment, Judge Christiansen agreed with the insanity idea and sent Cromwell to the state mental hospital for evaluation by Dr. John Monette.

  Robert needed to shed the emotional debris he’d collected that horrifying night. Father Tolar generously gave him comforting counsel. The priest’s solution had been a spiritual one. Robert was relieved of his first Cromwell anguish and his mind became more peaceful.

  For weeks thereafter, Robert worked diligently to get all of Cromwell’s records. His Marine Corps material arrived and the dicey stuff about his rapes of the two orderlies was shocking. That alone made it worthwhile for Robert to drive to the hospital and confer with the doctor about Cromwell’s unsettling behaviors.

  Monette administered the usual tests and Cromwell failed them convincingly. Moreover, the doctor had developed personal feelings about Cromwell’s violent capabilities, apparently a primal fear. The psychiatrist concluded that Cromwell was legally insane.

  Robert had coached his client before the formal hearing. The big man understood the legal strategy and was pleased, perhaps too pleased. He seemed to be unnaturally well informed about everything, everyone.

  The hearing unfolded exactly as Robert had hoped. Most of the psychiatrist’s testimony was boring. Only when he reported Cromwell’s violent rapes did he become emotional. The courtroom audience grew nervous too. Otherwise, Monette’s one hour and ten minute appearance on the witness stand was a sleeper. Cromwell was found not guilty by reason of insanity.

  Up to that point, the case had gone exactly as Cromwell apparently had wanted. However, the lawyers, the doctor, and the judge all agreed that he did not belong back with the public. The audience breathed an audible sigh of relief when Christiansen ordered him to the state hospital for life. Everyone had agreed on that decision except Ed Cromwell. He very definitely did not agree.

  The memory of Cromwell’s final court appearance flashed in Robert’s memory. The big man’s face had become distorted, his eyes extended in their darkened sockets. His neck hardened, his veins laced across his huge muscles. Cromwell was boiling and now he appeared again, here in the shaving mirror.

  As he was about to be led from the courtroom, Cromwell had stopped and glared at Robert. He gave a threatening jerk on the restraints. The metallic snap of the cuffs raised a murmur from the crowd. The escorts stiffened, expecting an explosion of violence. It did not occur. Cromwell had slowly relaxed his arms. However, his eyes never left Robert. With each step, he continued to turn his head allowing his focus on Robert to remain uninterrupted.

  Now he quickly turned away from the mirror. Something did not feel right. As Robert walked out of the bathroom, he tasted a bitter belch. He understood the truth. The Cromwell threat was not over.

  He crossed the living room and looked out the front window. The patrol car was still there. The cop still was in the front seat, reading. Good. Robert scanned his front yard, the sidewalks, the driveways, and the street both ways. Nothing. There were no vehicles out there except the police car; no movement, not even by a paperboy. Good.

  His porch light was still on. That had been his idea -- turn on the outside light and keep the inside of the house dark. That way Robert could better see Cromwell come out of the night. Good plan. Robert snapped off the light. Felt better.

  He made the short walk into the kitchen. His view out the back window also was unremarkable. Very good.

  Robert then moved to the top of the basement steps. They led down to a landing where the backdoor was located. He had boarded it up last light. The boards were still in place. Excellent.

  With renewed confidence, Robert returned to the living room and dropped into his recliner. Had he forgotten anything? He casually looked around. Suddenly he bolted to his feet and stared at the closed bedroom door. Had it been shut all night? Did he close it when he answered the cop’s knocking? He couldn’t remember.

  What he knew, however, was that there were two corner windows in the bedroom. They offered easy access for any intruder. Cromwell could be in there, quietly waiting for him to come to bed.

  Robert retrieved the shotgun and approached the door, safety off. Finger on the trigger, he leaned lightly against the door and listened. He became aware of a dominant sound, a loud pounding. Immediately he knew it was his heart firing at a terrified pace. The weapon now became useless in his quivering hands.

  With his eyes fixed on the bedroom door, Robert backed to the front window and glanced out. The cop and the car were as they had been, the cop still reading. “Reading?” Robert wheezed. He looked again. The cop was asleep. Cromwell could have strolled in unnoticed. He definitely was in the bedroom.

  Half-facing the bedroom and half-facing the front door, he realized his paralyzing dilemma. If Cromwell was unarmed when he charged out of the room, there’d be nothing but trouble for Robert.

  If he shot him, there might be a murder charge filed against him. That meant he would wind up being disbarred and ridiculed. The Cromwell estate would sue him for everything he owned. “My God, I don’t dare shoot him!”

  Of course, he knew that if he didn’t shoot, he would surely die and he would die badly. Cromwell’s notes promised that. The killer might be a crazy, but without doubt was he brilliant. He had maneuvered Robert into a hopeless situation.

  Now he was certain that he heard Cromwell in there. Then his mind told him he wasn’t. Was he? Wasn’t he? What should he do? Should he just run out if his hou
se? Why not just kick open the bedroom door?

  In full surprise, Robert reached for the doorknob, not because it was logical. It wasn’t. Not from a new burst of courage. None of that either. He was just tired, very tired physically and mentally. Tired of the standoff. Tired of being awake. Tired of Cromwell. Just too tired. He had to get this over.

  As he started to turn the knob, the door easily moved. It had not been completely closed. The truth came to Robert precisely as the door swung open.

  Not only was Cromwell not in there, he never would be. He hadn’t come to Jackson City at all. Yes, the kill list had signaled his escape route. However, as a day-shift cop later would report, the store clerk failed to identify the late evening customer from Cromwell’s hospital photo. Mistaken identity. The escapee had fled in another direction. By now he could be out on the Baja or somewhere in New York City.

  Edwin Blane Cromwell, Jr. would never been seen again.

  Robert studied the shaving mirror again. His contemplation now seemed timeless. Years were seconds. Minutes were lifetimes. Outside the boundaries of time, he came to a new understanding about Cromwell, what he was, and what he was not.

  Certainly he was no-good, but he was not insane. He had a spiritual malady, not a mental illness. Something from Robert’s talks with Father Tolar lit up in his mind. “Yes,” he said to his