by Dana Feldman
He grabs a trash bag from the kitchen just off the room and a broom and sweeps up the glass that she’d thrown at him. He grabs a dishtowel and wipes the wall and floor clean from the spray of scotch and remnants of smashed ice cubes. He then walks around and wipes everything down that he’s touched, removing any fingerprints.
He then scans the room once more to ensure that he has successfully removed anything that might link him to this place. Satisfied that any evidence of his being there is gone, he heads towards the back door that he came in through. He pauses for a few moments before leaving and wipes the outside doorknob as he closes and locks the door behind him, taking the trash bag with him.
He thinks of his son. He knows that what he’s done will scar him forever, but he had to learn to live without his mother, and he knows his boy will be just as strong as he had to be. He should’ve at least seen him. But he just couldn’t do it. Peter is his one weakness.
He didn’t enjoy this kill. This one was a kill for necessity, not one for pleasure. He’d always quite liked Peggy. In fact, at one time, he had even loved her.
Though he might understand her motivation, he did what he had to do. He reminds himself that he’d warned her time and again that the marriage was over. He wasn’t at all ready to be a married man, nor a father. He was too young. One day perhaps, but not now.
But she was always a stubborn one. Not one to listen to anyone, even when they had her best interest at heart. Why couldn’t she just listen to him? Enjoy the money, the perks of divorcing a wealthy man, and move on? He’d just have to learn to live with this one.
He couldn’t let her control him this way and he feared that she would. She was just too damn emotional and there was simply too much on the line for him to lose. Too much was involved here. He’d searched his brain for another way but this was, unfortunately, the only way to be sure that the problem was properly solved.
He’d tried, for all intents and purposes, to be the perfectly happy family man to anyone on the outside looking in. He tried to make things work but he felt smothered by her. One overly emotional woman could jeopardize everything that he was working towards.
He’d felt that there was always a way out with her. Then she got pregnant and he just couldn’t handle it. He was too young to be saddled down this way. He loved his son; of this there was no question. And he’d always be looked after. He just couldn’t deal with the day to day of it all and Peggy wanted him there. He’d tried. She had agreed to the arrangement a few years back and then it wasn’t enough for her anymore. He was free now. He’d make sure that her family would take care of the boy.
Taking one last glance around the house he breathes in the salty ocean air and then leaves. He knows that this one will be hard to live with. He never enjoyed killing an innocent person. These types of things had always just been business. He’s not sure how he’ll cope with this. He gets into his car and smoothly merges into the busy traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway. Sadness hits him. He’ll never see her again. His son doesn’t have a mother.
The world, he notices now, takes on a slightly dimmer shade. He’s always been able to rationalize his actions. Now things are different, he’s a changed man. He avoids looking at himself in the rearview mirror. Afraid of his own reflection, he knows what he has to do. He has to move on and forget that this ever happened, that he ever knew Peggy.
He can’t honestly say that he didn’t love her. He did, just not in the way that she needed him to. Not in the forever type of way that she wanted. He wondered if he’d ever feel that type of love. He hoped so, one day when he was ready for it. If she had only refrained from falling in love with him, this whole thing could have been avoided.
“You’ll just have to learn to live with it,” he says out loud to himself. “A man must do what a man must do.”
And then he thinks of his boy again. He knows that his son has a better chance of having a good, normal life without him in the picture. He knows he’s much better off this way. He’s doing them both a favor by leaving.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BEDSIDE INTERROGATION
Two hours after being found
“This is Detective Stuart Adams and today is Friday, February the 28th of 2014. I’m at UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica, California, interviewing Ella Griffin in her hospital room. I’m here with Sergeant Matthew Thomas as witness that everything stated here is factually accurate. The patient has suffered a severe blow to the back of the head with an unknown object and is somewhat coherent at this time. Mrs. Griffin has been in and out of consciousness since she was found two hours ago. May the record indicate that it is currently 10:00PM on the night of the incident. This interview is being recorded for purposes relating to the active investigation into the whereabouts of Mr. Gabe Griffin. At this time this is a search and recovery operation.”
“Please state your name for the record,” the detective begins. I’m still in my hospital bed. My head is throbbing painfully.
“Ella Griffin,” I answer, my voice low and shaky. His look is telling me that he already suspects me of murdering my husband. This interview, I have already concluded, is a mere formality. Or perhaps he is hoping that I’ll confess, or at the very least, that I’ll slip-up and say the wrong thing.
“And your age?”
“Thirty-seven,” I answer.
“And Gabe Griffin is your husband?”
I nod my aching head but he tells me that I have to answer verbally. He reminds me that this is all being recorded. “Correct,” I say for the record.
“And please tell us what happened earlier today. It would be helpful if you could please start with waking up this morning.”
“Um, I think it was about 7:00AM when I woke up. Gabe had already been up for hours. He had decided to take the day off and work from home. He often did this on days when he didn’t have any meetings,” I answer, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. Detective Adams helps me prop myself up so that I’m in more of a sitting position than lying down. It eases the pressure in my head a bit.
“Do you need some water before we continue?” he asks, already grabbing the pitcher beside me and filling a cup. I take a few sips. I really want to get this over with as soon as possible so that I can get some more pain medicine and sleep.
“Thank you,” I say, and let him know that I’m now ready to go on.
“Ok, so you woke up at about 7:00AM and your husband decided to stay with you for the day and work from home?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Then what?”
“Well, we had some breakfast,” I begin, and decide to tell him every detail, even if I don’t see the importance, of the morning and day leading up to everything.
“I made us coffee first, and then some food,” I tell him. At his stare, I go further into detail. “Scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, some rye toast, dry no butter.” He continues to stare and so I keep going. “He went into his office to make a few calls and I cleaned up the kitchen. Then I went upstairs to take a shower. Gabe popped his head in and asked if I wanted to go sailing.”
I pause for a few seconds. “I said yes and then he came into the shower with me.” I pause again, this time swallowing a lump in my throat. I’m not used to discussing my personal business with strangers but suppose that this isn’t the time to be shy. I clear my throat. “We made love in the shower.” I decide on full disclosure, to tell him every single detail that I recall. The truth is always the easiest thing to remember, and I know that I’ll be asked all these questions again.
He raises an eyebrow, writing down notes in a tiny black notepad as I speak. I’m not sure why he needs to do this if he’s recording everything that I’m saying.
“And then we both got dressed and ready to go sailing.”
“How often did the two of you go sailing?”
“There was no real regularity to it, but if I had to guess I’d say that on average it was at least twice a week, sometimes more, sometimes less.”
�
��So, is it fair to say that your husband was,” he starts, but I interrupt him.
“He might still be alive,” I snap, and look over at the stoic Sergeant standing like a motionless statue in the corner. I can see that he’s paying attention to every word being said, every look on my face as I speak, but he’s refraining from saying anything. He’s just watching, absorbing information, and forming opinions of me that I don’t get to know about.
“Right, yes of course. So, is it fair to say that your husband is an experienced sailor?”
“Yes, we both are. He taught me.”
“And how was the weather today?”
“Well, as you know, it’s been unseasonably cold for this time of year. But this morning it was sunny, a few clouds in the sky. We watched the news and had heard that there was going to be a storm but we thought that it would be later in the day, that we’d be home before it started.”
“And were you? Home before it started?”
“No. Gabe kept going out further and further into the ocean. I kept telling him that we should turn around. I could feel the water getting choppy. It was freezing cold. I remember holding onto the railing and gripping it tightly,” I say, rubbing my now aching hands.
“And what did he say?”
“That we had time before the weather turned.”
“So, he wasn’t at all concerned?”
“No, he wasn’t.” I think my face shows my anger at Gabe for not listening to me. He never really has.
“Did this bother you?”
“Yes, it did. Of course it did. I was beginning to get nervous.”
“Did it bother you enough to have a fight about it?”
“No, not a fight. We always did this. I always wanted to turn back around before he was ready. But he always insisted on going out to a certain point in the water. I always joked that he was looking for buried treasure out there. He never found my joke amusing, just always insisted that we go out to this one particular area. He’d track the exact coordinates with the GPS on his phone, and we’d go there every time. This was the only time that we didn’t make it. He turned around.”
“What made him turn around and not continue to that point?”
“The wind picked up quickly, suddenly. I thought that we were going to capsize the boat. He must’ve agreed because he suddenly made the decision to turn around.”
“And what was his mood then?”
“He got very quiet. He seemed angry.”
“What did you do then?”
“I stayed quiet,” I explain, stopping myself before saying anything more. But then he pushes me. He’s trying to pry my brain open, trying to get me to spill my secrets. I have to be careful. I can only go so far; tell him so much. I know that if I ever want this interview to end, that I have to give him something. I decide on the breadcrumb that I’ll throw his way. I’ll give him something to chew on so that they’ll both get the hell out of here and leave me in peace.
“You stayed quiet? What does that mean exactly?”
“It means that I didn’t say anything,” I tell him. Both exchange a look now, each with a raised eyebrow directed at one another. Adams writes furiously in his notepad.
“Yes, I assumed that was what you meant. My question is why did you feel that you had to be quiet when your husband got angry? I mean, why is it that you feel that you need to be quiet when your husband gets angry?” he asks, correcting his approach. He’s being careful not to speak of Gabe in the past tense.
“If you ever get to see my husband when he’s displeased, pissed off, I think that you might be quiet, as well,” I say, gauging their reactions. I wait a beat and continue. “Let’s just say that I’ve learned how to handle him when he gets this way. I know how to manage his moods.”
“And how would you describe these moods exactly?”
“I’m not sure how to best describe them. I guess the easiest way to explain it is to say that there is a quiet rage within my husband, and when it rears its ugly head, I try and stay out of his way.”
“Were you, are you, in fear for your life, Mrs. Griffin?” he asks, finally getting to the point. “Are you afraid of your husband?” I appreciate his directness after all the bullshit up to this point. But I’m better at playing this game than he is giving me credit for.
“Of course not,” I answer. “I’m afraid for my husband. I think that your efforts would be better served if you were all out there looking for him. The water is freezing. You need to find him!” My voice has gotten louder, firmer. I’m gripping the railings on the sides of the bed as hard as I was gripping the railings on the side of the boat just hours ago.
“I assure you that we have a dive team, as well as search and rescue and a helicopter looking for him as we speak. Just a few more questions.”
I nod my head again, hurrying this along. My brain feels like it’s come loose from my skull and is rattling around banging against bone. I close my eyes. The pain is beyond unbearable.
“What was it that your husband was looking for out there?”
“I have no idea,” I say, willing this to end already.
“Did you ever ask him?”
“Yes, and it was one of those questions that would get him angry. And so I learned to stop asking.”
There’s another exchange of furtive glances. Though I can tell that they doubt my story, they also glance at my arms, which are both covered with swollen cuts and bruises. They’d have to be idiots to not see that I was in a fight for my life out there. Even if they do believe that I’m a victim, they’re also convinced that I’m hiding something from them.
“One final question, Mrs. Griffin. What is the last thing that you remember before the coast guard came upon your boat?”
I stop to really think carefully before I answer this last question. Less is more, I think to myself. The less I say, the less I’ll have to remember the next time I’m asked.
“I’d gone to sit on the seat beside him, he was at the wheel. I was holding onto the railing tightly. We were turning the boat around. The water was very choppy. I’d turned around for a moment to look at the waves smashing at the back of the boat. Something hit me hard, in the back of the head. That was it. I was looking at the waves and then everything went black.”
He’s writing so quickly that I can hear the pen as it races from one side of the paper to the other. I’ll have to remember every single word that I just said. I know this isn’t the last time that I’ll be asked specifically about the last moments that I can remember with my husband.
I can see by the looks on both of their faces that they don’t believe me. They think that I killed him. It’s always the spouse, or so it is said.
“If you were, are, afraid of your husband, you can tell us. We’re here to help you, Mrs. Griffin,” he says, trying to be comforting but there’s a lack of warmth in his voice. “If something happened, and you had to defend yourself, this would be the time to tell us.”
“Obviously something happened! But I have no idea what it was. That’s what I need you two to find out.”
“If there was an argument, or,” he starts to say, but I stop him mid-sentence.
“We’ve already established that there was an argument. That’s not really the point. Something hit me on the back of the head, and that’s all I know. I have no idea what happened after that. And I don’t know where my husband is!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find out,” he says, and the two men head for the door. “We always get to the bottom of things,” he adds, a threat underlying the comment.
Just before they leave, with his hand on the doorknob, he pauses and turns around once more.
“I lied. I have one more question. Did you have a gun with you today?” he asks. His icy glare shoots across the room towards me in a now-I-gotcha sort of way.
“No,” I answer quickly and without thinking the answer through. I remind myself that I’ve never had a gun registered to me so he can’t possibly know anything.
“
It’s interesting,” he starts, pausing briefly for effect.
I cock my head to the side, waiting for him to continue. He grabs a thin file from his partner’s hand and opens it. My heart races as he flips through a few pages rapidly, looking for something.
“Ah, yes. Here it is. Ballistics shows that you had gun residue on your left hand. It was fresh. There would be only one way that could happen. You’d have had to fire a gun.”
“Well, for one thing, I’m right-handed. And as I said, I don’t have a gun.”
I am thanking God that Gabe, in his fury, had forgotten this detail. A flash of a memory flicks through my head. I can see him try to grab my gun from me. I remember him taking it and putting it in my left hand and firing it up into the sky. Then I remember him throwing it over the side of the boat. I heard it hit the water below. That was when I’d turned around to run away. To where, I have no idea. I was, after all, stuck on a boat with him in the middle of a choppy ocean. My escape options were limited. I can see the look on his face now, a fury unlike any I’d ever seen. And shock. For the first time I was going to defend myself. I’d finally gotten the guts to fight back. And then, in an instant that felt like forever, he once again showed me that he’d always win. And then it all went black.
“Your husband, maybe he was the one that had a gun. Perhaps you grabbed for it during a struggle and it went off. These things can quickly escalate. I can’t tell you how many of these types of cases we’ve had, and it’s always the same story. No one meant for things to go that far; it’s always a tragic accident. Everyone is always sorry, wishes that they could go back and change the outcome. But no one can ever do that. You can’t undo a murder, but you can do the right thing now, tell us what really happened out there on that boat. Now’s your chance to make it right, Mrs. Griffin.”