Berengaria's Best: The Ultimate Short Story Collection

Jealousy*

Jealousy (originally written for the Halloween Vault 3)

For some reason, I'd gained the reputation of being the one cop who could actually talk to crazies. Calm 'em down. Prove that aliens, or demons, or whatever they were freaked out about, weren't listening in and they could tell us what they knew.

McGill stuck his head into my office one night. "We just got in a live one. Boss says he's all yours."

"Why?" I asked, closing the investigation dossier I'd been reading. "He confessing to the murder of Abraham Lincoln?"

"Ha, better. Interrogation Room C."

The officer on duty gave me the details, a punchable smirk decorating his face. "The guy smashed up the front of a liquor store to get our attention. Says he wants to be in police custody when it happens. Just your sort of customer."

And I suppose he was.

Neatly dressed in a tweed jacket and white button down, the guy sat with his hands passively folded in his lap, a plastic cup of water untouched in front of him.

I started the recording.

"Between 6:35 and 6:40 am tomorrow morning, a murder will occur on a Line B metro train," he said, in a soft, educated voice.

"Thank you for coming forward with that information. Do you know the intended victim, or the assailant?"

"You're welcome. The victim's name I can't tell you, but I'm the murderer."

My eyebrows shot up. This is where it got delicate. You have to act like you believe them, or they can turn on you. Get violent. You can't steal their moment of glory.

I scribbled some words in the file for effect.

"Motive?"

"Jealousy. I admit, that reflects badly on me, but it is as it is."

"Manner of death?"

"Telekinesis."

My pen halted mid-word. "Tele...could you-"

"I shall repeatedly launch a heavy, blunt object at the victim's head with the power of my mind." His voice never wavered, and his face remained a passive mask. "Not pretty for the clean up crew, but that also can't be helped."

Something was wrong. I'd dealt with lots of nuts in the past, but there was something about this guy that didn't fit the mould. He was too—

"I'd like you to arrest me and place me in a cell now, please."

"Technically, I have no grounds to do that," I said, although it wasn't strictly true. 

For a few moments, we stared into each other's eyes and I had the the oddest sensation of a pair of tiny hands rummaging around in my brain, as if looking through boxes.

"How's Diane?" he asked after a few moments, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "She still screwing that fitness coach?"

My jaw fell open.

I felt the tiny hands retract.

"I think you understand. A cell and a guard, please," he repeated, his gaze still fixed on mine. "6:35 am."

I nodded. "Okay. But why?"

"I want it on record that I killed her, but I have no intention of going to prison for it."

And guess what?

He didn't.