May Kill Me

Thirty

I was questioned by the police while Jonathan was being operated on somewhere in the recesses of the hospital. 

"So, can this Alex Diaz," Detective Pattuci glanced down at his notepad, "He was stalking you from the time of the party about six months ago?" 

"Correct," I replied. 

We were sitting at a small office, and Pattuci was assigned to question me - a gaunt woman with a thin ponytail - wanted to know how everything went down since there was kidnapping, attempted murder, and a hit and run. 

A part of me wanted to dump Jonathan by the entrance to St. Denise hospital and drive off (like I've seen people do in the movies), but I wasn't an escaped convict, not to mention that if Jonathan ended up surviving he would most probably mention me to the cops. 

"And he wanted to kill you because he was..." She flipped  a page in her notebook, "Jealous?" 

"Correct," I replied once again. 

I was starting to get worried: what if I was accused of manslaughter? I killed Alex in self-defense, but what if there was no evidence of that? What if to the police it just looked like I ran someone over? 

"And you never met this guy before?" 

"Not until tonight."

"I have to tell you, I haven't encountered something as insane as this in my fifteen years on the force." Pattuci took a long swig of her disposable Krsipy Krim coffee cup. 

The fact that she hasn't didn't surprise me: I never saw a single murder case reported on the news in or around Yorkville. the biggest offense around here was when a drunk driver drove into a topiary on July 4th. 

 I didn't know if I should keep talking at this point: going over the story in my mind sounded nothing short of crazy. If there wasn't enough evidence that Alex was the bad guy, did that mean I would end up in jail? 

"Detective," A gangly young man peered at Pattuci, "I think we found him." 

***

They found Alex about a kilometer from where I left his body. 

How he ended up there, I wasn't sure; it seemed highly unlikely he survived being hit and ran over by a van twice. 

My mom arrived, clad in a puffy jacket and sweatpants, followed closely by Jonatha's parents. 

I wasn't sure if they timed it so they arrived together or if it was a coincide.

Mom's eyes were puffy and red. 

Jonathan's parents gave me one swift look before finding the people in charge and started demanding or threatening things. 

When they were informed that Alex was dead, they seemed deflated, as if their need to bite someone's head off would go unanswered. 

Pattuci informed them that Jonathan would have to be questioned as well as they had a body on their hands.   

"We should call our lawyer," Mr. Bauer already had his phone out. People like him probably had lawyers on speed dial. 

Maybe I was naive, but the entire time I was half-expecting the Bauers to apologize for my being dragged into this mess because of their son, or at least thank me for saving his life. 

Mr. Bauer didn't even spare me a glance as he walked past with the phone pressed to his ear. 

Around 5 am, Pattuci told me I could go, but that she expected me at the station around noon later on. 

"I thought we answered all of your questions," Mom interjected, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice. 

"You did, but there still are some things we'd like to go over, in more detail; we do, after all, have a body on our hands." 

"You have the body of a killer!" Mom countered, her puffy jacket in her lap.

"Technically, Alex Diaz didn't kill anyone. Oceane, however, did." Pattuci tossed her cup into the garbage. 

She should consider switching to reusable mugs. 

***

The news traveled fast. 

I woke up at 11:34 am to the angry voice of my mother, barking at someone over the phone.

"No, she will not be doing any interviews!" 

"Vultures," She shook her head at me as I padded out of the bedroom, "My phone has been ringing nonstop." 

"The press?" I asked.

"They're outside the apartment building as well," Mom gestured at the window. 

She was right: fleets of vans dotted the street, blocking the way of the residents. I could make out reporters, some holding microphones, and monologuing before a camera. 

"Ridiculous," Mom said venomously. 

"Do you think they'll put me in jail, for running him over?" My body was still aching, the bruises from the rope almost as fresh as they were several hours earlier.  

"What? Of course not! No." Mom insisted. 

I wasn't sure if I could believe her, or even if she believed herself. 

***

Alex Diaz worked as a bartender in Albuquerque. His co-workers never suspected he was capable of murder: he had a temper sure, but he only ever showed it to the less-than-savory patrons. He volunteered at one of the local homeless shelters and even helped his elderly neighbor with grocery shopping when she underwent a hip replacement.  

The guy was nothing short of a saint. 

It was the passport and the fat wad of cash in his bag that indicated that he had a more nefarious intent, and thank god for those things. And the Bauer's expensive lawyer. Just as I was starting to be afraid of the very real probability of Alex's death turning into some courtroom drama, the whole thing was settled outside of court - Jonathan's family wanted the whole thing dead and gone more than anyone else. 

It was - as his mother said coldly - the wrong kind of attention. 

I've seen Jonathan once, so briefly that I wasn't even sure it was him if it weren't for his arm in a sling. 

I'm not sure how his parents did it, but the whole thing went away almost as quickly as it came: the vans were gone, and the phone calls stopped. Or maybe the press moved on to something more interesting: a war broke off in the Middle East and everyone's attention was shifted. 

I did get one weird email, though. 

Someone claiming to be a freelance reporter was wondering if I was available for an interview regarding the events that took place and Alex Diaz. The reporter promised compensation for my time.  

I blocked the email address and deleted the email, but before doing that, I sent the reporter a one-liner in response:   

"Problems always start long before you really, really see them." 

THE END