The Divorcee Murder Club

Setenta Y Tres ~ 73

               Sometimes dreams feel so real that I’d rather remain sleeping and live in the imaginary world my subconscious has pieced together from memories. Other times, real life feels like a nightmare, and I want to wake up in my bed, sweating but safe, with the horrors being nothing but a mind game.

Today is like that as Detective Shapiro tells me to put my hands behind my back, and she slaps cuffs onto my wrists. Angie’s lips are moving, and she’s jabbing her finger at them like she’s chewing them out, but there is a low hum in my ears, and I’m too dazed to comprehend anything.

The words, we’re taking you in for questioning about the abuse and tampering of a corpse, repeat in my head. 

What does this mean?

Am I getting charged for murder?

The detectives steer me out of the apartment, down the stairs, and outside, where the chilly Sunday morning nips at my cheeks with a bitter kiss. Angie clomps after us in her furry slippers, tears streaming down her face as she shouts at them for answers. Detective Shapiro pauses and barks in her face to back off before shoving me into their vehicle. I yell at her to take it easy, but Detective Archibald slams the door in my face when I try to tell Angie everything will be ok, and suddenly, my whole world is smaller than this backseat as we drive away.

∆∆∆

Since my arrival at the station, everything moves in a blur as my wheels spin. How did they find out about my connection to Barry? It must have been Evan. Perhaps he’s a better liar than I give him credit for, and he deceived me that night Sammy and I interrogated him. Shit. I was too soft. If I had let Sammy do his thing, I might not be sitting in this bright room, waiting to be questioned. 

The door finally swings open, and my two favorite detectives walk in. Shapiro eases across from me, resting her phone and a folder across the table with a pen in one hand to take notes. Meanwhile, Archibald spins a chair and straddles it with his wrists propped on the backrest. Ok, which one will play good cop, and which will play bad cop? The cuffs clank and chime as I rest my forearms on the table and stare at the detectives like I have better places to be.

“So… am I being charged for something?”

“Not yet.”

“Then why the cuffs?”

“Uncomfortable?” Shapiro purses her lips in fake pity. “Alright, Miguel, there is no way around this, so you might as well confess and tell us where the body is. We have a confession that names you and Jackson Harris as accomplices in the murder of Barry Bakirtzis.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shapiro smirks, “Oh, we’re going to play the innocent game. I see.” She glances at Archibald, who hasn’t stopped glaring at me. “Tell Miguel what we know.”

“Gladly. When Barry Bakirtzis was reported missing by his girlfriend, we spoke with Chloe, and her behavior toward our questioning had us raising our brows. So we looked into the history of their marriage, and it turns out your friend had many reasons to want the guy dead. Yesterday afternoon, we presented her with our findings and how we have probable cause for murder. You should have seen her face," Archibald chuckles. "She was more than willing to strike a deal. In fact, I’ve never seen someone so eager to cooperate to reduce their charges.”

“She sang like a canary,” Shapiro says.

Damn it, Chloe…

“She sure did," Archibald continues. "We brought her in last night, and she confessed to murdering her ex-husband in self-defense and said that you and Jackson Harris helped her cover it up. That’s right—a direct confession from her, and she names you as an accomplice. We also have your friend Jackson in the other room, and I feel he will fill us in on the missing puzzle pieces. Unless…”