Assignment #1 (Leather Gloves)

    Where were you last night?

    If I had a quarter for every time they asked me that, I would be capable of reopening my families neglected Laundromat, where my older brother—sitting behind the counter, selling laundry detergent as usual—had kicked the bucket in 2008. They hammered questions into me all afternoon, but it always came right back to where they started: Where were you last night?

    Of course they were looking for me to slip up. Trying to find cracks in my story, so I could legally be locked away until, as the arduous Detective Mitchel said, “The good Lord comes down, riding on a fluffy white cloud.”

    Now you tell me, would you admit that you murdered someone after hearing him say this? What was I supposed to do? Try explaining how I watched her each day after leaving work at Save-U-More, learning her daily routine, buying Italian leather gloves (they felt amazing on my hands), and biding my time to…

    Do what exactly? I think as I stared into a Styrofoam cup of coffee Detective Mitchel’s considerate female partner gave me. She’s pretty. With blonde hair falling gracefully over her shoulders, radiant smile (no doubt she brushes three times a day), and gentle blue eyes making you feel she can be trusted. Unfortunately, she reminds me of Sara, which is the person responsible for me being this situation.

    “Where were you last night?” Detective Mitchel asks for the umpteenth time. He sits across from me, leaning back in his seat the way cocky men do when they feel too relaxed, like they already won. His partner is behind a one-way mirror observing us with anybody else at precinct playing the role of curious cat.

     “At home,” I say. “Watching CSI and feeling upset Flo is still doing Progressive commercials. She’s why I chose State Farm.”

    Humor won his partner over, yet Detective Mitchel doesn’t crack a smile.

    That’s a downright lie though, isn’t it? I could easily tell them Sarah used my brother, pushing him toward suicide, and make my crime become one of passion to avenge my brother. How many other men did Sarah have bed-hopping with her? Maybe two or three horny men waiting on her! Hell no, she was more professional than most corner street ladies—she had five. Counting my brother, six guys awaited her phone calls to take her for a night on the town. But again, I would be lying, and they would find me out by checking my brother’s records to see he died from a massive myocardial infarction; or rather heart attack for those of you preferring layman terms. Besides the time spent planning and building the nerve to do it made her murder premeditated, and that added onto any sentence they could give. Anger lasts longer than passion.

    Truth is that my brother never even met Sara. She entered my life in 2010, two years after he passed, when she came into Save-U-More and I helped take her groceries out to her Prius. She dated me, while she secretly saw enough other people to make up an entire week—even God needed a day of rest. Not Sarah, she never missed her chance. After our break-up, she replaced me, so naturally I got angry. I also got smart.

    I kept an eye on her, learning her schedule down to the second. She woke at seven, showered, and was at work by nine. Her boss sure enjoyed his secretary’s company—yes, it was Sarah. Five o’clock, she kissed him goodnight—wonder if his wife suspected—then she went out to meet her planned date. Sundays and Thursdays she was completely free of all work responsibilities, allowing her to meet men.

    So here I am on Friday afternoon because last night somebody murdered Sarah inside her garage as she got out of her Prius, which during the summer of 2012 she had repainted red, saying the ordinary silver didn’t quite appeal to her as it originally had. Whoever killed Sarah stabbed her forty-three times, and Detective Mitchel told me they left the knife protruding from the right side of her chest, but they were unable to get any fingerprints. That was how her cousin found her this morning. They were making their rounds with suspects, and my car had been identified as one seen driving slowly outside her house.

    Where were you last night?

    They will ask me again; my story will not be altered in the slightest. I don’t plan on getting caught this easily.

    Where was I really at last night? I was mourning the loss of those amazing Italian leather gloves that I buried behind my tool shed. Sure did feel nice wearing them.