This is my ninth hour sitting on the hard wooden seat in the interrogation room. There is a forensic psychologist sitting adjacent to me with her hands folded staring with a piercing glance right into my soul. He asked me to explain the events that occurred on the fifth of November, but I stare back not knowing how to respond. I’m exhausted and the dim yet eerie glow of the light seems like the perfect darkness. I glance to my left and look peer into the mirror on the wall. It takes up half the wall. My reflection is hard to recognize. My hair is disheveled. The bags under my eyes are hard to miss. I crave the taste of caffeine but I’m greeted with a lukewarm cup of water in a mini Dixie cup.
“So, Mr. Walker.” The blonde psychologist stares back at me with blue eyes as tired as mine. “Tell me who you are again?”
I sigh and lay my head on the wooden desk. Thousands of criminals have sat in this exact seat. Maybe they too stared into the empty eyes of this woman.
“Mr. Walker?”
I lift my head up from the desk. She looks back at me, but I don’t respond. I once knew a Mr. Walker in grade school. He was an old man that lived in the apartment upstairs from mine. I never spoke more than a “good evening” or “good morning” to him. I moved away from that area when I was about 13. I have never met a Mr. Walker since then.
“For the last time, I don’t know why you’re calling me Mr. Walker. I am Tate. Tate Langley. You can ask my friends. Take my phone. Ask them who I am, they’ll tell you.” My voice is exasperated, and groggy, but I need to find a way to convince them. I need to leave this cramped room. I need to get out. The blonde psychologist stands up and knocks on the steel door. It opens up for her. She returns a few moments later and places a black recorder on the desk. She presses a button and an unfamiliar voice emits from the device. The voice sounds low. I recognize a slow drawl.
“I did it. I loved her. I watched her every night from her window. I made sure she got home safe every night. I just don’t understand why she didn’t love me back.” I felt bad listening to the poor guy on the tape. He seemed so to be in love with a female, but it was equally creepy.
“So Mr. Walker, you are admitting to the murder of Violet Farmiga?” The woman on the tape sounded identical to the blonde psychologist.
“Yes, yes Julie. I did it. At first I didn’t mean to hurt her, I just wanted to scare her. I wanted her to realize that the jerk she liked wasn’t the one for her. I was the one for her. The only one for her,” the voice grew higher and more frantic as he got into the story. “She was coming back from the store and I was in my usual spot. When she got out the car I walked up behind her. She must’ve heard my footsteps because glanced back and broke into a jog. I don’t know why she began to run. I picked up my pace. I just wanted to talk.” His voice grew quiet. Almost inaudible.
“What occurred next?”
“She pulled out a mini blade from her purse and swung it at me. I jumped back. She started screaming at me. She called me names like monster, creep, stalker, and weirdo. I begged her to stop but she kept yelling. I begged her. Then I felt something dark sweep over me like a tidal wave. I did it. I murdered Violet. I did it.” There was a long silence on the tape, but I could still hear the hum indicating that the tape was still running.
“So tell me what is your name again?”
“I’m Tate. Tate Langley.” The voice on the tape sounded like mine. I looked up at the blonde psychologist, but she stared back at me with a dull look. The tape cut off.
“You are Kit Walker. You admitted to Violet’s murder in this tape.” Her expressionless eyes stared into mine, but I did not know how to respond. I sat on the hard wooden seat and stared into the thin Dixie cup.
“It wasn’t me.”
