Dark Romanticism

V

V

“Ms. George, please take a seat.” The tall one—Officer Dean—said he would be handling my questioning. 

It’s kind of surreal. I’m in one of those rooms—like you see on TV—and being questioned by “bad cop.” 

“So, you were with the victim the night before his murder; correct?”

I glanced at the reflective glass to my right and then back at Officer Dean. “Yeah, we, um, you know.”

“Had sex?” he raised a brow as his eyes assessed me. 

“Yes, but I didn’t know him. We had met and then...hooked-up. I snuck out the next morning.”

“The morning he was killed?” 

Fudge-nuggets. “Yes, but he was fine when I left. He was sleeping.”

“There were no signs of trauma?” he asked. 

“No. Do you think I killed him?”

“Well you are the last person to see Mr. Narmes alive. This makes you a prime suspect in any case. Unfortunately, you have no alibi.” He pauses and sighs.  “However, I’d make sure you do from now on,” he tells me. 

“What does that mean?” I ask tentatively. 

Officer Dean leans in close and I can smell the tobacco on his breath. “If the next murder happens and you have a damn good alibi, it might make you seem a little less threatening,” he whispers. 

“Oh,” I nod and breathe out. 

“Well, Ms. George, I’d say that I’m done for now. I know you didn’t want a lawyer before, but I’d advise you to get one. Right now you’re the best suspect we have. If you have any questions or concerns then you can call me or my partner directly,” he gives me a stern look then moves on, “We’ll get you a card on the way out.”

Officer Dean rises and picks up a file that he had been fiddling with while questioning me. “You’re free to go, Ms. George. We don’t have enough evidence to arrest you—I suggest you keep it this way. Goodnight.” With that, he walked out of the room and another officer came in to escort me out.

“Miss, do you have a way to get home?” the officer asked me.

“Um, no. I’d have to walk,” I told him. I should have taken my own freaking car here. 

“I can give you a ride,” he said. 

I examined him. He was an older man, mid-forties, who was balding and had a beer gut. He looked clean though and also was wearing a wedding band. I guess I could trust him. 

“That’d be nice—thanks.”

He nodded and then broke into a grin, “Don’t try anything, Killer. I’m armed.”

I chuckled nervously, “Don’t call me that. And isn’t that my line?” 

He hooted and his face got red. “You’re funny. I like that. My name is George Fenton. That’s Officer Fenton to you.”

I decided to tease the old man, “Can I call you ‘Georgie?’”

“Only if you want me to arrest ya! Now come on girl; I’m tired.”

He grabbed his keys off his desk and motioned for me to follow him. 

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When I got home that night, I curled up in bed and let it all sink in. The police think I killed Ben Narmes. Correction, they think I could be a serial killer.