The Clock and the Criminal

The clocks were not in sync. 

The towering dark mahogany grandfather clock by the window ticked steadily away, while a small white clock hung on the opposite wall, which was covered in horrendous turquoise wallpaper. Each of the clocks’ respective second hands ticked alternately to the other, creating a sort of accelerated atmosphere in the poorly lit office. Time rushed through the room like smoke through a chimney; no amount of willpower could restrain its advance. 

This strange feeling jolted me from my reverie. 

I stood up from my chair, somewhat relieved, for the distraction had pulled me from my deep state of gloom. But that relief ebbed quickly, swept away like chaff to the wind. 

The sight which disturbed me so was a clock hanging on the wall across from my desk. That clock had not been there yesterday, but I had had too much on my mind to notice when I arrived this morning. There was something strange about the clock, an air of profound wrongness. Why this was I couldn’t describe; it simply struck me as disagreeable. I sat down and started thinking again; it was something I had been doing much of recently. 

Reason told me nothing was amiss, that there was an ordinary explanation, but a part of me rejected reason in this instance. I scoured my memory, straining to recall where I had seen something like this. Then it struck me. “Of course! It has to be, but it can’t be. Have I lost my damn marbles?” 

>>>><<<<

The smell of cigarettes hung heavy in the stuffy air and time seemed to slow to a halt. With my Smith & Wesson .357 revolver in my right hand, I slowly turned the door handle with my left. The hinges made no sound, thank heaven. I pushed the door inward and swept the room with my gun. Nothing. I scanned the room, looking for any indicator of recent inhabitation. It was peaceful, tranquil. Glancing around once more, my eyes alighted on a small white clock on the wall opposite the door. Now that my attention was fixed upon the clock, its ticking resonated in my ears and drove out all other noises. It was an ordinary object, not overly ornamental, yet I noticed it out of all the other similarly insignificant objects in the room. Suddenly, I heard a sharp squeak, as from a hinge, behind me. I spun around to see a dark figure rushing at me, knife in hand. I promptly aimed my revolver at the man, but before I could fire, he threw his blade at me, flying end over end. In an instant, as I felt the razor-sharp point pierce my left thigh, I placed the man’s chest in my sights and squeezed the trigger. 

>>>><<<<

I looked down and realized that I was rubbing my scar. 

    Did my eyes deceive me? That clock, which by no means should have been in my office, was a vivid reminder of that fateful night. It embodied the end of William Ray Jepson’s life. Why his death haunted me I wasn’t sure. The man was a career criminal with a rap sheet as long as a football field. He doubtless deserved to die, but still I was repulsed by it. Perhaps it was the peacefulness of the room. As I entered, the clock on the wall attracted my attention, and as I stared at the hands moving methodically across its face, I felt paradoxically as though I had left the flow of time. And when my gunshot rang out, it shattered the strange tranquility that I experienced. 

    Two images remain with me from that night. The first being the simple, plain face of the white clock with silver numbers and hands. The second was the expression on Jepson’s face as that hollow-point round slammed him in the chest. Those two images fused together in my mind so that when I think of one, it drags the other up with it. 

    It was immensely strange that said clock should, from the blue, appear in my office. Most likely, this was not that timepiece, but simply a mass-produced clock which struck the fancy of my secretary. However, this logic had no effect on me. It mesmerized me, but not in a good way. I couldn't stand to look at the thing anymore, so I stood up, snatched my hat from the rack, and stomped out the door of my office to my car.

    I hopped into my ‘53 Corvette, turned the key, and massaged the choke until the machine roared to life. (Being the longest-tenured detective in the fine city of Dallas, Texas does have its perks.) Shifting into first, I rumbled away from the station. 

    Some days, you want to drive fast because you’re angry; some days you drive slow because you’re content. I was neither, simply confused and troubled. So I drove home, thinking about that damn clock, which shouldn’t have bothered me, because it’s just a damn clock. But it did. I could not break the connection between it and Jepson’s face, the cruel irony of death and inexorable time. And that disturbed me. 

    So I pulled into my driveway in a fuzzy state of mind. I was so deep in thought that if a train had barrelled down my street behind me I most likely wouldn’t have noticed. I was struggling to determine if I should feel guilty about Jepson’s death. The incident struck the chords of my humanity because it was unnecessary. He got what was coming to him, but it wasn’t doled out by the justice system. On the other hand, he attacked me first, so I had every right to defend myself under the law with deadly force. 

    However, justice and philosophy ramblings aside, his death still troubled me unlike any other in my career. I have, how shall I say, ‘initiated the premature demise’ of several men in similar situations to Jepson’s. But somehow this was different. 

    Thoroughly flustered by all of this, I walked up to my door, unlocked it, and strode inside. I told myself that I would forget about the incident; anyways, that was why I had fled the office in the first place - to forget. The house was cool, dim, and clean - just how I like it when I arrive home. The wife was still out with friends, so, feeling hungry, I hung up my keys and hat and wandered into the kitchen for a snack. After snagging some food from the pantry, I sunk into an armchair and turned on the tube, glad to be distracted from the strange feelings circulating my mind. But alas, - there was no signal. Sighing deeply, I glanced around the living room, and eventually my gaze settled on a familiarly unwelcome and abhorrent object. 

    For the second time that day, I wondered if my eyes were betraying me. 

    The clock hung irreverently on the wall, mocking my sanity with its silly, insolent attitude. By now I was certain something was awry. Why would the same distinct clock which hung in the bedroom of William Ray Jepson appear first in my office and now in my own home? What demons were tormenting me? Several emotions welled up in me - a vile mixture of fear, guilt, and confusion. A chill feathered its way up my spine. Subconsciously, I turned my head about and scrutinized the room. The ticking of the clock seemed to swell to crescendo. Suddenly, like a stone dropped into a mirror-smooth lake, a knock rang out at the door, shattering the eerie calm. It was probably just my wife, forgetting her house key, but the irrational part of my brain told me that that was not the case. 

    I slowly went over to the door, trying to avoid the creaky parts in the floorboards. This really didn’t make sense, because I was going to open the door anyways, but it seemed like a good idea then. Then, trying to reassure myself that everything was fine, I swung the door open and prayed for the best. 

    “Howdy, Charlie!” said the man standing in my doorway, who I was certain was a ghost. His tone was threatening, thinly disguised and friendly. He was wearing a simple outfit; blue jeans, black t-shirt. In a hip holster was a revolver, which he fondled menacingly. But perhaps the most astounding feature of the man was that he looked exactly like William Ray Jepson. 

>>>><<<<

I stood next to the police sergeant and the coroner, each of us studying the scene with the detached air of  men who are accustomed to violence and death. I thought to myself how needless this death was, how sad it was that any should die. Then remembered the many people hurt and killed by the man (or rather, husk of a man) lying before me. And I looked at the clock lying face up on the floor, while wondering why I was so interested in it. 

My ponderings were interrupted rather rudely by a junior officer, who rushed to my side with news that the criminal we were searching for had just escaped through a window. Another officer had spotted a man who appeared to fit the description of our quarry, and ordered the junior to alert me. 

“No, son, he’s right here at my feet. Dead. Call off any in pursuit.” 

I thought to myself, ‘how could he be so oblivious to not realize that a dead man lay on the floor?’ The case was over, another criminal out of commission. 

>>>><<<<

“You, my friend, you killed my brother Ray.” The man, apparently not Ray Jepson, barrelled past me into the entryway and slammed the door shut behind him. Once again, I heard the barely concealed threat in his rough drawl. 

    I was so astonished that I could only stare at him in silence. The only logical explanation for the sudden resurrection of a dead man was that he was never dead in the first place. The specter in my house must be the twin brother of the man I shot that fateful night. And though I never would have thought of it before, this would explain how the slippery outlaw always had an alibi. This second, identical Jepson must have planted the clock in my office and my house to mess with my head, though how he knew that it would bother me I couldn’t fathom. The realization of all this flashed through my mind in an instant. 

Almost as if watching this scene play out through another man’s eyes, I saw Jepson’s twin slide his pistol out of its holster. Inexplicably, however, I wasn’t afraid. Rather, I was at peace, because the enigma which had tormented me all day was resolved. I should have been indignant, or terrified or sad, but that was not the case. Seemingly in slow motion, I watched Jepson cock back the hammer, and simultaneously deciphered the last piece of the puzzle. William must have been the brother whom I had been attacked by. The two men, I now assumed, used both their names to create the persona, acted out jointly. Understanding this brought me great pleasure. A split second later, I saw Jepson’s finger squeeze the trigger and heard a bang. I wondered what was on the other si—