The Murderer Next Door

(This story indirectly hints at alcoholism and physical abuse.)

I’ve been a member of an online writer’s group for three years, and tonight, I’ll be mixin’ the agenda up in a way they couldn’t imagine. We critique each other’s writing to make it better. First, we offer praise such as “good characterization,” “Nice pacin’,” or “Great descriptions.” Then, we go in for the kill: “The story bored me in the middle,” “The character lacks emotion and depth,” or “I didn’t get the endin’.” It can be brutal, but if we can survive the criticism, we end up better writers on the other side. Instead of hearing their critiques, I want to ask my peers a question about what to write next in my story. I think they’ll permit me to do something different when they hear about the extraordinary event that took place. 

I settled into my guest bedroom turned office. Stacks of books and folders of stories written littered the room. I sat in my comfy, ergonomic office chair, placed my headphones on, and adjusted my dual monitors. From my seat, I could view the happenin’s of my cul-de-sac neighborhood. 

As I entered the virtual room, Vicky announced my presence. “Hey, everyone. Terrence is here, so we can get started.” Vicky hosted the Writer’s Group and ran a tight ship. “Let’s say what we liked about Terrence’s—”

“Can I interrupt, Vicky?” I didn’t wait for her to say yes. “I need to do things differently tonight. Forgive me for not gettin’ your okay first. Y’all have read my crime story so far, but I have something incredible to share: my story is coming true."

Several people chimed in at once, talking over one 'nother. “Your fictional story is becoming reality?” Vicky asked with an edge of incredulity.

“Yes.”

“All in favor of using Terrence’s time to figure out what the hell he’s talking about? Show of hands.” All hands went up. Vicky didn’t like losing control of her meeting but respected the power of the group. “What’s going on, Terrence?” asked Vicky. Her face looked peeved, but her curiosity won out.

“I needed some inspiration for my story, so I observed my neighbors. Fortunately, I used their real names in my draft story, so you know who I’m talkin’ about. To refresh y’alls memory, Hank and Nadine live across the street. Hank’s a mean drunk. Nadine is sweet and lovely. When Hank comes home blotto, they have shoutin’ matches. I told Nadine that if Hank ever turned violent, to come over to my house anytime, that I had a spare bedroom.”

“This sounds just like your story so far,” said one writer. 

“Right. Let’s bring in the other character. Bear with me. Fred lives next door to Hank and Nadine. He and Hank yell at each other almost every week. The root of the problem is that Fred wanted to buy the house that Hank bought, but Hank outbid him. Fred had wanted his daughter and son-in-law to live there, especially now that a baby was on the way."

“We know all this. What about your story has come true?” asked another writer. 

“Hold your horses. I’m gettin’ there. Let’s see if I can condense this. So, in the story, Hank dies, and the cops think it’s murder. Hank’s wife Nadine gets arrested. And that’s as far as you know. The part that’s freaking me out is that the real Hank just died.” I paused there for effect.

They responded with, “What?” “Wows” and “OMGs.” And then it got quiet so I could continue. “On Saturday morning, first the police came, then the fire department, and then the coroner.”

One of the writers chimed in. “One thing is just a coincidence. Now, if the wife gets arrested like your story, that would give me pause.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of. So here’s what I want to ask y’all. What I’m going to write next is about the writer character living across the street, you know, me. This main character, he’s going to talk to the police and implicate the neighbor, Fred. Fred has a motive—he wants the house for his daughter—he has means—the weapon was a pillow that smothered Hank—and he has opportunity—because he lives next door.” Usually, the writers on Zoom get distracted, but I could see that they were all riveted. “My question to y’all is, should I write this knowing that my story is coming true?”

Vicky jumped in after I paused, “Okay, everyone. Let’s help Terrence out. What do you advise? Keep the answers short. Jim?”

Jim was the jokester of the group, so I questioned Vicky starting with him. “I dunno, Terrence, do you like your neighbor or do you wanna see him locked up?” A few people chuckled.

Ignoring Jim, Vicky moved along, “Selena?”

Selena wrote mysteries, too, so I was interested in her opinion. “I just think the story coming true so far is just a huge coincidence. Write your story however you want. If you see your story coming true again, then stop.” Sound advice, I thought.

“Thanks, Selena. Kurt?”

“If it were me, Terrence, I’d put your current story aside and work on a different one. If that new story doesn’t come true, I’d feel confident that nothing strange was happening.” Kurt was a retired chemistry teacher, and his advice fit his scientific method approach to writing.

Red flashing lights from across the street caught my attention. “Oh no.” I gasped.

“What’s going on?” asked Vicky.

“The police. Two cop cars. They’ve just pulled into Nadine’s driveway.”

“Uh-oh, life imitating art,” said the writer I never liked but who had multiple novels on Amazon and some awards as well. Jerk.

“Let’s get the last bit of advice for Terrence. Amanda?”

“Hey, Terrence. Sorry you’re going through this.” I liked Amanda, always the empathetic one. I kept one eye on Nadine’s driveway. “I’m gonna say that in your novel, you can, of course, write anything you want. Making the MC misdirect the police adds an element of evil, so he becomes a more interesting character. But what you do in real life, that’s different. I think you know what you should do. But I don’t think you can be held responsible for what you write.”

I looked out the window and then uttered, “Oh my god. It’s happening. My story is becoming real again.”

“What’s happening, Terrence?” asked Vicky.

“The police handcuffed Nadine, and they’re walkin’ her toward the police car. I gotta go!” 

I flung off my headset and flew out of my office. In seconds, I was out the front door and ran toward Nadine’s house. This alarmed the cops, who took an offensive stance and warned me to halt, which I did in the middle of the street. “Nadine! Are you okay?”

“Sir, what is your business here?” asked one of the cops.

“I’m a neighbor and a friend. Where are you takin’ her?” I asked.

“The County Jail in Springfield. Return to your home, sir.”

I didn’t move right away. I watched them put Nadine in the vehicle. Then they talked to one another for a bit. Meanwhile, I noticed neighbors gatherin’ on their porches, watchin’ events unfold. One cop got in the car with Nadine and was takin’ off. I caught a glance of her face with pleadin’ doe eyes as they drove away. It gutted me.

The other one, the burlier cop, approached me. 

“Sir, let’s get you back in your house. I’d like to interview you as part of this investigation.” 

###

As the cop and I entered the front door of my house, he asked, “Is anyone else in the house, sir?”

“No.”

“May we sit down here?” pointing to the family room. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’m Officer Simpson. For starters, what’s your name, sir?” He sat down, and I followed suit sittin’ across from him.

My head was spinnin’. I had a big decision to make. Do I or don’t I incriminate Fred? Do I or don’t I reveal my relationship with Nadine? Would they ask me about my gun? Did I have anything illegal lying around? My internal thoughts stopped when he repeated his question.

“Your name, sir?”

“Terrence Walker.”

Officer Simpson went right to the heart of the matter. "Where were you between 10:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. on Friday the 17th?” This must be the M.E.’s estimate of the time of death. He needed to rule me out as a suspect. If I was gonna provide an alibi for Nadine, it had to be now.

“Right here. With Nadine.” I gave him my most earnest look.

Despite his trainin’, Simpson’s eyes bugged out. I think I astounded him. He cleared his throat to regain his composure. “Can you expand on that?”

“Yes. We are havin’ an affair. Hank came home drunk and belligerent as usual that Friday night”

“What time was that?”

“‘Bout 8:00 p.m. The news had just ended. I could hear him yellin’ because it was a warm night, and all the windows were open. Nadine told me that he fell asleep around 9:00 p.m. on the couch and would be out for hours. She slipped out and came over.”

“What if he had woken up?” Simpson asked more out of curiosity, I suspected. 

“That happened once. Nadine told him that he had gotten violent and slapped her (he hadn’t), and that she had come over to my place for safety. He bought it. He didn’t like it but was always remorseful the next mornin’.”

“How long have you been seeing Mrs. Johnson?” Simpson had a nervous habit of tappin’ his pen on his spiral notepad. It irritated me. 

“‘Bout six months, give or take.”

Officer Simpson got quiet as he digested all this information. Then he nodded his head as if he was agreein’ with himself. “We’re going to need you to come down to the station for a formal interview and to make a statement. By the time you’re done, Mrs. Johnson should be available to bail out if that’s what you want to do.”

“Good. Let’s go. I don’t want her spendin’ a minute longer there than she has to.”

###

At the County Jail, different cops, detectives actually, asked me all the same questions and more. I knew enough to be a hundred percent consistent. Finally, they typed up my statement, and I signed it givin’ Nadine an ironclad alibi. I posted her bond, and an hour later she emerged from the jail. We suspected that CCTV was everywhere, so I got Nadine situated in the car, and we drove off. On the way home, we talked.

“Are you okay?” I asked and glanced her way.

“I guess. I’m just on autopilot now. Thanks for bailing me out.” 

We reached a stoplight, so I turned to her. “While you were in there, they took my statement. So you know, I had to reveal our affair.” I waited to see if she would react. She stayed quiet, so I continued. “On the bright side, I’ve provided you with a rock-solid alibi. I said you were with me at my house durin’ the hours that, well, you know.”

“What if they suspect that we acted together?” Nadine was a smart cookie, always thinkin’.

“They can suspect all they want, but they must follow the evidence.” The light turned green, and I punched it.

“And the pillow?”

“They’ll find it hidden in Fred’s shed with Hank’s DNA all over it. Everythin’ will point to Fred.” 

“I’m not happy about that.” She began to cry. Her tears turned into sobs. She’d been through a lot. Even in her distress, she looked so beautiful to me. I wanted to take care of her any way I could. I put my arm around her shoulder.

“I know. Fred's collateral damage.”

“Poor Fred. He’s been a great neighbor except for his fixation about owning our house. He keeps his landscaping tidy, he contributes to the community, and I know he cares for his family. I hate to see him dragged into this."

“I needed to direct the cops away from us.”

“I’m grateful that Hank’s gone. He was a mean, hateful man when he drank. But he was capable of much kindness when he was sober. That’s what kept me hooked to the relationship.”

“I know, honey. Try not to think about it. We’ll be home soon.”

###

A year later, the trial was over, and Fred was convicted of murderin’ Hank. Nadine moved in with me, and I was happier than I deserved to be. Ironically, Nadine’s house was put up for sale, but Fred was in no position to bid on it. His daughter and son-in-law moved in with his wife before the baby was born. At least that was somethin’.

Wednesday night rolled around, and I was eager to talk to my fellow writers on Zoom. This night, I had some happy news to share with my writer friends.

The call started, and Vicky welcomed the attendees, “Hi everyone. Before we get started, does anyone have some news to share about their writing: submission acceptances, publications, short-listings, awards, etc.?” We all knew how difficult it is to get acknowledgment for our writing, so it was rewardin’ to tout our achievements and have others congratulate us.

“I’ve got something to share,” I said.

“Let’s hear it, Terrence,” said Vicky.

“My agent found a publisher for my book, The Murderer Next Door.” The reaction was subdued. I heard a low rumble of congratulations, and that was it. What gives? This was huge. A book deal. Only one other writer had a novel published in the last three years. While I sat befuddled, Vicky moved the conversation to another writer’s achievements. 

I typed a private chat message to my biggest fan, Amanda. “The response to my book deal was less than enthusiastic. What's up with that?”

Amanda didn’t reply right away, and then she finally typed, “The group is uncomfortable that an innocent man went to prison. They wonder if you framed him to protect your girlfriend. They suspect you got away with murder. Can you understand that?”

Her chat message troubled me, so I dropped off the call. I doubt that I would ever return. What bugged me most was that they were talkin’ behind my back. That ain’t right.

Later that night, I shared what had happened with Nadine. “Can you believe what they’re sayin’ about me?” She sat at the kitchen table looking thoughtful. She took a sip of wine, swallowed, replaced her glass, and paused. At last, she responded.

“Well, darling. They’re writers, so they’re smart, and they figured things out."