I Know What I Know

Ian Chambers

I sit alone in a tiny, sterile room with only a table, three chairs, and an analog clock above the door. Assuming the clock is accurate, it is three o’clock in the afternoon, meaning that I have been here for half an hour. The nice lady that escorted me to the room said I wouldn’t wait long. Obviously, she was wrong.

I scroll on my phone, as I have been doing for the last thirty minutes. I look at the news to find nothing of interest. I see only run-of-the-mill happenings—political strife, some random celebrity drama, and the latest threat to humanity. Just as I close the app, a man and a woman walk in. The woman is donned in a crisp black blouse and slacks, and the man, tall and lean, wears a grey polo shirt and denim jeans.

“Sorry for the wait,” the woman says as she sits down to my right and places a manila folder on the table. “We had some last-minute calls to make.”

“Not a problem,” I say, though I don’t really mean it. The man sits across from me, his demeanor detached and stoic.

“Alright,” the woman says as she shifts in her seat. “Well, Mr. Chambers—”

“Ian,” I interrupt.

“Ian,” she repeats with a polite smile. “I am Detective Wilson, and this is Detective Carrick. You can call me Yvette if you like.” She looks at the man.

“Richard is fine with me,” he says monotonously.

Yvette reads me my Miranda rights, and informs me that this interview is being recorded.

“I just want to emphasize that this interview is completely optional. You are not in trouble. We are just gathering information. With that being said, are you okay speaking with us?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Great.” Yvette opens the folder. “I see here that you are a software engineer?”

“For a telecommunications company.”

“You like it?”

“It pays the bills.”

She laughs. “And you’re a Marines vet? That’s pretty hardcore.”

“I was just a mechanic. The combat officers are the tough ones.”

“Well regardless, thank you for your service.”

“ I appreciate it.”

“Of course.” She closes the folder and gazes at me intently. I see that Yvette is an attractive woman, with skin a deep shade of brown and gentle, trustworthy round eyes. I know better, though.

A beat passes, and Yvette finally speaks again. “Do you know why you are here today?”

“I’m assuming it has something to do with Michelle.”

“Yes. What was your relationship to her?”

“We were friends. Good friends.”

She nods slowly. “Was your relationship ever sexual?”

“Yes,” I hesitantly affirm. “We would sleep together every now and then, but our relationship was never serious in that regard.”

“Did you ever want the relationship to turn romantic?”

“No,” I quickly respond. “I valued our friendship too much.” It still feels weird speaking about her in past tense. I can’t believe that she’s gone.

“I am sorry for your loss. I meant to say that earlier.”

“Thank you,” I say, chewing the inside of my lip.

“Tell me about how you two met and anything else you want to share about you all’s relationship. Start wherever you want.”

I tell her that we met in college during an anatomy lab our freshman year. Neither of us knew anyone in the class, so we agreed to be lab partners. We bonded over our majors—both of us were studying cell biology—and career goals. She wanted to be a pediatrician, and I a radiologist.

“Why didn’t you go to medical school?” Yvette inquires.

“Didn’t have the grades.”

“And Michelle?”

“Couldn’t afford it. That’s why she went for her PhD.”

I tell her that Michelle and I became very close that year. That we’d hang out together almost every day, that we’d tell each other of career opportunities and things of that sort.

“We were never in competition, never jealous of each other,” I emphasize. “We just wanted to see each other win.”

“Sounds like you guys were solid. After college, what was the relationship like?”

“Well, we moved far apart from each other for work. Not intentionally.”

Michelle went on to graduate school to study genetics, and I worked in a forensics lab while completing my masters in computer science part time. We tried to keep in contact, but we both had our own lives and responsibilities.

“After I joined the military, we didn’t talk for a while,” I say. “But after I was discharged, we rekindled. It was like no time had passed.”

“Hm,” Yvette smiles. “This was two years ago?”

“Yes.”

“So, when you got out of the military, you two started a sexual relationship?”

“Right,” I confirm. “But that ended last year.”

“Why was that?”

“She started dating this guy named Tobias. I didn’t like him very much. He was too full of himself. But Michelle practically worshiped the ground he walked on.”

“Did their relationship anger you?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I clarify. “I just thought she deserved better, which I told her. She didn’t listen though. Severed contact completely.”

Yvette hums in recognition. “How did that make you feel?”

“Angry, of course. I thought our friendship meant more to her. And yet she threw it away for a guy she’d known for six months.”

“That’s understandable. Anyone would be angry at that,” she looks to Richard, who I forgot was here.

“Agreed,” he says lightly.

“In the past couple of months,” Yvette starts, “did you and Michelle speak much?”

“A bit. I’d texted her a couple of times to say sorry. She responded once saying that she needed time, but that was it.”

“Interesting,” she remarks. “Now, I know that this is a sensitive subject, but we just want to find out who is responsible for Michelle’s death. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, please let us know and we can take a break.”

***

Yvette Wilson

Ian takes a deep breath and wrings his hands. He does seem genuine, but I know he’s not being truthful. I can’t tell whether he knows that or not.

“In the past month, have you heard from Michelle?” I ask, careful not to be too emphatic.

“I haven’t.”

“According to her phone records, she answered your call two weeks ago.”

“Oh,” he says, seemingly surprised. “We did speak. I forgot.”

“That’s okay. What did the two of you discuss?”

“We just caught up,” he says after a while. “She said that we should see each other soon.”

“Did that happen?”

“No.” He purses his lips and runs his hands through his dark blond hair.

“When did you hear the news of her passing?”

“Three days ago, when it became public.”

“I am assuming you heard of the cause of death?”

“Yes,” he avers. “Murder.”

“Were you surprised at this?”

He looks down at the table for the first time in this interview. “Of course.” He looks back up. “I don’t know how anyone could think about harming her.”

“Do you have any idea of who would want to hurt her?”

“The only person I can think of is Tobias. Granted, I haven’t seen much of him, but he has always seemed off. I think he told Michelle to stop speaking to me.”

“Interesting.”

I let Ian know that we are going to take a break for now, and we will come back soon to ask him more questions. He receives this nervously, but politely. Richard and I leave the room, and I leave the manila file on the table.

#

In the lounge room, Richard and I sit at a table for a quick lunch break.

“Whaddya think? Nutjob or antisocial?” I take a sip of my black coffee.

“A lot of column A, some of column B,” Richard says. “You saw the messages and you heard the voicemails. To go as far as he did, to kill that girl the way he did, he can’t be all that empathetic. Regardless, I doubt he’ll confess.”

“Why is that?”

“He seems like the type clam up once pressure is applied. If he was too cowardly to confront his own feelings, he’s damn sure too cowardly to face the music.”

“I don’t know if I agree with that. He is cowardly, and cowards are insecure, fragile. I think he’ll break. Especially if he goes through the file.”

Richard gives a rare smirk. “I hope you’re right, Inspector Gadget.”

“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I wonder what his play is.”

“His play?”

“He is an ex-Marine with a master’s degree. He has to know that we found evidence. The only thing I can think of is that he’ll play the martyr and pin it on someone else. But that doesn’t make sense.”

“Murder doesn’t make sense. Nonsense yields more nonsense.”

***

Ian Chambers

The clock reads five o’clock. I’ve been here for three hours, alone for forty-five minutes.

Michelle.

It always comes back to her. I always come back to her. I wonder what they are thinking. I must look guilty. But I am not. We always agreed that I’d give up my life for her, and her for me. I won’t renege on my word. Not now, not ever.

Yvette left her file on the table. Certainly it’s bait. They want me to look at their evidence, recognize that they know I was dishonest. I will not, though. I know what they have. I know that I did nothing wrong.

Yvette and Richard return to the room, and both sit down in the same chairs. Yvette puts her arm on the table, and slightly leans toward me.

“Apologies for the wait. Once again,” she laughs.

“No worries,” I say.

She opens her untouched manila folder. Perhaps they reviewed the recording and know that I didn’t open it. I had no reason to.

“Ian, we have to ask more tough questions now. Again, we are on your side. We just want to find out what happened to Michele.”

On my side. Right. “I understand.”

She smiles, just barely. “We know that you had more contact with Michelle than you previously said. Her phone records indicate that you texted and called her multiple times in the weeks leading up to her death.” She hands me copies of several of our texts, my texts. She couldn’t respond. I know what I know. “These are all from you?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie?”

“Because–” Why did I lie? “I know how it looks.”

She tilts her head. “And how is that?”

“It looks like harassment. But that’s not the full picture. We had more contact outside of texts and calls. We’d visit every now and then, we’d talk, sometimes more. She wasn’t happy with Tobias, he wasn’t good for her. He wasn’t good to her. He’d disparage her, incrementally chip at her self-esteem. I saw it. I wanted to intervene, but she wouldn’t let me. So I made it a point to become her solace, her safe haven. I always wanted her,” I pause. “–to be happy.”

***

Yvette Wilson

“I want you to listen to this. This is from one month ago.” I pull out my phone and play a voicemail from him.

Michelle. I miss you. I wish you’d come over and see me. Tobias isn’t good for you. Please, he emphasizes, Please just respond. Just to let me know that you’re okay.

I look at Ian expectantly. He doesn’t respond. “This is from a week later.”

Michelle. I enjoyed our visit last night. Call me back when you get this.

“There are plenty more texts and voicemails like that,” I say, slowly. “And yet, no response.”

“She didn’t feel safe to respond. Tobias watched over her like a hawk. She told him that I was harassing her to get him off her back.”

Richard and I share a glance. I pull out a copy of texts from Michelle to a friend. “And this?”

He called again, Michelle writes. I don’t know what to do.

I don’t like this, her friend responds. What if he tries something?

That’s not in his nature.

Michelle, you don’t know him now. You knew him in college. I can’t tell you what to do, but you’ve gotta be careful.

Ian shifts in his seat. “She had to make it believable.”

“This is a bit much, no?”

“She was scared.”

“Ian,” I say softly. “We reviewed footage from the hallway of your apartment. Michelle was never there.”

Ian looks up, seemingly confused. “No. That’s not possible.”

“Her phone tells the same story.”

“That’s not possible. She visited often. There is no way she is not on tape. Unless there were breaks in the recording—that’s the only possible explanation.”

***

Ian Chambers

What are they doing? I know what I did. I know what I know. Are they trying to frame me? They are not trying to get justice; they just want to be done. They don’t fool me. I know what I know.

“The video cameras run continuously, Ian. She wasn’t there.”

I say nothing. I won’t engage with their lies.

“We checked the video cameras for Michelle’s apartment. You were there, Ian.”

Of course I was. I love her, and she loved me.

“You routinely parked outside of the back of her complex, outside her window. Were you watching her, Ian?”

“I visited when Tobias wasn’t around.” If they don’t believe me, fine. But she loved me. She’d want me to live for her.

“You never entered her apartment,” she softly says.

“No.”

“You approached the door many times, but you never entered her apartment. You never even knocked.”

“No.”

“Except,” she says assertively, as if this is her big reveal, as if she is telling the truth, “the night that she died.”

I glare at her. How can someone do this? Doesn’t she have a conscience? Doesn’t he have a conscience? How can someone be so solipsistic, so self-serving that they can rationalize framing someone? And Richard. Is he just her recruit? A complicit, weak man who can stand by and watch this chicanery? Is he her equal? Another morally bankrupt detective who just wants to wrap up this case? Or is he the ringleader? This is insanity. What incentive could possibly justify this miscarriage of justice?

Is it sadism? It must be. I bet they relish this. No normal person could do this. No normal person has the ability to compartmentalize to such a degree, to detach from what they know is right, and frame someone. They should be the ones interrogated. This can’t be the first time they have done this. Altering the cameras, manipulating me, making me seem guilty—they have to be experienced. They’re sick. They won’t convince me. I know what I know.

Yvette continues to look at me gently, as if she is not enjoying the capture and exploitation. “You went to her apartment and she let you in. She gave you the benefit of doubt. And you paid her back by killing her.”

No.

“You strangled her. You watched as she took her last breath.”

No.

“And then you mutilated her dead body.”

“NO!” I slam my hand down on the table. Am I giving them what they want? Anger? My anger is not a symptom of guilt, it’s a response to theirs.

Yvette and Richard look at me wide-eyed. They seem on guard. I guess they are not used to their victims fighting back. I won’t go along with their churlish ruse.

“Tobias,” I say with clarity, carefully enunciating every word, leaving no room for error. “Tobias was there. Michelle was scared, so she called me over. She trusted me. I was her safe haven, I was her protector.

“I heard yelling from outside the door and knocked. She opened the door and let me in, even though Tobias was agitated. He was sitting in the living room, his leg bobbing faster than I thought was possible. He told me to get out, but I wasn’t afraid of him. I loved Michelle, I would have given my life for her. Tobias smirked, as if he had something in his back pocket, something to hold over us. All of a sudden he rushed over to Michelle and began to choke her,” I choke up at this. My Michelle is gone, all because of that demon. “I tried to get him off of her, but he was too strong.”

“Why didn’t you call for help?”

“I was scared of what he would do to me. If I stayed, if I called the police to get help, he would have found out and he would have killed me. He’s ruthless. I would have given my life for Michelle, but not in vain. So I left. I ran away as he murdered her. I’m ashamed but it’s what I thought to do at the moment. If I could have gotten him off of her, he would have killed us both. I knew I’d be interviewed, so I waited. I hid.”

“Why didn’t you lead with this?”

“I was scared that you wouldn’t believe me. Rightfully so.”

Yvette glances at Richard, and he walks out. A few seconds later he returns with a laptop. He then silently opens it and starts a video.

“She had a camera in her living room,” Richard calmly states.

The video shows me choking Michelle on her couch. I immediately close the laptop. I won’t entertain this madness.

“I don’t know how you all did this or why,” I say, almost yell, “but that is not me. That is fabricated.”

“Ian,” Yvette says. “This is real. It’s clear as day. You killed her. In cold blood. And I think that deep down, you know that. Even if you don’t reali–”

“NO! I am not crazy! I am not crazy! I know what I did! I did not kill her.”

I am not crazy. I know what I know.

I know what I know.

I know what I know.

I am not crazy.