Mistake

She knew it was a mistake. 

She watched as the detective chewed the end cap of his pen, brow furrowed in concentration at the file on the table. 

The detective lifted his piercing eyes towards hers for just a moment; her breath caught in her throat. A small sound escaped much like an inflated balloon when you pinch off the end. She fiddled with her locket.

She shifted her focus towards the outside world. A distraction. She thought about her beautiful, talented, poised Stacy. She was an incredible performer. She could almost hear Stacy’s playing, could see her sitting at the baby grand in the sitting room, windows open so the entire neighborhood could listen. She closed her eyes to absorb it. The last time she saw Stacy was when she was getting into the car with Evelyn to head to her next piano lesson. She was really going to miss her.  

She couldn’t read what his look meant. Maybe he was trying to figure out how a middle-aged, middle-class, white, yoga-loving, American archetype would be sitting across from him accompanied with a folder that told the sadistic story of how she murdered those random people. 

Or maybe he was impressed. 

It was a mistake. 

Detective Caulder leaned back in his chair--the buttons on his suit dangerously close to popping. Caulder sighed for what felt like hours, then finally, he spoke for the first time since she had walked into the room. 

“This doesn’t add up.”

This is not what she had been expecting. “I---I’m sorry?”

Caulder glowered. “I’m not a man that likes to repeat myself. Especially when I know you heard me.”

She stared unblinking. 

Another mistake.

She finally broke the silence. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” She shifted nervously in her seat. The detective noticed and smirked.  

“What I don’t understand,” continued Caulder, “is the motive. How does someone snap like without any feasible connection between them, nor a connection to you? Explain that, and I’ll put this to rest right now.”

She knew this was a mistake. 

“Look, detective. Why do I have to answer these questions? It’s not like I’m trying to hide the fact that I did it. I did the crimes. All of them.” She seemed certain; she seemed sure of herself. She spun the ring on her finger. She smiled. 

“I’m not buying it.” The detective’s blunt words shattered her confidence like glass. “You aren’t going anywhere until you tell me, with total honesty, everything I need to know..” 

She stammered, “Wh---why?!”

“Exactly” the detective stood up and leaned over the table. “Why?”

Officer Samantha Montgomery paced back and forth in front of the glass. She had watched the entire exchange between her and Detective Caulder. 

Easy, Caulder, she thought to herself as he continued to berate this fragile woman. 

Samantha stared at her empty notepad. She had nothing left. Another fucking dead end. She slumped into the chair. 

At that exact moment, Caulder rose from his chair to hiss his acidic breath into the poor woman’s face. Jesus, Caulder. 

She knew Caulder would want to talk to her, to hear the latest updates, but she had nothing for him. To avoid all of it if only for a little while, Samantha hastened quickly out of the room, out of the side door, and deep into the alley. There, she lit a cigarette and tried not to think at all. 

But what is she hiding? Who is she protecting? 

Samantha just couldn’t find the trail. None of it was adding up. Even Dickenson was scratching his head, and he had the most solves (including cold cases) for the entire precinct. 

Samantha lit another cigarette. 

At some point, something would change. Someone forgot something somewhere--a small, inconsequential step--and we’ll catch it. 

But until then, Samantha enjoyed the last drags before the inevitable shit storm hit. 

This was a mistake. 

She was left alone in the room. Her mind felt blank. Her body, numb. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the moment this would all be over. 

But it’s definitely a mistake. 

She wondered about her troubled boy, Evan. His grades were pretty low in Chemistry and Calculus. He needed to attend tutoring or he’d have to take summer school or even repeat the classes next year. Another worry was soccer. It was his passion--his obsession. But with his failing grades, he was benched. Watching him at the last game was heartbreaking. He just sat there. She lamented that she wouldn’t be able to make it better for him. Not now. 

She shifted in her seat at the thought, bent down and pulled her loose sock back up her leg.

This is a mistake. 

Andrew met Samantha on her way back inside. “Caulder wants to see us.” Samantha rolled her eyes. Sam knocked on Caulder’s door. “Come in,” was the gruff reply. Andrew grabbed a peppermint from the bowl that was probably older than he was, but he hadn’t eaten in well over 24-hours and needed something. Samantha’s eyes followed his hand from the bowl to his mouth. Her expression conveyed nothing. 

“She didn’t do this; that much is obvious. What isn’t obvious,” Caulder continued, “is what in the hell she is covering up. Tell me you got something.”

Silence. 

Andrew coughed, “Well, sir, to be quite frank…” Andrew glanced at his partner to help him out. She stared at her hands. “Nothing, sir. We’ve got nothing. Everything is clear. The house, the car, the office, her tox screen, even her character witnesses...Not a speck out of place.”

Caulder was silent for a couple of seconds. It was deafening. “Well, no shit you found nothing on her,” Caulder boomed. “She’s not the one that did it. Do I have to do your job for you? Look for connections between the victims. Even the simplest of commonalities could have a connection here. This is basic-level detective work. She’s hiding something for someone. I want to know who that someone is and why. Got it?”

Samantha nodded. Andrew nodded. 

“Dismissed.”

Samantha and Andrew both left in a hurry. This was going to be a really long night. 

“Let me talk to her again. I think I can get through to her.” Samantha’s knuckles turned white as her grip tightened on the back of the chair.

“Why? Because it’s a ‘woman-thing’?” Caulder scoffed. “Enlighten me, what exactly are you expecting to do in order to get an answer?” 

Samantha’s grip relaxed. “Sir, with all due respect. I think we’re making a lot of assumptions about this case that we shouldn’t be.” She knew she was taking a risk. 

Caulder’s eyes bore into hers. She couldn’t back down now. “Young lady, I’ve been on this force for thirty nine years. You’ve been here a minute. She doesn’t fit the profile. The evidence doesn’t add up. Are you honestly going to stand there and say that I’m the one who’s wrong here?”

Samantha went on without pause, “Yes.” Caulder didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Just waited for her to continue. “Not all cases fit the profile. I think we may be wrong here to completely dismiss this woman’s involvement with these murders. She’s too clean. Sometimes, that screams ‘guilty’ louder than the man in the corner holding the gun.”

Caulder chewed the inside of his lip. “You have five minutes with her to get her to talk and to change my mind. Clear?”

Samantha gave one curt nod, and B-lined through the door. 

She watched as the new officer came in. She remembered her before. She was too angry; too sharp. She wouldn’t be able to stick to the plan. She shifted in her seat and began playing spinning her ring.  

“Good afternoon, ma’am. You may remember me, Samantha.If you work with me and talk to me, I can help you. If you don’t…” She left that idea hanging for effect. 

She stared at Samantha. Where would she even begin? 

A minute and a half passed incomplete silence.

She thought of MaryJo and her carefree, always optimistic attitude. Yoga every Monday without fail. Always the liveliest and sprightliest dancer. She lived for the follow up dinners at Taco Town with half-priced Margarita Monday specials. MaryJo really knew how to bring the party wherever she went. God, she would miss Mondays with her.  

Finally, Samantha spoke. “ I’m trying to figure you out. Do you even want to be helped?” Samantha looked at her as if she was trying to look at a painting from a different angle. “The way I figure it, you either are being blackmailed to keep your mouth shut for what you witnessed or conspired with, or,” Samantha smirked, “you have something to gain from taking the blame for the murders. Am I getting warm here?”

Don’t react. Just don’t react.

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. 

“I’m going to assume your silence as an affirmation. Just for argument’s sake, of course,” Samantha crossed her legs, leaned back, and open the file. “So for me, this doesn’t really seem like you are covering for someone else. There’s not a pattern to the murders. There’s not even a connection. So how would you even become involved? There are just too many gaps.” Samantha turned a page. Licked her lips. “But, given the way you live your life, your character witnesses...it all seems so bland, typical, comfortable, normal. Too normal? My real rub with this whole situation is the murders themselves. The victims. No connections to each other that we can find, no connection to you that we can find...so why then do you waltz in and confess to all five of these seemingly unrelated murders that didn’t happen in the same town, at same time, in the same way, or even on the same date?” Samantha blows air through her lips. “This leaves me with the only possible conclusion that you have something to gain by suddenly being labeled a ‘murderer’” Samantha’s exaggerated the air quotes on the last word and lingered her fingers there a few seconds longer before slowly bringing her arms to rest calmly on the table before her. “Do you want to die?” She studied her intently. “Why are you wanting to go down for five--FIVE--murders? TELL ME!” Samantha slammed her hand on the table. The file went flying. 

She flinched, and with it, her steely resolve cracked. She felt herself crumbling. She knew she was going to start talking. 

Just a few more minutes and she’ll leave. 

Her mind shifted to Mark. Wonderful, hard-working Mark. Such a great man. At least once a month, she’d see him walking up the driveway with a dozen roses. Pink--her favorite. With a smile on his face, he set the dinner table every night. He’d spend time with the kids. He’d clean up the house, do the laundry. The sex was frequent, and it was passionate. That, she remembered, was the true definition of love-making. She really couldn’t imagine not seeing him everyday.

“Listen, whatever your reasons,” sighed Samantha in a resigned tone, “if you don’t start talking, you’re going to be let go.”

Her eyes widened as the weight of Samantha’s words resonated. 

Mistake. 

Two hours later, Samantha, Andrew, and Caulder watched dejectedly as she collected her belongings and exited the precinct. 

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Samantha’s voice was a whisper. “She needs help. I can only imagine what she’s going to do to herself or what someone might do to her.” 

“Keep your radios on. There’s a chance we get another call tonight,” Caulder lamented. Samantha had never seem him show this much emotion before. Was it sympathy? Was it compassion? It confused her more than his usual stolid exterior. Caulder walked towards his office. 

Samantha let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. She turned to Andrew. Andrew’s brow was furrowed deeply. He hadn’t said a word ever since they left Caulder’s office. 

“What?” Samantha asked trying to see what he was looking at. 

“I can’t help feeling that we’re missing something,” Andrew’s voice was thin. He was deep in thought. 

“What else can we do? She gave us nothing.” Samantha didn’t have the patience to placate Andrew’s “winning streak” ego right now. She turned to start heading back towards the lounge. 

“But did you hear what she said under her breath as we were walking her out?” Samantha spun around with a curious look on her face. “She said,” Andrew paused. “She said ‘it’s a mistake’.”

It’s a mistake. All a giant mistake. 

I stuck to the plan, they didn’t follow what they were supposed to do. But of course, who could ever rely on law enforcement to do their actual fucking job. 

They made a mistake. 

Too bad they won’t live to regret it. 

I don’t know that any of this would have played out this way had it not been for witnesses. They really piled up one after another. When that last one got away...I knew I had to do something. 

I didn’t really think that they’d believe me. Nor did I want them to. They made so many mistakes. 

I really loved watching Stacy. She was so elegant and beautiful. She lost herself in the music. When she became enraptured in her songs, I became even more enraptured in her. But when she shunned me when I tried to compliment her--when she brushed me off like I was three week old milk--that was unforgivable. It would’ve just been Stacy, had not Evelyn, the uber driver, gotten out of her car. 

Witness number one. 

Then when I was ditching the car, I picked up Evelyn’s ping for an uber request. Evan needed a ride home from soccer. Evan was very quick to tell me all about his life. But he was bratty. Dismissive. When I showed up at his house two weeks later offering to tutor him, he had the nerve to try to call the police. Didn’t he see that I just wanted to help? This, too would’ve been a one-off had it not been for the busybody MaryJo walking neighborhoods trying to shove “Jesus Loves You” pamphlets down everybody’s throats. She noticed the door cracked and tried to peek inside. She saw Evan’s body, came inside and called 911. I hid in the dumbwaiter. Pretty sure she saw me through the window. She didn’t say so to the police on the phone that she saw anyone, but I felt her tension. She knew she wasn’t alone. 

For two months I followed her. Lived her life. Decided that I might actually be better off befriending her. She had wide social circles. She seemed to have it all. She really screwed herself when she had the audacity to laugh when I fell over during yoga. Not even a “just laughing with you” sort of sympathy giggle. Full on merriment for my embarrassment. 

Bitch had to go. 

As I was tossing her bloodied yoga mat into the dumpster the next day a few towns over, Mark happened to be dumping his trash away, too. He saw the mat. He briefly made eye contact with me. Definitely a hesitant, observant fellow. I tittered and batted my eyelashes and told him it was paint, not blood! A can fell off a shelf in the garage. 

But I knew he didn’t buy it. 

For weeks I watched Mark. He had such a good life, a good family. I truly thought about sparing him. Maybe I could have him. Maybe the bloody yoga mat would be a funny story we’d recall when we were in our 80s--”remember when I thought you were a murderer?” 

But the next time Mark went to take his trash out, I met him out there (with normal trash this time) and tried to turn on the charm. He looked at me like he looked at his garbage---something terrible to be rid of as soon as possible. 

That took care of that. 

But someone saw me. In his driveway. Struggling to shut the trunk of his car. With his body inside. It was too dark to see who they were, and they took off in a hurry. 

They knew.

I couldn’t abandon the car and chase after them, not when his wife and kids would be home any minute. I had to handle this situation presently. 

That’s when I decided to turn myself in. 

Lay on the charm. Show them my non-threatening, nervous house-wife qualities. They’d be too absorbed in the stereotypical profile to notice my flaws. They’d be blinded by their own, self-made prejudices and biases. 

You can’t even see what I’m capable of even when I’m right in front of you literally telling you the truth. 

I made it so easy. 

I was wearing Stacy’s music note locket with a picture of her parents on the inside. 

I had Evelyn’s phone in my purse, which sat underneath me the entire time. They didn’t even search it. 

I was wearing Evan’s soccer socks that still had his blood on them. They are white. The quarter-sized spot of blood is visible at the ankle which I crossed just so they could see it. 

I was wearing MaryJo’s signature yoga top that she wore at least three times a month with an embroidered MJ on the front.

And finally, I was wearing Mark’s wedding ring engraved with his and his wife’s anniversary and initials. 

Seriously? 

It was all right there. It was screaming in their face. The truth they didn’t want to see--didn’t want to believe because it would shatter the ideas they had built up about what certain people who check certain boxes will do. 

As I wait in shadows of the house of Samantha Montgomery, I see her car turn into the driveway. As she closes her car door, I quickly approach from behind. She sees me. Recognition sets in. She could run. 

But that would be a mistake.