Error in Judgment
by: Steven Keiths © 9/2008
She was the most beautiful woman I had ever known.
Now Suzy lay slumped over the back of the living room sofaóa bullet through her heart. It took me a month to plan and orchestrate her death. I planned it so perfectly. There is no way I can ever be charged with the murder of my wifeómy cheating, lying wife.
At first I stood there stunned, shocked, I couldnít believe what I was seeing. My wife in the arms of another manóin my, our houseóI was supposed to have worked late that night. I wished I had. This was too painful to witness. Dazed, I walked back to my car and drove to a nearby bar. The bar, dark and gloomy, with the jukebox playing sad songs of lost an unrequited love, drove me deeper into my melancholy. After several beers, I decided I could no longer live with heróshe could no longer live.
It took all my resolve to be sweet and kind toward her while I was plotting my revenge. I even managed to have sex. It made me sick. The longer I was near her the more enraged I became, but I couldnít show it. I couldnít express it in any way, lest I betray somehow, that I was upset. I was afraid sheíd notice and start asking questions. Afraid that before I could answer, that Iíd strangle her. No, I couldnít do thatóyet. I had to keep the status quo. I had to maintain this false front until I could carry out my plan. I had to wait for that perfect opportunity. Then she had to die. Iíd be damned if Iíd spend my life behind bars because she couldnít keep her legs shut. Hell, he wasnít even that good-looking.
Iím sweating. My hands are shaking. Iím suppose to be in New York City attending a meeting. Which I amówell, thatís what the cops will find out to be true. By the time they discover the body, Iíll be back in New York. Sheís startled to see me, after all, Iím not supposed to be here. She stands to come over to me. She has that sweet, loving smile. Of course, I know itís act. Itís then I pull the trigger. She never saw the gun. The impact of the bullet causes her to spin and to land, draped over the leather sofa. I stand for a moment looking at her slumped body; part of me cannot believe I actually did it. But, I did. I killed the lying bitch. Realizing Iím wasting time, I set the rest of my plan into motion. I break the pane of glass on the French door and unlock it. I scatter knick-knacks and overturn lamps. I pull out the silverware drawer in the maple hutch. I bag up the expensive flatware and then dash up the stairs and rifle through her jewelry. I bag it and continue to open most of the other drawers in our dresser and bureau and disturb the contents as if someone was frantically searching.
As Iím driving out of town, I stop long enough to drop all I had taken into the swirling waters of the river that runs outside of town. I watch as the bag slowing begins to sink and in an instant, itís goneólike my wife, like my once happy marriage. I head back to New York City.
The traffic is light and it only takes me two and a half hours. Once there, I return the rental car that I had gotten using fake ID, and head back to my hotel. Itís early in the morning. No one is about. Perfect. I go to my room, strip bag up everything I wore and place it in a bag and then take a shower. Iíll dispose of the bag on my way to my meeting. There is no way, no way in hell, Iíll ever be caught.
That afternoon, two plain-clothed police officers interrupt the meeting Iím attending. They inform me of my wifeís death and their opinion as to what happened. I, of course, become the inconsolable and distraught husband. I have to go through the normal routine of where I was and what I was doing at that time. So many people had seen me throughout the previous day and that evening at a party; my alibi is airtight.
What in the hell is that son of a bitch doing here? My wifeís extracurricular activity? At my wifeís funeral? Do I want to press my luck? Should he be my next victim? The assholeís even crying. One of my neighbors is expressing her sympathies, when he comes up to me. Iím trying to remain calm, now is not the time to blow it.
ďHi, uh Jim, you donít know me, but Iím Al, Iím Suzyís brother.