Error in Judgment

by: Steven Keiths © 9/2008

She was the most beautiful woman I had ever known.

Was.

Now Suzy lay slumped over the back of the living room sofa—a 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 wife—my cheating, lying wife.

At first I stood there stunned, shocked, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My wife in the arms of another man—in my, our house—I 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 her—she 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 couldn’t show it. I couldn’t express it in any way, lest I betray somehow, that I was upset. I was afraid she’d notice and start asking questions. Afraid that before I could answer, that I’d strangle her. No, I couldn’t do that—yet. 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. I’d be damned if I’d spend my life behind bars because she couldn’t keep her legs shut. Hell, he wasn’t even that good-looking.

I’m sweating. My hands are shaking. I’m suppose to be in New York City attending a meeting. Which I am—well, that’s what the cops will find out to be true. By the time they discover the body, I’ll be back in New York. She’s startled to see me, after all, I’m not supposed to be here. She stands to come over to me. She has that sweet, loving smile. Of course, I know it’s act. It’s 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 I’m 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 I’m 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, it’s gone—like 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. It’s 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. I’ll dispose of the bag on my way to my meeting. There is no way, no way in hell, I’ll ever be caught.

That afternoon, two plain-clothed police officers interrupt the meeting I’m attending. They inform me of my wife’s 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 wife’s extracurricular activity? At my wife’s funeral? Do I want to press my luck? Should he be my next victim? The asshole’s even crying. One of my neighbors is expressing her sympathies, when he comes up to me. I’m trying to remain calm, now is not the time to blow it.

“Hi, uh Jim, you don’t know me, but I’m Al, I’m Suzy’s brother.