There Must Be Others

What about that guy in the sweatshirt? Natalie wondered. They say the killer always returns to the scene of their crime, and here he is, jogging down the street just a few days after Bertram was murdered… Sure, he’s walking past the house, but isn’t he looking at the windows? Maybe not directly, but out of the corner of his eye?

She leapt back from the window as she had this last thought; he hadn’t seen her, had he? She took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. He probably hadn’t seen her, and anyways, she was safe: she had locked all the doors and windows, and then locked herself in the living room just for good measure. No one was getting in. She had made sure of that. She needed some time to herself, to think of who might have killed Bertram.

As the man in the sweatshirt rounded the corner and disappeared from view, she considered what the police would reply with, if she said she suspected the man who jogged by the house every now and again: ‘Why?’ She couldn’t think of a reasonable response of her own.

But he’s just one suspect. There are others; there must be others…

She sat in the farthest chair from the door, tucking her head down just in case someone should come up and peer into the window.

What about the neighbors? They might not have hated Bertram, but I don’t think they liked him, and people have been murdered for less. Yes, yes; I can see it: someone parks in front of the door, so Bertram parks a little closer to the neighbors. They complained one time when he did that; oh, they pretended to be polite, but I could read between the lines: they were furious. So, when he parks in front of their house for the second time, one of them sneaks out while Bertram’s walking up to the door, comes up behind him, and pushes him into the house as soon as he’s got the door unlocked. Then they have a fight, they end up in the kitchen, and Thomas, or Sabrina, or whoever lives there now, stabs poor Bertram and runs off.

She nodded frantically in the dark room. It could work. Then she let out a long, exasperated, and nervous sigh.

Then again, the cops won’t just go and arrest whoever I tell them to. The neighbors are bound to have plenty of friends, plenty of alibis. They would all just say, ‘Nope, didn’t see a thing,’ and if detectives hear ‘didn’t see a thing’ enough times, they’ll believe it. Even if one of them did do it, they’d never get caught.

Natalie knew what would eventually happen: she’d be asked, ‘Did Bertram have any enemies? Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?’, and she wanted to have an answer, but she couldn’t think of anything plausible. She got out of the chair and walked, head still lowered, to the other side of the room; she didn’t really want to be in here anymore – she was starting to feel trapped – but she was too scared to go outside, and even less did she want to go anywhere else in the house. She’d have to go through the kitchen first.

Maybe I should just tell them the truth: Bertram didn’t have any enemies, and everyone loved him. That’s not much to go on, but then again, what do they expect? It’s not my job to find my boyfriend’s killer. Leave that to the professionals. Anything else they ask me, I’ll just say I don’t know, I can’t think, I’m in shock. That’ll probably be when I start to cry.

She was sort of surprised she hadn’t already, but her eyes had been dry ever since she’d first seen her boyfriend lying in his own blood on the floor. And while she was scared, and shocked, and angry, she was not exactly sad.

To no one in particular, she muttered, “Maybe that’s because I know his secret.”

I didn’t make him cheat, did I? Oh, he swore he didn’t even know Kayla’s name – ‘I didn’t have a say in hiring her; that was the company! She’s only worked the same shift as me once! I’ve never even spoken to her!’ – but that’s a lot of protest, when I only casually mentioned that I knew he’d been seeing someone else.

Natalie had seen her – she’d sat in her car, across from the coffee shop where Bertram worked, watching the new cashier; she’d made a note of her nametag, her nice car, her perfect hair – maybe she hadn’t actually seen Kayla speaking to him, but she’d been thinking about him. Natalie had no doubts about that.

Then she grinned her first grin in two days.

Now, there’s an idea…could she have killed him?

Maybe when she found out that she’d been lied to, that she wasn’t his only lover, she went into a fit of jealous rage. I’ll bet she knew where he lived – I wonder how often he’s brought her over here? – she could have driven here while he was at work, and snuck in. She could have grabbed a knife from out of the drawer, and hidden in the cupboard, lying in wait for him. And when he got home, she pounced out and killed him. Yes; that’s good, that’s very good…I’m glad I wasn’t here; she might’ve killed me, too…

Then Natalie gasped and turned, eyes wide with fright, towards the door, because what if Kayla comes back?

It took her a minute to decide that the idea was absurd. I’m not thinking straight…then again, who would be, in my position? Leaning with her back against the kitchen door, she began to think, Okay, let’s assume Kayla killed him: then what? What about the crime scene? Why isn’t there any evidence?

She closed her eyes and thought furiously, then opened them again as she came up with the answer: Because Kayla would have known that even a single hair on the floor, a bit of skin under her victim’s fingernails, would be enough to incriminate her. So she cleaned everything up before she left. That’s it.

But then, how could I be so sure it was Kayla?

I could mention that I thought I saw her walking down the street as I pulled into the drive. I don’t need to be sure, I just have to give the suggestion. Don’t overthink it.

So that’s that. When the police ask if I can think of anyone who would have done this – who would have murdered my boyfriend – I’ll bring up Kayla.

Am I ready to call them now? Let me think…

I got off work early, and went over to Bertram’s house to find him dead.

But what if they say it looks like he’s been dead for a little while?

In the closed-off room, Natalie spoke in a shaky voice: “I’m sorry, Officer; I know I should have called someone earlier, but I guess I was in shock. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

And if they search the trash bin, and find the towels? The washing machine didn’t get all the stains out.

She shrugged, and gave a stifled sob. “I couldn’t just leave him laying in a pool of blood, could I?”

Makes sense. Yes. I’m ready now.

She unlocked and opened the door, prepared for an evil smell, but it wasn’t all that bad, really; she supposed that was because she had cleaned up all the blood as soon as she’d been certain Bertram was dead. “Don’t give me that look,” she said, only meeting his glazed eyes briefly; though the expression on his face was one of frozen horror, she thought there was something accusatory in his stare. “You brought this on yourself, you know.”