Pasco woman found slain at home
The sirens of the ambulance race through the streets, screaming at the blissfully oblivious neighbors of Land O’ Lakes that something has gone horribly wrong. I wonder if they hear it. I wonder if they care.
The house alarm in my bedroom sings a pattern of warnings to its residents. Does it realize the residents have already been lost? Does it realize that I’m already gone? I can’t move my hands. I can not speak. I wish I could silence the noise, but I’m motionless.
The neighbors saw me sitting on my porch today, but passed by as usual. They don’t take notice in me besides the fact that I’m friendly and I’m the mother of a college bound daughter. She won’t know what has happened until tomorrow. She won’t expect this coming; she will probably think I’m still at home, enjoying my retirement. She is wrong.
I have no family left. My daughter is the only one I care about, the only one who I pray for at night. My husband, Mr. Emanuel Lombard, is no longer my husband. We separated years ago. They won’t be able to find him. He despises me and our daughter; I suspect it’s because we ruined his affair and won all of our possessions in the divorce. He was the one who had to move. He will be away by the time they reach him with the news that his ex-wife committed suicide. That is what they will think, but it is not true.
Mr. Brown passed by the house this afternoon. He waved politely as usual. I smiled in return, but he had no clue what would happen. He must have heard the gun shots, but dismissed them. He was probably off to his family after a long day at work. He most likely opened the front door and was greeted by the inviting aroma of pot-roast baking in the oven, ignorant of what was occurring next door.
The little boy across the street stopped by for a hello as well, his gelatinous belly danced as he waddled up the porch steps. I gave him a candy, although I should have provided a less sugary treat. He asked about my knitting. I told him about the arthritis in my right hand, causing me to have to use my left hand for most the work. My right hand is almost useless, but I try to use it anyways. Most of my knitting came out uneven, but he still thought my scarf was pretty.
The killer will stage it wonderfully. He is here right now, but I can not stop him. I can not move. I can not yell at him to stop, or call for help. I am motionless. I see him, pacing back and forth. He doesn’t know what to do with me. He comes up close to me, my motionless body. His eyes are full of confusion and fury, he can hear the sirens. He knows they are coming, and if they find him he is done for. His eyes seem to glisten in the dark, shining among the darkness like the moon at night.
He’s so close to me, laying his head on my chest. He’s wondering if there are any signs of life. The constant beating of my heart has stopped long ago, leaving only the hollowness of my chest, inactive and still. He lifts his head, and lifts my lifeless hand. The ring sparkles like a boys eyes in candy store. He removes the ring he had placed on my fingers years before. The ring he swore would always be mine. He moves to the next finger and removes my grandmother’s ring, the one that is worth a fortune; the one he always wanted to sell.
He begins to pace again, back and forth, back and forth. I can not stop him. I cannot stop the pacing; his steps are like the beats to a song. The rhythms of his movements are like a metronome, like the beats of my heart that no longer works. His head flashes up. He has found his resolution. His hand slips behind his leather jacket like a magician searching for his next surprise. He pulls out a handkerchief. Will he turn it into a bundle of flowers? He disappears into the next room and returns with the bleach. He cleans the gun and gently places it in my right hand. He makes my fingers clasp it gently. I can not move them by myself. I can not scream for help. I am motionless.
He looks down at me, inspecting the job he has done. He knows that he has done well. He lifts his head towards the door; he can hear the sirens getting closer. He can hear the neighbors shouting for their shoes, eager to see what has disrupted their daily routines, their peaceful sleep, and their evenings alone. He runs for the window, looks back at his efforts, and then escapes. They will never suspect Mr. Lombard was ever here. They will never know. My hand is evidence.
