by Cat Bruno
My mug of coffee spilled across my lap as his plate struck me.
“I don’t believe you.”
I heard the shower running as I examined my face in the powder room. Once the blood had dried, I could hardly tell that I had been injured at all. My eyebrows were several shades darker than my hair, and the cut blended into the auburn brown brows. In the medicine cabinet there was a tube of liquid bandage, and I applied some to the cut. After, I walked back to the kitchen to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer.
For the next half hour, I held the blue-gray pack to my face, hoping it would prevent bruising or swelling. William had not yet come out from the bathroom, but I cared little for his whereabouts. By then, I recognized his moods. Once his temper had risen enough to strike, he would cool off soon after, much like a firecracker. He burnt hot for a moment, struck, and retreated, falling to the ground in disappearing embers. It was an easy guess that I would not see him or hear from him for the rest of the day. To say I enjoyed those hours following an outburst from him would be true. He left at some point, although I did not know where he had gone. Despite being tempted to unpack my burner phone, I did not. Cameras could have been placed across his house, I had concluded months before, and I would be a fool to expose my cards so readily in a house than I did not own.
A few hours later – I waited to see how the injury would progress – I dressed and put on makeup, gently powdering the area above my eye. Even though my face did not appear overly altered, I grabbed a hat before making my way to my car. Thirty minutes later, I parked outside of a thrift store in the western suburbs.
The next hour passed serenely as I half-floated between the aisles. With hands that did not shake or tremble, I examined sweaters and jeans, blouses and stilettos. Around me were white-haired retirees and rainbow-haired hipsters. I smiled often, strolling around the store as if I had no mission. However, you must have guessed by now that I would not have driven so far and to such a place without a preconceived plan. That day, you see, I purchased the outfit that I would wear when I killed William.
Before I tell you what I bought, I need to remind you of how wholly important it is that you develop your own plan. Do not copy mine! (Is that another rule? Maybe one of you attentive readers will make a list?) Each situation is unique, and, as I have suggested a few other times, all angles must be considered, prepared for, and cleaned up. Do not commit any crime without the proper groundwork placed and precautions taken. Do not let anger or fear or sadness or jealousy, or any of the other mortal flaws provoke you into acting until you are ready.
How will you know when you are ready? Shall we examine that now? What better time, I suppose, than at this point in my own story when William’s death glowed as bright as the North Star navigating my way. Some informal tips will follow, but, for reasons that should be obvious, do not highlight or bookmark them. Actually, I should mention, destroy this book once you have learned all that you can from it. Paper burns quite beautifully, you know.
First, you must be financially stable. Now I admit that for some of you this will be difficult to achieve. Work extra shifts, get an evening job, sell items that won’t rouse suspicions. Spend less on food and clothing, entertainment and recreation. Hide money. HIDE THE MONEY! And not in a bank account with your name and social security number attached to it. Hide it literally, somewhere that is accessible but secretive. For me, that place was a half-full bag of flour. William never baked, so I bagged up what cash I had been saving and (only at night when a camera could not detect what it was that I did) slipped it into the bag. My bank account wavered between $2000-6000, depending on the time of the month, and I made certain that no unusual activity surfaced. But my flour-bag savings had climbed to nearly $20000 by the time of William’s death. By then, I had to use two bags of sugar as well.
That is a significant amount of money, and you might not need as much. But you will need at least half of that. Why? For travel, attorney fees (keep this possibility in mind), incidentals that must not be traced to your bank or credit card, living expenses for at least two months after the act, and other unexpected needs. There are many of those unexpected ones that pop up and could ruin you if you do not have the cash to handle them. The more money you have saved, the easier it will be to escape. Really, the equation is that simple.
Next, you must not confide in anyone or let it be known that your relationship is in turmoil. You are the happy wife, girlfriend, significant other. If you have complained to a friend or sister, do not try to take the words back; simply change the narrative. Yes, things had been bad, but you both were committed to making the relationship work and things are better than ever now, mostly through hard work and cognitive behavior changes. And love, of course. You both love each other so much. Believe that. Act that out. Live it and breathe it, even if that means sobbing in the shower or hating whom you have become.
Along with that is taking action to erase any evidence that might exist of anything contrary to your loving relationship. He texted you that you were a lying bitch? Delete it. From his phone and yours. Keep some minor annoyances as proof of normalcy, however; like a text asking why he had not cleaned up the garage or fixed a leaking faucet.
Are you seeing someone else? If so, stop. Right now. And add a year onto any date you might have selected as the one on which the crime would happen.
But, what about Mickey, you might be thinking? Which is why I did not want to sleep with him. Even if I had been seen with him at the hotel, I would say it was for the story. Really, he was a professional contact, an addict who, at the last minute, would not allow me to go public with his story. However, I must advise you to avoid this entanglement altogether. Love can wait.
If he is seeing someone, pretend that you did not know. Do not confront her (or him). If, once he is dead, the authorities provide you with pictures or information regarding such an affair, act shocked, as if you can’t believe it. No, not him, that must be someone else. Let the cops suspect her of the crime, although that suggestion must not come from you. In a confessional, teary way, admit that you had received a few phone calls where no one was on the line and had seen a car like the other woman’s (your reconnaissance will help you know what she drives) at odd times outside of your home or job. But let the police draw their own conclusions. They will, trust me.
If you get arrested, admit nothing. Ask for a lawyer because you are scared and confused. Do not let them interrogate you. Ever. At all. Answer no questions. They will be suspicious because of your refusal, but this is non-negotiable. Apologize for not cooperating, but admit to watching too many crime shows on television. Something along the lines of, “I know you want to ask me questions, and I have nothing to hide. However, I have watched Law and Order for years and do not want to say something wrong, even though I know that I am innocent.”
Which leads me to my next suggestion: have an attorney ready. Research who has won cases and negotiated the best plea bargains. Do not retain him until you are arrested, but have knowledge of the best attorneys in your area. All the research should be done on your burner phone. That’s an obvious tip, right?
An alibi is, in my opinion, the most essential piece, one that requires significant attention and thought. You must find a way to be somewhere else. This area is one of the few where I recommend using technology as an assistant. Here is an example and near to what I planned: record your voice on some sort of device (that has been purchased with cash) requesting search information from your cell phone. For less than thirty dollars, I had found a small recorder capable of holding two hours of audio, which was enough time to cement my alibi. I recorded things like, “Top restaurants in Columbus?” and “Best recipe for sugar cookies.” Spread out over the two hours, these questions played with my personal cell phone nearby. As a result, I had created a digital alibi that I was at home, which could be backed up by my phone records. I do not need to remind you that the recording device must be immediately destroyed and discarded, once the alibi has been procured.
/> Instead of cutting and coloring your hair, I recommend using a wig. Depending on your size, you can also disguise yourself as a man, which I considered myself. This is a very strong option. Oversized sweatshirts and jogging pants are great for this, as they add bulk in the case that you might have been photographed. You must abandon all ideas of vanity. Perhaps part of you would like to appear devastatingly beautiful on that last day he will see you. Such a conceit could be a fatal one; abandon it. Forget it completely. Aim to look average, normal, and unnoticeable. Maybe in your area, men wear camouflage hats and flannel shirts. If so, that must be your uniform as well. Or you might live in a more urban setting where men are often in khaki pants and polo shirts. Follow the local trends when choosing your murderous outfit. All black clothing is the choice for many for good reason, my friends.
Operate under the cover of night. Surveillance cameras are quite common these days and are often disguised or placed too high for you to notice them. At night, they use infrared lightning to produce black and white video; most times, the video is grainy and thick. There have been advances in night vision cameras that produce much clearer video, but most homes and businesses have not upgraded to the more expensive models. However, there is a very high chance that you will be seen on some video if you are near a retail or business center. Keep that in mind when picking a location. A disguise will ease your worries, but choose the most remote location possible without arousing suspicions. That is a delicate balance that only you can navigate.
I will not speak on weapons or methods; some lines must be your own to walk. Generally, you must minimize evidence. You are a ghost, floating about without a trace of your existence to be found. All clothing, including gloves, must be discarded, burned, or destroyed. From the early moments of my plan, I knew that I would not be able to handle any blood loss and chose accordingly. Your goal should be to make any death appear natural or accidental. Unless it is ruled a homicide on a death certificate, no investigation will be done. Keep this in mind. Again, I will keep this section as brief as possible out of both necessity and refusal to be an accessory.
One thing I have learned in my years of covering crime scenes is this: Do not touch the body. Before, during, or after, keep your hands (and DNA) to yourself. In truth, you should be nowhere near the crime scene. Further, it should be a site that you have no association with and one that you have never visited. Yes, this limits what methods you might choose, but it is the safest option. Oh, no, here I am giving advice again. Let’s move on.
What happens once your partner is dead? Assuming you have gotten rid of anything linking you to the crime or the location and that there is no digital or electronic trail, you will be informed of his death. Your reaction will be scrutinized and interpreted. Each movement you make will be analyzed. Each word you speak with be judged. Even your breathing will be watched. Here are some thoughts.
It is not a requirement that you sob or wail upon hearing the news. Forced crying is easily detectable, especially to law enforcement and family members. Tears should be natural; if you do not cry, then act shocked. Quietly, confusingly shocked. Silence is your shield. Some, when nervous or upset, babble. That is an error of impossibly large proportions, and just as impossible to recover from.
“I do not understand,” is a fine response. Asking what happened works as well. Shaking your head or muttering in disbelief is permissible. But do not try to win an acting award in that moment. Simplicity and silence and surprise.
As an aside, I would recommend cremation over burial. But do not insist if there is resistance, as it would make you appear suspicious.
Where was I? Oh, yes, my outfit. You might now question why a special outfit must be purchased after I have counseled you to steer clear of any physical involvement. Well, there are moments when you will need your disguise. Supplies might need to be secured, payments made (I strongly denounce hiring a hitman or any such operative), surveillance examined. Perhaps the easiest way to explain this would be to use an example. A hypothetical one, of course, and used only for the purposes of furthering the conversation. Years ago, before airbags and safety tests, cars were death boxes. Cutting brake lines, loosening tires, and unhooking belts might all be employed as tools in this dark trade of ours.
If I were to do something of the sort, here is how I would begin.
First came the shoes. In the men’s section, I found a pair of black work boots only slightly too large. They were comfortable and without any adornment or noticeable branding. Their tread was indistinct, an important and often overlooked feature. Even the laces were forgettable.
Temperatures for October in Ohio could vary by dozens of degrees so I settled on a hooded sweatshirt that zipped down the middle. Small gray lines ran parallel to the zipper, however there was nothing unusual about the dark garment, even its uneven, unflattering shape. It seemed overkill to find matching pants, so I opted for ill-fitting jeans, completely unlike the fitted, skinny trend that women wear today. Once they had been midnight black, but now a faded fog covered them. I tried nothing on, yet the image of the outfit played out in my mind several times as I shopped.
To seem less obvious, I purchased other items that day, although I did not plan on wearing them. They, too, would be discarded, yet I could not arrive at the checkout with the basket of a cat burglar. Nothing was of particular interest or lasting importance, and all of the items were casually thrown into garbage bins over the next few weeks. The outfit itself had been openly hidden, with the jeans tucked beneath a pair I wore regularly and the sweatshirt hanging at the edge of my closet. Only the boots were truly disguised as I buried them beneath a pile of blankets in a storage area where William never explored.
I drove home that day listening to the radio and waited for the Moon Kings hypnotic beats to strum through the speakers. It never happened, of course, but I hummed the chorus in a mismatched rhythm as I exited the highway. Things were going smoothly, although I dared not tempt fate. The gods hate hubris, that human flow of overabundant pride, and I reminded myself to maintain humility. You must never feel victorious and never take off your mantle of deception, my lovely friends. There is a reason why Greek tragedies have found so much success.
Life is simply a crazy journey that yo-yos between the ups and downs in an often stomach-churning manner.
A Return to Normalcy
For the next few weeks, I focused on my assignment – the professional one. Two more trips to Akron, one to East Cleveland, and two days spent in Toledo bookmarked those days following my time spent with Mickey. I can say without hesitation his tour was much more enjoyable than my own, although my trip to Toledo allowed me to meet with two women who I will not forget.
One was Lyra, beautifully named by parents much like my own – whimsical, even in their short-sightedness. A decade or so older than me, Lyra found me before I could find her; such was her wisdom. Word had spread by then of my work, and Lyra approached me within hours of my arrival in Toledo. I had parked my car outside of a methadone clinic, and as I walked to the door, she jumped across my path with an energy that defied her age and history, which included using for many years. However, she had been in recovery for several years and now served as a counselor at the center; a success story in a field in desperate need of one.
“What you are doing is a necessary evil,” she told me just after introducing herself. “But promise me you will not portray these folks as criminals; they are not.”
In preparation for the pictorial, I had researched every avenue of drug addiction and dependency that I could find, including the varying opinions on the concept of criminality and victimhood. Some believe addiction to be a choice; others think it is a disease. Academics and medical experts explore such topics in essays questioning if addicts have free will and the concept of consent. The biological basis and brain changes are also examined, yet I do not have near enough training or scientific understanding to sum up their findings, ones that often seem to contradict each other. Of late
, research has shown that even the neural changes in an addict’s brain do not restrict his ability to quit using. In fact, both reward-based systems and punishment-based ones have been shown to work. If I could have offered money to Lizzie (who you will meet soon) to quit, I would have. But I could not without jeopardizing the impartiality of my assignment. Instead, I have done what I could for her daughter and for Lyra’s as well.
William’s money will do some good, I hope.
After quickly explaining that it was not my goal to taint my images with any kind of editorial slant, Lyra sighed, not fully accepting or happy with my answer. However, I followed her into the clinic with my packet of consent papers and my camera.
I speak and think of Lyra with regret and an abundance of sadness. Three weeks after meeting her, I learned that she had been arrested for killing her boyfriend. Now, she sits in a Lucas County jail cell awaiting trial for murder. Our similarities extended beyond artsy, free-spirited parents, which I would learn that same day, just after I met Lizzie. Our endings, however, diverged.
Some hours later, all three of us walked to a nearby diner for a late lunch. Lizzie, with her tight, blond ponytail hanging to one side and her face clean of makeup and pretense, sat beside Lyra, whose curly, dark hair was cropped into a no-nonsense, banged bob that required little maintenance. Black liner curved over the edges of her eyes, and I smiled as I thought how much she resembled a statue of Cleopatra that I had seen years before in the Brooklyn Museum. The queen identified as the Egyptian goddess Isis, and now I could only see Lyra as such. Although, in tales, Isis resurrects her dead husband Horus, a feat that Lyra could not accomplish, even if she desired it. Isis, too, was a restorative goddess, welcoming the souls of the dead and offering them peace, much like Lyra, who now guided those seeking their own peace.
And Lizzie? That fresh-faced, blue-eyed beauty who could have had her face painted across billboards could be none other than Aphrodite – the curvy, big-breasted goddess who embraces pleasure as if the world might end in moments. Her statue, perhaps one of the most famous, Venus de Milo, stunned me into silent revelry both times that I have viewed it at the Louvre. With her hair tied back from her face, Lizzie’s resemblance to the goddess was strong, even more so once she began talking about all the men in her life.
