Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  “Why didn’t you tip off the police that Dave killed her?” Stanley asks, irate, trying to figure out his next move. Our next move.

  “I didn’t think of it.”

  “Well, that’s the first true thing I think you’ve told me. I know I told you I didn’t need the truth, but I’m telling you now that I need you to tell me the truth about what happened. All of it.”

  “I wanted to kill Dave. You’re right.”

  “I don’t mean about Dave,” Stanley says, shaking his head and leaning on the table so his eyes meet mine.

  “I thought Lana killed herself,” I say with complete conviction.

  “And when they proved she didn’t?”

  “I guess I blamed Dave.”

  “You guess you blamed Dave?” Stanley asks. “You guess you blamed Dave?” he repeats.

  He can’t believe it, and I’m not even sure that I do at this point. What did I think when I learned that someone else was responsible for Lana’s death? Why didn’t I consider the possibilities? I could have avoided a lot of this, blamed it on that boyfriend hiding in the shadows late at night. Her old boss. An old, jealous classmate who found her on Facebook. The fucking mailman. I’m disappointed in myself; I could have done so much better.

  Of course, it all would have been too late anyway, since we now know that Dave’s call to the tip line was made only hours after her death.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to say you thought it might have been Dave, but you couldn’t turn him in because you couldn’t bear to lose your husband, too.”

  “And then I killed him?” I ask, fearing that even my fancy lawyer’s story doesn’t add up. “I thought you wanted the truth.”

  “Clearly I’m not going to get that. I want you to tell them that you killed Dave purely out of self-defense, because he turned on you. You had no choice in the matter.”

  “Fine. What about explaining that I didn’t kill Lana?” I say, taking a drink of water.

  He looks around the room at his clueless associates.

  “You say just what you told me,” he says, shaking his head, dumbfounded at his own suggestion. “You tell them you thought your daughter killed herself, and you know nothing more.” He pauses, knowing that this won’t win the jury over. “And then you blame it on Dave.”

  Well, if it’s for the best . . .

  Before I know it we’re back in the courtroom, and I have resumed my position on the stand.

  “Can you confirm that that’s your husband’s voice on the recording, Ms. Moore?”

  “Hard to say. Could be anyone,” I say.

  “So why do you think this mystery man left such a message?”

  I’m about to answer when Stanley chimes in again. “Objection; speculative.”

  “Sustained,” the judge says.

  Stanley sits down, having won a minor victory that must make him feel better, his ego reinflating just a little.

  “Well, then, let’s just cut to the chase, Ms. Moore. Did you kill your daughter?”

  I take a deep breath and brace myself. Now is my time to shine.

  “Of course I did not kill my daughter. She was my flesh and blood. And my best friend.” I sniffle, and then let the tears start rolling. “I loved her, and I never would have killed her.” The tears come fast and furious now, and remarkably, they aren’t even fake. I am truly sad about everything I am experiencing, and have experienced. “How could I kill my daughter? To imagine doing that to her—it’s unfathomable.”

  “But it’s not really unfathomable, because you did kill your husband.”

  “Yes, I did, and it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life. I had no choice but to kill him.”

  “We all have choices, Ms. Moore.”

  “You’re right,” I say, the tears having stopped for the moment. I look right at him. “I did have a choice, and if I would have made a different one, I would not be sitting here today. I would be dead.”

  “What about your DNA being found under Lana’s fingernails? How do you explain that?”

  “We lived together,” I say matter-of-factly, as though it explains everything, even though I know it doesn’t, and I know he knows the same thing.

  “Yes, you lived together, but not many people randomly have the DNA of the person with whom they live under their nails. You didn’t have Dave’s DNA under your nails. Did you and Lana have a fight?”

  “We did. It was just prior to her death. I lost a lot of sleep wondering if she killed herself because of it. She grabbed me and scratched me.”

  “Well, we all know she didn’t kill herself now, Ms. Moore.”

  “Yes, well, now I lose sleep wondering who killed her.”

  “And if she scratched you, how did her DNA end up under your nails?”

  Oh no.

  “I . . . umm . . . well . . .” I glance at Stanley and tug at the high neck on my dress. “I . . . I hate to admit this, but I wanted to do the same to her. I wanted her to know how it felt.”

  “She was your daughter, not a dog, Ms. Moore.”

  “Objection!” Stanley shouts.

  “Overruled!”

  “Do you have any proof of the fight? Did you take any photos of your scratches?”

  I am just about to give some smart answer when I remember Stanley drilling into my brain that sarcasm doesn’t play well with juries, so I give a straight answer instead.

  “No, I don’t routinely take photos of minor injuries, especially when not soon after I was preoccupied with my daughter’s death.”

  “Not too preoccupied to go on a vacation, were you?”

  “Dave and I decided together that we needed to get away. It’s very difficult to stay in a house where a loved one has committed suicide.”

  “Are you still in that house now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you move?” he asks.

  I often wonder the same thing. I didn’t know what to do. It would have been nice to move, get away from that toxic house, even more so now that that’s where I killed Dave. I wanted to put the house up for sale the moment I was released on bond after being charged with Lana’s murder, but I thought people would find it odd. Then again, maybe they find it odder that I stayed there. Can’t please everyone. It was a double-edged sword, so I, like people all across the world, chose to do the easiest thing: stay where I was. I spend a lot of time at Beth’s house, too, so that helps.

  After the case is over and a verdict is issued, maybe I’ll move to make everything final. Start a new chapter in my life. First I have to get through this.

  “It’s hard to say good-bye,” I say. “Close that door forever. You know?”

  “Especially when you killed her,” he says, calmly as if he’d just told me to have a nice day.

  “Objection!” Stanley practically knocks the table over.

  “Sustained. Watch yourself,” the judge says.

  The prosecutor asks a couple more softball questions that I handle with ease, I think, and then it’s Stanley’s turn.

  “If you didn’t kill your daughter, Ms. Moore, who did?” he asks, bounding out of his chair.

  I sniffle and look right at him and then at the jury, my eyes welling with tears.

  “Dave. That’s what we were arguing about. It just . . . it breaks my heart to say that, but it’s the truth.”

  I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but Dave isn’t here to call me on it, so it is what it is.

  Stanley leads me through how dissatisfied Dave was with Lana running—and ruining—our lives. It’s an award-worthy performance. If I had to guess what the jury would decide, I’d say things would go in my favor, but I’m still nervous. I can barely catch my breath, wondering what the jury is talking about, thinking about; wondering if they re
lated to me and felt bad for me, or if they just think I’m a pariah.

  It’s no longer up to me; it’s in the hands of those lousy jury members. I’m not sure they are the people I want in control of my future, but Stanley says they are. And I believe him. It could be an hour, or days, so until then, I will keep my phone by my side and stay at Beth’s house. All this talk about moving has me wishing I had done just that.

  Chapter 22

  Kate

  I nearly explode listening to Margaret’s testimony, particularly when her TV lawyer puts on a flashy, “woe-is-her” show that’s supposed to make us all feel sorry for her. Well, it’s not going to work on me, and I can’t believe it would work on the jury, even though that damn attorney did his best to be certain he chose people who would fall right into the palm of his hand.

  I manage to keep my lunch down, but I can’t keep from rolling my eyes throughout her long, rehearsed answers that make me hurt physically. I direct several of the eye rolls right at Margaret when I know she’s looking at me. You know what she does in return? She gives me a sly smile, no sign of a single genuine emotion on her face. I hope the jury notices.

  I listen carefully as the judge issues the jury instructions. As strongly as I feel that Margaret is guilty, I feel nearly as strongly that she’ll be acquitted. I mentally prepare to take this to another level, to get justice one way or another.

  After the jury is dismissed, I have no choice but to leave and try to get back to work. I’ve instructed the prosecutor to let me know the moment he hears the jury has returned with a verdict. I will be there come hell or high water. I will see this case through. For Lana. For Ryan. For the future husband I have a feeling Margaret is already thinking about.

  She is technically out on bail, but I couldn’t let her wander free, so some officers are keeping an eye on her. Sure, we’re dedicating precious department resources to this, but it’s worth it. The legality is also slightly questionable, but don’t think we’re the only police officers to participate in questionable activity. We’re not. And we’re only doing it to put a murderer behind bars and protect the innocent.

  She’s led a pretty mundane life since being released. Maybe her attorney told her to keep a low profile. Most of the time she’s at home. If she’s not, she’s at her sister’s, or so I’ve been told. That’s the only place she’s allowed to go with her ankle monitor, not that I expect an ankle monitor to stop Margaret Moore.

  I have kept my distance from her. Even in the courtroom, I have no desire to have one-on-one contact with her. Ryan’s still convinced Margaret had Tracy killed, and the more we talk about it, and the more I think about it, I tend to believe him. I want nothing to do with her, save to put her behind bars permanently.

  I need to keep myself busy. In fact, I’m heading to the station now to look at some evidence and work on a robbery case Will and I have been investigating. Will’s been doing most of the work, even though he hasn’t even technically been promoted to detective yet.

  Sneaking around isn’t really my thing, so I was up front with Sarge about wanting to attend the trial as much as possible. To my surprise, he was okay with it, so I’ve been working overtime to keep up with my cases, doing paperwork at home, and showing up to the trial every day as though it was a part of my job.

  I walk into the station and head right to Sarge’s office. I knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he says.

  “Jury’s got it,” I tell him as I shut the door behind me and take a seat. The case isn’t exactly secret from the rest of the department, but private conversations are sometimes necessary.

  “How’s it looking?” he asks.

  “I’m not a jury expert,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes. He knows I have a feeling about this, just like everything else on earth. I’m often known for my “feelings” about things, whether it be a case, a basketball game, or if it’s going to rain.

  “Fine,” I continue, “I don’t think it’s going our way.”

  “Really? I thought we had this one nailed.”

  “She’s a good actress. The jury doesn’t believe someone like her could have killed her daughter. I wouldn’t believe it from that distance.”

  Sarge sighs. “What about Tracy’s case?”

  “You mean, can I prove Margaret Moore did it?”

  He nods his head.

  “I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.”

  “Gotta feel bad for Ryan.”

  “Sometimes at night I can’t sleep, thinking about him. He didn’t deserve this. I don’t know if you heard, but he was beaten pretty badly last week. I’m not sure how it happened.”

  “I didn’t hear. Is he okay?”

  “I haven’t been in. I talked to him on the phone; he’s okay, he says. Asked me not to come.”

  “He doesn’t want you to see him.”

  We fall silent a moment.

  “Have you done Will’s paperwork yet? To make him a detective?” I ask.

  “I’ll get it done today,” Sarge says, and I leave his office. Plenty of work waits for both of us.

  On the drive home, I’m out of it. In a zone, or a funk, caught up in a web of my thoughts and fears. My life is fine; really, it’s better than that. I’m heading home to my boyfriend, Emmitt. I think he’s going to propose soon. I accidentally came across a ring in his drawer. It really was an accident; I don’t make a habit of looking through his clothes, only his cell phone.

  As a detective, I’ve seen far, far too many relationships go bad because the guy was secretly a creep, a serial cheater, some financial schemer. That’s not going to happen to me. I wouldn’t blame him one bit if he had checked me out too. Sure, he doesn’t have the easy access to background checks like I do, but he can get creative. Now that I’ve seen what Margaret Moore is capable of, I am certain I can never be too safe. I would never go on a date with another guy as long as I live without checking into him, and possibly his family.

  A moot point for now, I guess, since Emmitt and I bought a house together. I wanted to wait until we were married, but Emmitt found this house that was in foreclosure.

  “It’s such a good deal,” he said, grabbing both of my hands, physically pulling me nowhere, but emotionally pulling me into the house. “It’s our dream house,” he cooed while flashing his almost too white, toothy grin.

  “I know,” I said, “But we’re not married. We’ve only been together a year.”

  “Most people are married and starting a family after being together a year.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “What do you have to lose?”

  “Nothing,” I said, taking a bigger risk than I had ever taken in my life.

  I don’t regret it. It’s pretty much my dream house. It is now, anyway. After we bought it, not so much. I remember my head becoming fuzzy and sitting down on the sidewalk because I couldn’t stop wondering what we had gotten ourselves into. Emmitt grabbed my hand again, stroking it up and down to comfort me. My boyfriend the accountant, about to turn HGTV-approved DIYer, took control again, in the best possible way.

  “I am going to fix this house. Give me three months and it will be done.”

  I didn’t believe him for a second, but with the help of his friends, not to mention his father’s construction company, our house was soon move-in ready, and my paradise. The place I love to come home to at the end of the day and cuddle up with my man, drowning the day in a glass of wine by the fireplace.

  He loves me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever find love, and here I am, waiting for the moment when he’ll propose. This weekend, we’re going to the shelter to see if we connect with a dog. Apparently our lives are not complete unless there is a dog that we’re going to have to hire a sitter for, since we work so much. Oh well . . . I’ve always wanted a dog.

  The thought that Margaret Moore
is somehow going to ruin all of this flashes through my brain. I look down to change the radio station from depressing news, most of which I’ve already heard, to upbeat trashy pop music from my youth, and when I look up, I’ve swerved into oncoming traffic. I steady the car and steer myself to the side of the road amid a cacophony of horns and a few middle fingers from the drivers that pass me. If only they knew.

  If only they knew that although I pretend to be tough and in control, I am secretly scared Margaret is going to come after me. Or that sometimes I can’t sleep at night thinking about Ryan in jail, feeling bad for him and wondering if we should have been together. Then I wonder if I’d be dead had we started the relationship that’s always been at the tip of our lips, even if we act like we’re just friends.

  One day I know my phone is going to ring and it’s going to be the prison telling me Ryan has hanged himself with his bedsheets, or that he fatally stabbed himself with a toothbrush he managed to turn into a weapon. He’s a crafty guy and I know he’s not happy. How could he be? He’d never complain, of course, because he knows our every conversation is listened to and recorded, since he is a ward of the state, but I can tell.

  Being able to share this with someone would lift an immense weight from my shoulders, but that can never happen. I have to hold in all the details of these cases from Emmitt, who tells me to ask for a desk job, or quit and get another job altogether. After I shoot those ideas down, he suggests we get married or not worry about traditional social conventions and start a family. Then I can stay home and be a mom. But what if that’s not what I want either?

  Beyond this, I know for sure that I don’t want to make any rash decisions, especially ones that can affect the rest of my life. I’m not even getting married until I know how this case turns out.

  As I sit on the side of the road, I have so many emotions and thoughts scrolling through my brain, and I can’t make sense of any of them. Not a single one. Quitting does cross my mind. Too bad it’s far too late for that now. Nothing will change the fact that I am involved in this case. The thought of breaking up with Emmitt definitely hits me too. I love him, but he didn’t sign up for this . . . this mess, sitting on the side of the road in her car, unable to control her emotions, or seemingly a single thing going on around her.