M1911A1 - Aftermath Pt. 01

"Well?" Ray prompted uncomfortably.

"Mr. Bledsoe wants to see you first thing in the morning. Apparently, Terry sent him an email telling him what we were doing," I replied. My world was unraveling and I was utterly powerless to stop it. Why had Terry done this to me?

"Shit," Ray gasped. "That means..."

"We're royally fucked," I said, finishing his sentence.

"Maybe," Ray said. "Maybe not. Since we both have seniority and this was the first time, maybe they'll have mercy on us."

"You don't really believe that, do you?" I asked.

"Not really. But I can hope. Shit, Helen. I'm so sorry."

"I am too, Ray. This is just as much my fault as yours," I admitted. "I had no clue he would overreact like this."

Just then, two police cars with flashing lights pulled in front of the house, and a coroner's van pulled up behind them. One officer came to Ray's side of the car and asked him to move so the van could back in. Another officer carrying a clipboard asked me to step out of the car. I got out as Ray started his car.

"Are you Ms. Helen Baker?" the officer asked.

"Yes, I am," I admitted.

"May I see some identification, please?" he asked. I pulled out my driver's license and handed it to him.

He filled out the form as he read the information on my license. I saw three officers and two others from the medical examiner's office enter the house after donning latex gloves and white booties. The officers grimaced when they opened the door and the odor struck their nostrils. The two coroner's techs donned masks and Tyvek suits and pushed a gurney into the house.

"Can you tell me what happened, Mrs. Baker?" the officer asked, capturing my attention.

"I left the house Friday afternoon. Terry was alive and sitting on the couch when I left. I don't know what happened after that. I just returned shortly before I called 911," I explained.

"Terry... That's your husband? The victim?" the officer asked.

"Yes," I said.

"And you say that you've been gone all weekend?" he asked, his eyebrows raised.

I answered in the affirmative again as the officer made his notes.

"And what were you doing this weekend?" the officer asked in a neutral tone.

"I was with a... colleague," I replied a bit evasively, causing his eyebrows to raise again as he filled out the form on his clipboard. That annoyed me and caused my stomach to twist even more. It was one thing to tell my husband what I was going to do, and I was finding it completely different to admit to a stranger what I had done.

"Is that the gentleman you were with when we arrived?" the officer asked.

"Yes," I confirmed, trying to be detached and failing miserably. I had attended hundreds of depositions, and even given a few, but this was the first time that something like that had involved ME.

He tried to mask his body language, but I could tell that he surmised - correctly - what I had been doing. He asked me a few more questions which I answered as succinctly as possible. It took him another 20 minutes to finish taking my statement. I tried to talk around everything, but the officer was focused.

I could actually feel my face reddening as I was required to report that I was at the city's most exclusive nightclub from early Friday evening until late Friday night, and then not having set foot outside one of the city's most prestigious apartment complexes from eleven p.m. Friday to four p.m. Sunday. I even had to give up the apartment number.

Okay, what was I going to do? Take the Fifth? Demand to see my lawyer? He was taking a witness statement at the scene of a potential crime. I was just a... bystander. Even if I was involved.

"That's all I have for now, Mrs. Baker," he said. "I'll need to speak with your... colleague, now." With that, the officer left and went to speak with Ray. As he walked over, he passed the spot where I had vomited on the lawn. He paused for a moment, had the audacity to make a note, and then continued.

I glanced around. It was evening, but there was still plenty of light. I could see our neighbors standing in their windows, staring curiously at the commotion. A few had even walked out to the end of their driveways and gawked. Damn it! Did it all have to be so... public? Maybe I should have fucked Ray a few more times and come back after dark.

A few minutes later, I saw the techs from the medical examiner's office come out of the house with a gurney that had Terry's body in a closed bag. I shivered, but for some reason, I couldn't look away. They placed the gurney in the back of their van, closed the door, and removed their white suits. After they carefully placed their suits into a plastic bag, they got into the van and left.

The officers followed them out and a man wearing sergeant's stripes walked toward me carrying two plastic bags.

"Mrs. Baker, I'm Sergeant Smith," he said. "We found this weapon near your husband's body. Did you know he had this gun?" he asked, holding a bag that held Terry's pistol.

"Yes, I knew," I replied. "It was a present from his grandfather. He's had it for years." I felt a little, more than a little, shaky. Before, it had been an out-of-sight-out-of-mind piece of metal. Now my gut saw it for the deadly weapon it was.

Suddenly I wondered if Terry had gotten it out after I left, or if he had it when I left and had intended to use it on Ray, or even ME, before turning it on himself. All those murder-suicides that had paraded across the evening news for years that I had barely paid attention to suddenly crashed in on me. Terry LOVED me, damn it! Didn't he? He let me have anything I wanted! Why not this?

"We also found this on the coffee table," the sergeant said, holding a bag with a piece of paper. "He apparently intended it for you."

I took the bag from the sergeant and saw a typed note and Terry's wedding ring. Shaking, I read the note through the plastic.

"Helen," the note began. "I would rather die than be your cuckold. I have loved you exclusively for a quarter of a century and always put your needs before mine. And this is how you repay me. Well, screw you, you selfish no-good bitch!

"I'm the one who pulled the trigger, but my blood is on your hands. When you left to spend the weekend fucking Ray Bland, you killed our marriage. You killed me!

"I hope you live a long, miserable life, bitch, and I hope my rotting corpse haunts you every time you close your eyes." The short note ended: "Rot in HELL, Bitch!"

I handed the note back to the sergeant with shaky hands. I knew he would need it to finish filling out his report. My knees were shakier than my hands, but they didn't buckle. If I wasn't in shock before, I was now.

I thought about what Terry had written. He had never used language like that in my presence, ever, and his letter shook me to the core. To be honest, I never knew he had it in him. Maybe if he had said this to me on Thursday when I told him what I was going to do, I wouldn't have left, and Terry would still be alive.

With a really sinking feeling, I realized that the operative word was, "Maybe."

But I can't handle speculation or "what-ifs." I'm a lawyer, which means I have to work with the hand I've been dealt, even if I dealt it to myself. I took a couple of deep breaths to keep myself under control and looked at the sergeant. Speculation and 'reasonable doubt' was what I tried to peddle to juries on behalf of clients. I strongly suspected that my own reasonable doubt was lying in a puddle in my front yard, and whatever jury I would eventually face wouldn't be very sympathetic.

"Can I go back into my house now?" I asked.

"We're still processing the scene, ma'am. And to be honest, it's pretty bad in there. Our coroner estimated your husband killed himself sometime Friday evening, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to stay here. At least for a couple of days. I've taken the liberty of calling a cleaning service and they should arrive shortly. If I were you, I'd find a hotel and stay there until at least Tuesday or Wednesday."

"Can I at least get my computer and some things to hold me over for a couple of days?" I asked in my best professional tone.

"When we're finished," the sergeant said. "That could take another hour." He studied me for a few moments, then pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. "I know this is all a shock to you, ma'am. I highly recommend you speak to someone. I recommend Gina Hastings. She's an excellent counselor. She's the one the department sends us to if an officer experiences... trauma... on the job. Tell her you spoke to me and I'm sure she can get you in quickly."

"Thank you, Sergeant Smith," I replied. I was irritated at the notion that I needed a counselor. "I'll... think about it."

His expression was almost inscrutable, but I could sense the disapproval and concern. After all, I was standing in front of him, vibrating like a church bell. "Your choice, ma'am. But I think you should call her as soon as possible. If not her, then a pastor or good friend," the sergeant said before returning to the house.

Sighing, I walked to the porch and sat on a swinging bench Terry installed last summer. It was another thing I insisted he do for me. As I sat on the bench, it dawned on me that we had used that bench maybe one time since he put it up. I thought about what Terry wrote. Even if I closed my eyes, I could still see the writing.

After several minutes, Ray walked up and sat on the bench next to me, not too close. I glanced around. Almost all of the neighbors had gone back inside or drawn their drapes after the van left, though there seemed to be a handful of persistent busybodies.

"What did they want?" I asked vaguely.

"They wanted a run-down on our weekend," Ray replied with a sigh.

"You told them everything?" I glanced at him, too numb to summon up a glare.

"Pretty much. I didn't give them a blow-by-blow, just the Reader's Digest version," Ray said, obviously not intending the pun. "What did that sergeant want?"

"Terry wrote a suicide note," I told him hollowly.

"Crying about how much he loves you and can't live without you?" Ray asked sarcastically.

"No. He said what he should have told me Thursday night. Called me a bitch and said his blood is on my hands. And you know what?"

"What?" Ray asked.

"He's right. I am a selfish bitch, and his death is on me."

"You can't blame yourself. He pulled the trigger, not you," Ray replied in what he probably thought was a reassuring manner. "After all, he didn't own you. You have a right to make your own decisions."

"You're right. I do," I nearly whispered, reflecting on Terry's letter. "And I have to own the consequences of my decisions."

Ray stared at me for a moment, which I barely registered, and then pressed on. "Well, I've been giving all this some thought, and I believe I know how to approach Bledsoe in the morning.

"With me divorced and you now widowed, there is no one to make problems for the firm with lawsuits. Our little tryst was personal and had no newsworthy overtones, no political corruption or social scandal. Just a little matter between consenting adults.

"It will hardly be a blip on anyone's radar and gone in days. So there would be no 'upside' in the firm terminating or requesting the resignation of two senior people. It will be stronger if we both make the same argument. I'll call you after the meeting tomorrow and let you know so we can coordinate efforts."

I looked at him. Terry was no more than a 'blip?' The man who I now realized, albeit too late, had treated me like a queen, was a 'blip?' The man whom I had treated like a serf, was now demoted even from that, to 'blip?'

Ray was anxious to save his career and his job, and he had no clue that I was now desperate to save my sanity! I considered his words for a few moments. Technically, I knew he was right - there was no political corruption or social scandal. But I also knew Bledsoe was a firm believer in the firm's code of conduct, especially in the area of sexual relationships between employees.

"Let me know what Bledsoe says," I finally managed to say.

"I will. Are you going to be all right?" Ray asked.

"I'll manage," I said deadpan. The truth was I doubted that I would ever be all right ever again. But I was determined not to let Ray know that.

"Call me if you need anything," Ray said before leaving.

"Yeah, okay," I muttered as he walked away.

An unmarked white van pulled into the driveway shortly after Ray drove off. A young man with shoulder-length blond hair stepped out and approached the porch.

"Is this the Baker residence?" he asked.

"Yes," I acknowledged. "And you are?"

"Jack Harrison. Harrison Cleaning Services. I was told there was an... incident... here," he replied professionally, handing me a card.

"Yes," I said quietly. "The police are still inside."

"Excellent. Thank you," he nodded. I watched him don a mask, booties, and gloves before walking inside. Jack and the police officers came out a few minutes later. Sergeant Smith approached me as the others walked to their cruisers.

"We're finished here, Mrs. Baker," he said. "Here's my card. The case number is on the back. I'll have a report ready in a day or two. If you have any questions, please feel free to call me."

"Thank you. Can I get my things now?" I asked.

"Sure. You might want to put on a mask and booties before you go inside, though," the sergeant said. "Mr. Harrison has some he can let you use."

"Thank you," I said, taking his card. I put it in my purse as Jack approached with a pair of booties and a fresh mask. The officers left as I donned the mask and booties. Jack opened a small jar of Mentholatum.

"Might want to put some of this under your nose. Still pretty bad in there," he advised.

I followed his instructions and went into the house. The ointment helped, but I could still smell the foul odor. I took in the mess on the large sectional couch and realized I would have to replace it. I had spent over $6,000 on that couch and it wasn't even eight months old.

Then I looked at the abstract painting I just had to have hanging over the couch. It was an abstract piece that cost me over $2,000. It was completely ruined now, with Terry's blood and brain matter splattered all over it. The carpet in front of the couch was soaked with blood and other fluids that made me shudder.

"I can get all of that out of the carpet. Hopefully, the pad underneath isn't soaked too badly. I don't know if I'll be able to restore the couch, though. I'll give it my best effort," Jack assured me.

"Please do," I said quietly. "How long will you be here?"

"It'll probably take me most of the night to get this done. Can I call or leave a message when I leave?"

"Yeah," I said, handing him one of my cards with my cell phone number. "Just lock up when you leave, please." I felt like I was taking quite a risk leaving this man here by himself, but I needed to get out. Besides, he was licensed and insured, it said so on his card, and I could always sue him if anything came up missing.

"Yes, ma'am," he responded courteously, taking my card and slipping it into a pocket in the coverall.

I went upstairs, packed enough for three days, grabbed my laptop bag, and quickly left the house before my stomach rebelled again. Jack was already hard at work in the front room. I told him I was leaving, and he waved as I walked to the garage through the kitchen.

I arrived at the Holiday Inn Express close to our house and went inside, hoping they had a room available. Fortunately, they had a room, and I handed the clerk my ATM card. She came back a few moments later, a slight scowl on her face.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but this card was declined," she stated, handing the card back to me.

"What?" I asked, shocked. We always kept enough in our joint account to cover at least six months' worth of bills. I would have to investigate this, I thought as I grabbed my credit card, which I knew had more than enough balance to cover the room.

That card worked, and I went up to my room. I was pissed that our ATM card didn't work and was determined to get to the bottom of it. The first thing I did was power up my laptop and log into our joint account. If Terry was still alive, I would have killed him myself, I thought. When our account came up, I saw an alert that the account balance was low.

I nearly lost it again when I saw the balance -- $24. What the hell did Terry do? Digging deeper, I saw that he had donated all but $24.00 to children's charities, including a local church-run orphanage. I'm sure that was his way of letting me know that he wasn't happy that I had decided not to have children. But why leave twenty-four dollars out of the thousands we had in that account?

My immediate concern was covering the bills we had coming due this month. All of our bills were paid by automatic draft, so I transferred enough from my account to cover the bills for this month.

I wondered if Terry had done something similar with his account. I didn't have the credentials to log into his online banking, so I made a note to stop by the bank tomorrow. By now, I was exhausted, both mentally and physically. I was also hungry, having not eaten anything since lunch, so I drove to a nearby fast-food restaurant and gobbled a greasy hamburger which didn't sit too well on my already queasy stomach.

After returning to my room, I showered and got ready for bed. I was so tired that I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

"Well, well, well. I see you finally decided to drag your skanky ass back to the house," a male voice said. I looked around but saw nothing but a thick dark mist. I realized I was dreaming, and the voice sounded like Terry's. Only this wasn't the quiet gentle Terry I knew. This voice had an edge to it.

"Terry, is that you?" I asked, uncertainly. "I can't see you. Can you step out so I can see you? Please?"

"Sure," the male voice replied. I saw a shadowy figure step forward. I nearly threw up again when I saw him. Half of his head was gone. Bone fragments dropped off of his skull as he walked toward me and I could see what was left of his brain.

I was horrified and took a step backward. Then I shook myself. This had to be a nightmare; it HAD to be. "No. No! This isn't real. You aren't real. You are just an indigestible piece of that vile grease-burger I forced down before I went to bed. There is more of grease than gore about you!" I declared with far more courage than I actually had.

His eyes glowed red and he strode toward me. The smell hit me first, and then blazing eyes practically blinded me, and then the primal scream caused me to leap back and drop to one knee, arms over my head. "Okay! Okay!" I conceded frantically. "This is real! You're real!"

"You better believe it, you pitiful excuse for a wife," he snarled dangerously.

"Terry, I," I began, but he threw up a hand to silence me.

"Shut up, bitch. This is all on you. Whaddya think?" he asked, turning his head so I could see the exit wound on the left side of his head. "Not much different from that $2,000 piece of crap you just had to have over the couch."

"I thought you liked that painting," I protested weakly, a bit bewildered by the venom in his tone.

"I hated it. But it made you happy, and that's all that mattered to me at the time. Besides, I figured you'd get tired of it in a year or two. In the same way that you obviously got tired of me. So, was fucking Ray Bland worth what it cost you?"

I looked down in embarrassment, not saying anything. Although I didn't want to lose Terry over it, the truth was it was the best sex I had experienced in a long time.

"You don't need to say anything. Your most private thoughts are perfectly transparent here, Helen," Terry said malevolently.

I could feel my face burning and tried looking away from him, but that didn't work. Wherever I looked, he was standing there, right in front of me.