A Murder Story

A Murder Story

How can I write when I have nothing to say. I’m incapable of being creative? My brain is a calcified lump; my heart, a stilled pump and fingers are frozen. I am not alive, not by any stretch of the imagination. I am literarily frozen, devoid of dreams or desires. Nothing remains worthy of writing except the events leading to this point of nothingness. The story I’m about to tell logically concludes with my own demise. By the time this text is read, the details within will have been precisely enacted. The why, when, and where of my murder are irrelevant. The how, however is everything.

I am an accountant not only by profession but by nature. One may not believe but at any given moment, I know the precise sum in my savings and checking accounts, the market value of my house, the size of retirement saving plan and everything else that maybe quantified. I was also born frugal as I fully comprehend the pain and finality of loss. Perhaps I chose this line of work because I was already this way—a causality I neither know nor wish to explore, I am who I am and I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. I admit, I despise waste, especially of food. Living on a fixed income is right up my alley as I know how to deal with it. I believe there are two types of people: the poor and the thrifty. I am both. I think that’s why my wife left me.

The fact is that being single and living on a fixed income however, presents its own challenges, regardless of who you are. I can never finish a loaf of bread before it blooms a bluish-green patina and I’ve developed an appreciation for the exotic fuzz colonizing my forgotten cream cheese. As you see, my life is colorful, but God knows and I know better that this is not an economical way to live. So, I pondered.

I conducted a cost-benefit analysis on the introduction of a deep freezer. I calculated the initial purchase price against the projected annual energy consumption, then compared this to the savings from buying meat, fish, and poultry in bulk. I could preserve the cherry tomatoes from my garden and the strawberries from the farmer’s market. The result indicated a 100% return on investment within the first year.

The second variable was space. A large white box would be an eyesore in my small kitchen, so I reconfigured my garage, fitting the freezer tightly next to my tool chest. I began saving a bundle by stuffing my fact depository with fillet mignon, T-bone steaks, and whole Alaskan salmon. Despite my natural tendencies, I went on a shopping spree and bought and bought and bought as if there was no tomorrow.

Within a few weeks, I had frozen more lamb chops, honey-glazed chicken breasts, and jumbo shrimp than I could consume in a year. All my new acquisitions were stacked in freezer with geometric precision. The chest was still half-empty, yet I was prepared to outlast a nuclear Armageddon and a tsunami combined. The initial euphoria of saving money faded faster than I’d anticipated. Each day, on the way to my car, I faced the sad, white blob lurking in the garage. One day, I decided it must be filled, with meet but of a different kind.

The prospect had to be someone with whom I had no personal conflicts—I am not a bitter man; I hold no grudges. Physical characteristics were a primary factor; I had no desire to overstuff my freezer. The candidate needed to be likable and compact.

I mentally cataloged the sizes and shapes of my acquaintances. Men were immediately excluded; although a had a few candidates in mind but the logistics was a challenging task, I was not willing to undertake. Once again, I was left to rely on my female friends. The final criterion was relatability. I have suffered enough from troublesome relationships. I understand the difficulty of facing someone every day with whom you cannot get along.

***

Different pages of this account were extracted from a stack found at the crime scene. They were later assembled by a panel of speculative writers appointed by the court and entered into evidence. Based on the story as initially presented, neither the jury nor the judge harbored any doubt regarding the accused's innocence. Then, the prosecutors submitted additional pages, claiming them to be the conclusion.

***

“You know how fond I am of you. You’re the only man who ever cooked for me. I’d never forget that. But do you remember who ended it? It’s been three years. I’m in a relationship now, a serious one.” Ana responded to my dinner invitation. Perhaps I was too forward, but I couldn’t lose her now.

“I understand your apprehension about me but you know we had a good chemistry.”

“And I remember how that chemistry lab ended?”

“Don’t you want to see my new freezer?”

“Your freezer?”  You haven’t changed a bit. Still weird. That’s what I like about you most. So, what’s in it?”

“Come for dinner. I’ll cook for you, and you can see for yourself.”

“You know you can always seduce me with your cooking.”

“Just say yes.”

“Only dinner.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“What’s that?”

“How’s your physics nowadays?”

“Why are you asking questions about physics and chemistry after all these years?”

“Have your physical attributes changed?”

“Don’t you dare! You know how sensitive I am. Besides, aren’t you the one who always liked me chubby?”

“People change.”

“Well, if you must know. I’ve lost some curves. But you know you’re crazy?” She laughed.

I knew my bizarre sense of humor would work.

***

“Is this the only writing he shared with you the night of his murder?” The prosecutor asked.

 “Yes. We enjoyed a lovely evening. He was inspired, and I was flattered to be his muse. You don’t know how picky he was, Your Honor.”

“Did you write this story?” the prosecutor demanded.

“No. I’m not that creative but I inspired him to write.”

“Did you force him to write this story?”

“You can’t force creativity. It comes from within. That’s what he always said.”

“We are not here to pay tribute to a dead writer, Ms. Jenkins. We are here to learn the truth about his horrifying murder.”

“Then I strongly recommend you read his stories. He was always dead, Your Honor. He just came to life to tell us stories and died to live in his fantasies. He is dead in every one of them.”

“Did you kill him?” the prosecutor asked.

“He was dead the first time I met him and dead when I fitted him in the freezer.”

“Did. You. Kill. Him. Ms. Jenkins?”

“I was the source of his inspiration, this time. My understanding is that I was invited that night to fill his freezer. I don’t recall all the details of the preparation, but after considerable effort, I managed to carry him to the garage. Fitting him into that tight space was a daunting task, Your Honor. I shoved him in and slammed the door, but it wouldn’t seal. His fingers, Your Honor… I had to break them, one by one, and tuck them in.”

“Why didn’t you remove the chicken breasts or the cherry tomatoes instead?”

“God knows I tried, oh, how hard I tried to convince him he wouldn’t fit without removing at least two packets of ground chuck first. But he was not a good listener, he never was. That was the saddest part of this whole saga, breaking the very fingers that wrote this story, the same fingers that so effortlessly located my G-spot, some say it’s myth, it’s not Your Honor, Ah the fingers, that gave me immense joy.”

“Did you go back to visit him?” the prosecutor asked.

“You should have seen the look on his face when I opened the freezer door a few days later. He was perfectly fitted next to his game hens, jumbo shrimp, and fillet mignon, just the way he wanted it.”

***

The court-appointed experts authenticated the manuscript. The forensic evidence corroborated her testimony. After a complete psychiatric evaluation, Ms. Ana Jenkins was declared mentally unfit to stand trial for the murder of her deranged ex-boyfriend.