Conversation with a Serial Killer
“John Bradly Simmons, you are under arrest for the murder of Jill Anne Simmons,” the police officer recited, unclipping the handcuffs from her hip as she stepped closer to John. Sad, empty eyes, underlined by dark bags, stared back from an otherwise expressionless, wrinkled face. Holding his hands out for ease of cuffing, the officer noted the tremble—a sign of guilt, she assumed, not considering Parkinson’s disease.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” the officer continued, snapping the handcuffs around John’s wrists.
“You have the right to an attorney. We can help you with that.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, but I would ask that you bring my bag.” He pointed to a worn leather satchel, leaning neatly against the wall near the door. “I have some documents you might like to see,” John explained, his face screwing up in a sudden wince, his hand shooting up to his chest, a brief moment that passed unnoticed.
A small crowd of locals gathered out front, whispering behind their hands, gasping when they glimpsed John in handcuffs, shuffling along with his head bowed – a guilty man.
“I never in a million years would have thought John was capable of murder,” one sticky-beak informed another. “He always seemed so calm, kind and gentle.”
“They are the ones you have to watch out for,” replied the neighbour whose lawn John had mowed for the past three years.
“I heard he stabbed her to death, then cut her into pieces,” said a third busybody.
The police car backed out of the driveway and slowly drove away, John staring out the window, seeing nothing, turning down his hearing aids to block the angry shouts bombarding the vehicle.
“Bloody monster.”
“Lock the bastard up.”
“Our children are not safe.”
News reporters hovered around, eager to capture incriminating photos and videos of a callous murderer being cornered and dragged away by the police—the perfect money shot to amplify dramatic headlines splattered across tomorrow’s newspapers and tonight’s news.
“HORROR BEHIND CLOSED DOORS; PENSIONER CHARGED WITH KILLING HIS WIFE”
“LONGTIME MARRIAGE ENDS IN TRAGEDY; HUSBAND ACCUSED OF MURDER”
John was escorted into the interrogation room, flanked by stern-faced officers, his gaze distant as if in a trance. He barely noticed the four hard chairs around the bare table, or the large mirror on the wall, concealing eager observers. He sat, struggling to catch his breath, sweat forming on his forehead, patiently waiting for the date, time, and other details to be read aloud—an auditory record of the interview.
“Where were you on the night of Friday the 10th of April?” The officer asked, noting the sweat now dripping from John’s face—guilty as.
“I was home, with Jill,” John replied, taking a hanky from his pocket and wiping his forehead.
“Did anything unusual happen?”
“No, not that I can think of.”
“Did you argue, have a disagreement?”
“No.”
‘Is it true, John, that your wife was totally dependent on you to administer medications?”
“Yes. That is correct.”
“Did you administer enough morphine to kill your wife, John?”
“Yes. That is correct.” A collective gasp filled the room, judgment emanating from them like a palpable force, accusing and unrelenting.
“That’s it, we got a confession,” the interviewer said, switching off the recorder, a smile of victory on her face, as though she had tactfully tricked the murderer into a full confession. The police were packing up when John spoke, loudly at first, to get their attention.
“My beautiful Jilly was 93 years old. Six months ago, she suffered a massive stroke, leaving her bedridden. A beautiful soul trapped in a useless body, as dependent as the day she was born.” He leaned down and took some papers out of his bag. “We made a pact, a few years ago, when I was diagnosed with a faulty ticker,” he said, tapping his chest. He passed the officer a handwritten agreement between John and Jill, as well as Certified Not-For-Resuscitation orders and medical reports.
John remembered the closeness of the moment when they listed the conditions of the pact: the mutual request not to leave the other so sick or incapacitated that they no longer had self-determination, self-respect, or self-expression. The agreement to help the other die with dignity, escape an inevitable painful future, and medical professionals, keeping them alive for a life that no longer existed.
“It was the greatest final act of love I could ever perform. Jill would have done the same for me. So, if it means I have to spend the rest of my life in jail, then so be it.”
“Mr. Simmons, no-one has the right to decide if another person lives or dies. That is up to God. If you intentionally end someone’s life, you are a murderer.”
It was agreed that John was probably not a risk to society or a flight risk, and he was allowed to go home, his words unrecorded, left to fizzle away in the interview room.
John locked his front door behind him and shuffled toward the kitchen. “How about a nice cup of tea?” he whispered to Jill. He sat at the kitchen table, not worried at all that he was to be tried for murder, instead thinking about the years of devotion, love, and kindness they had shared. He thought about the others, his brother, riddled with cancer, his mate with Alzheimer’s, their gratitude, their relief.
“I’m off to bed, love,” John said, as though Jill was sitting in the chair opposite him. As quickly as his tired old arthritic bones and rigid muscles would allow, he showered and laid his weary body down to rest. He could feel the groove Jill had left in the mattress, he could smell her scent, he heard her call his name, as his eyes closed for the last time.
THE END
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