There Are No Accidents Read online

  “No, that’s wrong!” the husband interrupted. “That’s the wrong date. I’ve got a copy right here!” he said, pulling the will from his pocket.

  “No, Mr Carter, this is correct. Your wife made a new will just three weeks ago, due to her medical condition,” said the attorney.

  “What medical condition?” he protested.

  “As her husband, I assumed you’d know? Mrs. Carter had been diagnosed with a terminal illness, she had possibly six months to live and she wanted to arrange her financial affairs before she entered the hospice. Now if I may continue,” and she read the remaining words of the new will. The husband was mortified as he listened to the attorney’s torturous words, “It is legally recognized that under Californian law, Mrs Carter’s house was her sole property, having been purchased prior to her marriage. Therefore it does not qualify as community property. This bars her husband, Mr. Carter, from any and all claims on the property and Mrs. Carter’s estate. Therefore the house is to be sold and the gained profit from the sale will be entered into a trust fund.”

  “But I do get the life insurance, yeah?” he said eagerly.

  “Actually, I was just going to address this,” said the attorney, fixing her eyes on this greedy man. “Before she died, Mrs. Carter set up a trust fund with capital from her savings and life insurance policies. The sole purpose of this trust fund is to provide a lifetime of security for her beloved cat.”

  “The cat?” said her husband. “The fucking cat! This is a joke… yeah?”

  “This is no joke Mr. Carter. Lauren Carter’s cat is the sole beneficiary of her entire estate,” the attorney stated. “She has chosen an animal sanctuary at an undisclosed address, to be the cat’s future home and the legal arrangements have been implemented.”

  “I’ll fucking kill it!” His face reddened in anger as he spat out these words.

  “Mr. Carter!” the attorney addressed him with a raised voice. “Please refrain from making threats and let me continue.” She paused, took in a deep breath and tried to exhale this unpleasantry before adding, “Once the cat is deceased, my client bequeaths any remaining funds to The Association for California Stray Cats.” On hearing this, the detective laughed out loud, while the humiliated husband rose to leave.

  “Just a moment sir!” called the detective. “I’m here to caution you that you are no longer able to enter Mrs. Carter’s house. An officer will accompany you to your previous place of residence and you will have an hour to collect your belongings. The locks have been changed and the house is under observation pending the completion of our investigation,” and he held up a court order to this effect. “If you ignore this order, I will arrest you.”

  “What the hell!” and the husband turned and walked out the door.

  “Go after him,” he ordered his officer in a laid back tone. “He won’t get far… he’s nowhere to go.”

  *

  The detective sat late into the night, studying the evidence of the case. The forensic reports were tedious and not incriminating. He glanced once more at the woman’s journal and traced her handwriting with his finger. She’d left him a treasure trove of information, possibly even a hint to her homicide. He reread the description of her sociopathic husband and the tortuous marriage she had endured. Even with the documentation of his abuse, addictive lifestyle and mounting debt, it was not enough to convict him. The LAPD team needed more. The husband clearly had a motive… money! He was deeply in debt and feeding his addiction beyond his means. But debt and infidelity does not add up to murder and the case was seriously lacking hard facts. He checked the forensic report again, in the hope that he’d missed something crucial, but everything was clear. There were no fingerprints on the knife, no shoe prints in the yard. His case rested on circumstantial evidence and worse still, there was now an alibi. There had to be something. He checked all the reports again and realized that he’d not yet seen the statement from the other woman. Late as it was, he called his subordinate.

  “Where the hell is the alibi statement from the girlfriend?” he asked.

  “We don’t have one, sir,” said the junior detective.

  “Well get on it! I want it on my desk first thing… understood?”

  “We don’t have it because… there isn’t one… sir.”

  “Ok, explain?”

  “I interviewed the woman myself yesterday. She denies they had an affair and says she doesn’t even know him. Same old thing, the woman’s terrified of her husband finding out.”

  “Ah ha… he has no alibi!” The detective chuckled and added, “Did you check with the neighbors?”

  “Sure, they see his car outside her house two or three times a week.”

  “OK… so we’ll play the silent card here… we say nothing. Let’s hope his attorney doesn’t snoop around the area asking questions. Good work, thanks.” Without an alibi, the case reached the tipping point in favor of the detective. Tomorrow he would seek a warrant for an arrest, but tonight, he’d sleep like a baby.

  *

  The judge knew this proposed arrest was based on circumstantial evidence, but the motive was strong. It was his confidence in the detective that swayed him to issue the warrant for the arrest of the husband. One hour later, the LAPD team surprised the husband at his place of work and the detective stepped forward to speak.

  “Are you Gary Lionel Carter?”

  “What d’you want now?”

  “Just answer the question, are you Gary Lionel Carter?”

  “Sure, that’s me all right.”

  “I have a warrant for your arrest. Anything you say may be taken down as evidence and used against you. Do you understand?” the detective formally stated.

  “What’s the charge?” he said defiantly.

  “Murder One!” said the detective with an air of glee. “Cuff him.” The husband was stunned and clearly not expecting this turn of events.

  “But I didn’t do it! You’re wrong… I want my attorney… I demand—” he protested to no avail. The detective’s ears were deafened by his determination to take this man out of society before he had the chance to leech onto another unsuspecting victim.

  *

  On the morning of the trial, the detective rose early and made his way to the courthouse. Although he had been in court on numerous occasions before, today was different. This was the first time he’d become emotionally involved and he wanted to compose himself before the trial. He was not sure why he turned around in his seat when he did. Maybe it was that burning feeling in the back of his head or some intuitive sense of someone watching. But his gaze fell on two men sitting a few rows behind. They were both dressed immaculately in black suits and wearing sunglasses. Their sleek appearance evoked a moment of déjà vu which was surreal in itself, as this memory came from the woman’s journal. The detective shuddered and then smiled with amusement at the prospect of the Mafioso attending the trial.

  The jury noted the specific and circumstantial evidence of this case as it was presented and after only ninety minutes they adjourned to consider the fate of the husband. They alone would be responsible for determining whether the husband’s lack of an alibi would tip the scales in the detective’s favor. The detective wiped his sweaty palms on his pants as he paced up and down the exterior corridor of the courthouse. He caught the eye of one of the Mafioso and nodded courteously. This guy was his competition, another suitor of this poor dead woman with whom he’d become attached. He checked himself, pulling his role as a professional back into reality. Then came the call. The verdict was in.

  “Mr Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?” said the judge, addressing the spokesperson for the jury as he stood to deliver their unanimous verdict.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Please read that verdict before the court.”

  “We find the defendant… guilty, on all accounts.” The judge then pronounced the sentence for “murder in the first degree”. The husband looked pathetically around the courtroom as if searching
for a savior, but there were only hostile eyes returning his gaze and none so hateful as those of this detective. If looks could kill, the detective’s eyes would strike him dead. It was a look that would haunt this victim for the duration of his sentence and as he was taken down he momentarily closed his eyes… just like the lens of a camera capturing an image that would be forever etched in his memory.

  The detective filed out past the two Mafioso and one stepped forward to speak to him. “Good job detective. I am Ricardo,” he said, stretching out his hand and leaning forward to speak confidentially. “You know, if it had gone the other way… we would’ve taken care of it,” and he wiped away a wet streak which escaped his sunglasses.

  The detective grasped the hand of the emotional Mafioso, “Please, no formalities, the name’s Tom and thank you.” They exchanged a look denoting comradery and parted. The relief of the verdict required solitary celebration and the detective made his way out with the intent of sinking a cold beer and pondering his new Mafioso connections.

  *

  On his way back to the police station, the detective made an impulsive detour. The house at the end of the cul-de-sac looked desolate, containing only sour memories, like a box of chocolates poisoned with cyanide. One solitary police car was parked outside and two very bored officers nodded towards the detective in recognition, as he entered the driveway. Although he had a solid conviction, he was curious as to how this crime evaded forensics and he wanted to survey the area alone. The detective chose to walk directly through the side gate into the backyard. It was mid-afternoon and the pungent scent in the garden heightened his senses. He paused and pictured Lauren tending the flowers and for a moment their fragrance became her and he experienced a metaphysical fusion. She was standing so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. He remained suspended in time, not understanding this warp in his reality and pushing logic aside, he listened to nonsensical whispering that he could not decipher.

  He snapped out of his dream state and walked over to the place where the body had been found. The fading paint on the ground still pinpointed the exact spot. He paced in ever increasing circles until he reached the garden wall. He scoured the ground searching for something, anything that forensics may have overlooked. The cat crept out of the bushes until she was in the detective’s sight. “You still here?” he said, reaching out to her. She timidly walked towards him, sniffed his hand and wrapped herself around his legs. “I wonder if you saw what happened,” he said. “Perhaps you could solve this mystery… if only you could talk.” He stroked her silky coat and imagined how Lauren’s hair would have felt if only— But “if only” is a dangerous place to go, so he willed himself back to the present and concentrated on the puzzle of the homicide. There is the desire for closure when there is uncertainty and he vowed he would find out the truth.

  The entrance of a man broke his concentration and spooked the cat who dived for cover only to re-emerge and greet the known visitor.

  “I lost my knife,” the man said. “Was the best pruning knife I ever had… it fit my hand like a glove.” The detective introduced himself and established that he was conversing with the gardener. “I swear I left it on this wall,” the man continued, walking over to search, disbelieving his eyes and running his hand along the rough surface of the bricks. The detective began to explain about the homicide and the gardener acknowledged hearing about it from his son. “I come every Tuesday, but I’d gone away after—” he paused and his voice cracked in his struggle to talk about the incident. “Family problems, you see, so my son worked this yard for me… kept it nice for Miss Lauren,” and he gestured towards the flowers. “Sweet lady, she loved her flowers and this cat.” He sniffed and bent forward to stoke the cat again.

  “What can you tell me about her husband, Mr. Carter?” the detective asked.

  “Unfriendly guy, didn’t like him much,” and he paused, looked directly at the detective and added, “He didn’t talk nice to Miss Lauren… he hated the garden, hated the cat too. You can tell a lot about people from animals. Every time he came near her, this cat would fly at him. Something must have happened cuz last time I saw him he had scratches all down his face, right here,” he said, pointing to his own cheek. “This cat was devoted to her,” he sniffed and looked upset. The detective took his cue and quickly thanked him, agreeing about the reliability of animal instincts and ending their conversation, thus sparing the gardener any more grief. The gardener nodded and pulling a knife from his pocket, walked towards the fruit trees to begin pruning.

  The detective’s concentration had been somewhat derailed, although he had learned more about the husband’s loathsome character and the uncanny devotion of the cat. He sat down on the exact spot where Lauren’s lounger had been positioned to try and view the garden from her perspective. He noticed the cat napping on the wall, her slim body stretched along its narrow ridge. She was perfectly still and seemingly asleep, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon. Then a bird landed a few feet in front of her. First her ears twitched, then she opened her sleepy eyes and studied the bird. Her laziness surrendered to the hunter instinct within and stealthily she rose and belly-crawled along the wall towards the oblivious bird. Suddenly she pounced, missing the bird but sending a loose stone flying towards the detective which landed by his feet. This visual action set the detectives mind racing and he began compiling his thoughts in pictures, similar to a movie.

  “Hey!” he called to the gardener. “Can I see your knife?” The gardener obliged. “Is this the same as the one you lost?” he asked impatiently.

  “Yeah, but the other was seasoned, you know, smooth and oiled up, cut better.”

  “Can I borrow this?” he said. “It’s important.” The gardener handed it over, sensing the urgency. “I’ll return it tomorrow… look, I’ll leave it here, under this pot.” The gardener agreed and left him alone.

  The detective studied the knife, turning it over and over in his hand. It was light in weight and barely seven inches long. He walked over to the wall and placed the knife exactly where the loose stone had been. Taking care to lay it horizontally across the breadth of the wall with three quarters of the handle balanced over the edge. He then lifted his hand and delivered a karate chop across the handle. The knife somersaulted in the air and landed at his feet, just short of the marked area. His theory was good but the aerodynamics were not. He replaced the knife on the wall, playing with the position and spinning it around. After ten minutes or so he walked away feeling exasperated. He was halfway across the yard when the sound of a neighbor’s dog barking prompted him to turn around. It was as if fate had tapped him on the shoulder and arranged a sequence of events for his private viewing. He stood spellbound as the cat leapt up on the wall to escape the dog, sprang on the blade of the knife which caused it to somersault through the air at high speed and land exactly on the marked spot where the body had lain. He stood motionless absorbing the scene he’d witnessed, before the surge of adrenalin propelled him to move. He dragged the lounger into the marked area, picked up the knife and placed it on the wall. This time he laid the handle across the breadth of the wall, with the blade overhanging the edge. With the side of his hand, he expertly delivered another karate chop across the blade causing the knife to take flight, flip and transform itself into a spear landing directly on the back of the lounger. His theory was proven.

  He dropped onto the lounger and drew a deep breath. The cat jumped up beside him. “It was you!” he said, looking directly into her beautiful green eyes. “You killed her! You did exactly what we humans do to prevent our pets from suffering… you put her to sleep!” He placed his hand on her head and affectionately stroked back her ears as if to check that she was listening to his premise. “You inadvertently spared her a prolonged and painful death.” She held his gaze with such intensity that he felt compelled to continue. “I know a thing or two about terminal illness… cancer. You see my mom suffered the degrading deterioration that comes with this insidi
ous disease.” He was confiding in the cat who seemed to understand every word he uttered. “I’m just an amateur compared with you. You not only spared her a painful death, you framed her husband with her murder. You clever cat. This woman we love… she is avenged and now we both have closure.”

  The cat followed the detective out of the yard and along the path to his car. As he drove away, he saw her through his rear-view mirror, watching his car until it disappeared around the bend. He wouldn’t be the first police officer to withhold information. But realistically, what would he say? How would he explain that the cat was spooked while taking a nap, causing a knife to take flight and lodge in her owner’s neck! Who’d believe him… it’s just a theory, a flight of fancy. He could see the headlines; SHE DIED BY THE PAW OF ONE WHO LOVED HER. He’d be a laughing stock!

  Observation and reflection go well with a cold beer, but bourbon is better for composition. He ordered a large one and sat in a bar, composing the ending that he would write in her unfinished journal. He was a man who liked closure, completing tasks, solving murders and so he wrote the very last line… In matters of life and death… there are no accidents.

  PART THREE: THE JOURNAL

  Chapter 7

  THE SOURCE

  I take my seat in the fourth row and wait. My anticipation in obtaining an object is out of control; possibly verging on obsession. This is a must have, not a mere trinket that one buys and discards. I’m on a personal mission to acquire ownership of a slice of a woman’s life; a pathway to a book. Five minutes seems like an hour and my palms stick together in my folded hands, resting on a picture in a glossy catalogue on my lap. A bell sounds and the auctioneer enters, followed by his assistant. My adrenaline spikes as he announces the lot.

  “Lot number one; possessions of the late Lauren Carter. All proceeds are to be awarded to the Californian Association for Stray Cats.” I glance at my catalog and await article number eleven which is just lying on the display table as though it has been discarded. It has no bright distinctive color or shape. In fact, it’s not distinguishable from any other journal which is on sale at the local bookstore, except for its interior. For within it lies the truthful account of Lauren Carter’s painful events, prior to her death… and I want it!