The Widower and His Web
Chapter Two
My eyes felt heavy as the policemen scrambled around the small apartment. They had no search warrant, but I felt that it was in my best interest to allow them to do their job and clear my name as a suspect as quickly as possible. Apart from my embarrassment regarding my alcoholism, there was no reason for me to hide anything. The news of Molly’s murder had astonished and traumatized me, and I desperately craved a drink. However, the presence of the police gave me good reason to resist my temptation, despite the level of difficulty.
The search seemed to last hours, though I am fairly positive that it lasted no more than forty-five minutes. One of the police officers sat on the sofa opposite of me with a pen and a small notebook after the other returned to their vehicle to write down some extraneous information for the report. Though I had been dreading the informal interrogation, I was hoping to gain some knowledge regarding Molly’s death. Closure was not going to occur as quickly as I wished that it would, but knowing the details was an important part of the grieving process. Eliminating questions was one of the first steps that I gave to patients suffering loss. It seemed ironic that I have never experienced everything that I taught them to do and I was supposedly the expert. Uncertainty crept up on me like an apparition of my sanity.
“Dr. Sampson, as promised, we have a few questions for your lovely self,” the officer said, sarcastically. “Firstly, how long has it been since you and Molly Linden divorced? Recently, correct?”
I nodded slowly and responded, “She asked me to sign the papers in February. I went quietly. It was apparent that she wasn’t happy anymore and she had clearly put some thought into the decision, so I gave her the house, the car, some money. The entire divorce process was finished by early March. We were together for twenty-two years—married for twenty.” The feeling of my heart pumping in my chest was overwhelming. I had too many thoughts to process simultaneously, distracting me from reality on a level that I have never experienced before. I shifted in my chair.
“Why wasn’t she happy, doctor? I need you to be honest with me, because the next stop is your old neighbors’ house on Fifth Street and if you’re stories don’t match up, it ain’t gonna look very good for you. Did you ever have an affair? Any domestic violence? You ever get too drunk and hit her?”
I was appalled by the question. I shook my head vigorously and replied urgently, “Christ no! Sir, with all due respect, I rarely even drank before my divorce. I was a loyal husband. I never had any sort of affair. I never hit her. I will admit that I’m an alcoholic, but I loved my wife when we were married and I still loved her after our marriage ceased. I can assure you that there was no violence or secrecy in our household. I worked a lot. I wasn’t home for her enough and when I was home, I usually had more work to do. She got irritated with my lack of availability. That was the only reason for her unhappiness. It was a very mundane, everyday reason for a divorce in modern America. I don’t know what else to tell you.” My palms and forehead were becoming increasingly clammy. Hopeful that the policeman had enough intuition to know it was only due to the stressful scenario and not due to dishonesty, I shifted in my seat once more.
“Calm down, Sampson. I’m just doing my job and getting the obvious questions out of the way. We start with the obvious leads—the ones with history with the victim. A lot of the time, those leads have nothing to do with the crime, but they can at least help point us in the right direction. You aren’t being accused of harming your ex-wife, doctor. We’re just starting at the first stop on the map. I know that this can’t be easy for you and I have no reason to believe that you’re responsible for her death. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, though; I still have another one of those obvious questions for you. Do you know of anybody that would have a motive to murder your ex-wife? Was she seeing anybody? Any disputes with the neighbors? Even a psychopath meth-head distant cousin could be our perp, so anything, even as farfetched as it seems, is worth mentioning.”
Relief enveloped me like a warm blanket, but as quickly as that blanket comforted me, it was stripped from me. I furrowed my brow deep in thought. Even with my background in psychiatry, there was nobody that I knew from my marriage with the demeanor to murder anyone, let alone somebody as likeable as Molly. I bit my lip and shook my head before slowly responding, “I can’t think of anyone, sir.”
The investigator gave me a stern look and said, “Come on, Paul. Think. If you want eyes off you, we need someone else to look at, if you get my drift.”
I thought for another moment before shaking my head and responding, “I’m so very sorry, but Molly was a good woman. She was quite respected and well-liked. She hosted a lot of small parties for all the neighbors. She was always friendly and polite. Most of her relatives are in good mental health, as far as I know. I’m appalled and disgusted by the fact that anyone could do something so dreadful and I want to see whoever did it go to prison, but I know of nobody that would want to hurt her.” My gaze averted to the floor as I felt tears well up in my eyes. As emasculated as I felt for allowing my emotions to drive me to crying, I could no longer keep my composure. My throat felt dry and my internal organs were in knots. The nightmare that was my reality was not only agonizing, but perplexing as well. As a Harvard graduate, I had absolutely no answers for the questions dancing in my brain. It was a bizarrely new experience for me, and I found that it made the pain excruciatingly worse.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Sampson. I know this is a difficult time for you. I don’t know what to tell you other than we’re gonna get this son of a bitch. Whoever it is, we’ll make sure the sick bastard is put where he belongs. My name is Officer Dooley, take my card. If you have any questions about the investigation, you give me a call. Some stuff is confidential, but even though you’re a drunken bastard, I can tell you cared about her and you’d like to know what’s going on. I’m sorry for your loss, Paul. I mean that.” He stood and shook my trembling hand before showing himself the way out the door. I waited until I heard the car speed away before making myself a drink.
***
”Your ex-wife was found stabbed to death in her home at 9:52 AM on September 19th. It appeared as though her attacker had removed a handful of hair from her scalp. There were no injuries that suggested there was a severe struggle; the hair was removed from the scalp postmortem. The murder weapon was a fairly thick knife about seven inches long; we came to the conclusion that it was most likely a butcher knife. The evidence shows that the victim had likely been asleep on the sofa when the murderer entered and attacked her on the evening of September 18th. She was found by a neighbor who had stopped by to drop off a package that had been delivered to the improper address…”
I awoke, breathing heavily. My body was drenched in sweat. The words replayed over and over even as I attempted to sleep. Once upon a time, I thought that my blackouts due to my alcoholism were a curse. After the sequence of events, I had chosen to purchase a liter of scotch and pleaded to my psyche to allow me to black out and save me from my own trauma. Unfortunately, my memory chose to reflect upon the day’s events rather than erase them. I shook my head and squinted in an attempt see what time my clock read. It was seven in the morning, but it was still fairly dark outside. An overcast day was only appropriate for the place in which I found my mind.
I pawed at my nightstand in an effort to find my cellular phone. Considering the circumstances, I knew that I had responsibilities to comfort my friends and family, despite my own emotional compromise. Although we were divorced, I was still obligated to assist with the funeral costs.
I was not surprised that there was a text message from my daughter waiting for my response. After the divorce, Elizabeth and I had become rather distant from one another. She went to college on the southeast side of the state and tended to favor Molly. I could hardly blame her for her distaste for me. My alcoholism had caused me to become a fairly poor father after the divorce and she was a strong woman like her mother. Excuses meant very little to her.
I inhaled and exhaled before opening the text message. Mentally preparing myself for my daughter’s heartbreak was a difficult feat.
I tried calling you but you never answered so you were probably drunk and passed out. I dont know if you heard about mom so if you didnt you should prolly know that she was killed. Im pretty upset but im coming home for the funeral and i need to stay with you so clean up all your liquor and bullshit and act like a respectable adult for your daughter to grieve. I wish it was you and not mom.
The search seemed to last hours, though I am fairly positive that it lasted no more than forty-five minutes. One of the police officers sat on the sofa opposite of me with a pen and a small notebook after the other returned to their vehicle to write down some extraneous information for the report. Though I had been dreading the informal interrogation, I was hoping to gain some knowledge regarding Molly’s death. Closure was not going to occur as quickly as I wished that it would, but knowing the details was an important part of the grieving process. Eliminating questions was one of the first steps that I gave to patients suffering loss. It seemed ironic that I have never experienced everything that I taught them to do and I was supposedly the expert. Uncertainty crept up on me like an apparition of my sanity.
“Dr. Sampson, as promised, we have a few questions for your lovely self,” the officer said, sarcastically. “Firstly, how long has it been since you and Molly Linden divorced? Recently, correct?”
I nodded slowly and responded, “She asked me to sign the papers in February. I went quietly. It was apparent that she wasn’t happy anymore and she had clearly put some thought into the decision, so I gave her the house, the car, some money. The entire divorce process was finished by early March. We were together for twenty-two years—married for twenty.” The feeling of my heart pumping in my chest was overwhelming. I had too many thoughts to process simultaneously, distracting me from reality on a level that I have never experienced before. I shifted in my chair.
“Why wasn’t she happy, doctor? I need you to be honest with me, because the next stop is your old neighbors’ house on Fifth Street and if you’re stories don’t match up, it ain’t gonna look very good for you. Did you ever have an affair? Any domestic violence? You ever get too drunk and hit her?”
I was appalled by the question. I shook my head vigorously and replied urgently, “Christ no! Sir, with all due respect, I rarely even drank before my divorce. I was a loyal husband. I never had any sort of affair. I never hit her. I will admit that I’m an alcoholic, but I loved my wife when we were married and I still loved her after our marriage ceased. I can assure you that there was no violence or secrecy in our household. I worked a lot. I wasn’t home for her enough and when I was home, I usually had more work to do. She got irritated with my lack of availability. That was the only reason for her unhappiness. It was a very mundane, everyday reason for a divorce in modern America. I don’t know what else to tell you.” My palms and forehead were becoming increasingly clammy. Hopeful that the policeman had enough intuition to know it was only due to the stressful scenario and not due to dishonesty, I shifted in my seat once more.
“Calm down, Sampson. I’m just doing my job and getting the obvious questions out of the way. We start with the obvious leads—the ones with history with the victim. A lot of the time, those leads have nothing to do with the crime, but they can at least help point us in the right direction. You aren’t being accused of harming your ex-wife, doctor. We’re just starting at the first stop on the map. I know that this can’t be easy for you and I have no reason to believe that you’re responsible for her death. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, though; I still have another one of those obvious questions for you. Do you know of anybody that would have a motive to murder your ex-wife? Was she seeing anybody? Any disputes with the neighbors? Even a psychopath meth-head distant cousin could be our perp, so anything, even as farfetched as it seems, is worth mentioning.”
Relief enveloped me like a warm blanket, but as quickly as that blanket comforted me, it was stripped from me. I furrowed my brow deep in thought. Even with my background in psychiatry, there was nobody that I knew from my marriage with the demeanor to murder anyone, let alone somebody as likeable as Molly. I bit my lip and shook my head before slowly responding, “I can’t think of anyone, sir.”
The investigator gave me a stern look and said, “Come on, Paul. Think. If you want eyes off you, we need someone else to look at, if you get my drift.”
I thought for another moment before shaking my head and responding, “I’m so very sorry, but Molly was a good woman. She was quite respected and well-liked. She hosted a lot of small parties for all the neighbors. She was always friendly and polite. Most of her relatives are in good mental health, as far as I know. I’m appalled and disgusted by the fact that anyone could do something so dreadful and I want to see whoever did it go to prison, but I know of nobody that would want to hurt her.” My gaze averted to the floor as I felt tears well up in my eyes. As emasculated as I felt for allowing my emotions to drive me to crying, I could no longer keep my composure. My throat felt dry and my internal organs were in knots. The nightmare that was my reality was not only agonizing, but perplexing as well. As a Harvard graduate, I had absolutely no answers for the questions dancing in my brain. It was a bizarrely new experience for me, and I found that it made the pain excruciatingly worse.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Sampson. I know this is a difficult time for you. I don’t know what to tell you other than we’re gonna get this son of a bitch. Whoever it is, we’ll make sure the sick bastard is put where he belongs. My name is Officer Dooley, take my card. If you have any questions about the investigation, you give me a call. Some stuff is confidential, but even though you’re a drunken bastard, I can tell you cared about her and you’d like to know what’s going on. I’m sorry for your loss, Paul. I mean that.” He stood and shook my trembling hand before showing himself the way out the door. I waited until I heard the car speed away before making myself a drink.
***
”Your ex-wife was found stabbed to death in her home at 9:52 AM on September 19th. It appeared as though her attacker had removed a handful of hair from her scalp. There were no injuries that suggested there was a severe struggle; the hair was removed from the scalp postmortem. The murder weapon was a fairly thick knife about seven inches long; we came to the conclusion that it was most likely a butcher knife. The evidence shows that the victim had likely been asleep on the sofa when the murderer entered and attacked her on the evening of September 18th. She was found by a neighbor who had stopped by to drop off a package that had been delivered to the improper address…”
I awoke, breathing heavily. My body was drenched in sweat. The words replayed over and over even as I attempted to sleep. Once upon a time, I thought that my blackouts due to my alcoholism were a curse. After the sequence of events, I had chosen to purchase a liter of scotch and pleaded to my psyche to allow me to black out and save me from my own trauma. Unfortunately, my memory chose to reflect upon the day’s events rather than erase them. I shook my head and squinted in an attempt see what time my clock read. It was seven in the morning, but it was still fairly dark outside. An overcast day was only appropriate for the place in which I found my mind.
I pawed at my nightstand in an effort to find my cellular phone. Considering the circumstances, I knew that I had responsibilities to comfort my friends and family, despite my own emotional compromise. Although we were divorced, I was still obligated to assist with the funeral costs.
I was not surprised that there was a text message from my daughter waiting for my response. After the divorce, Elizabeth and I had become rather distant from one another. She went to college on the southeast side of the state and tended to favor Molly. I could hardly blame her for her distaste for me. My alcoholism had caused me to become a fairly poor father after the divorce and she was a strong woman like her mother. Excuses meant very little to her.
I inhaled and exhaled before opening the text message. Mentally preparing myself for my daughter’s heartbreak was a difficult feat.
I tried calling you but you never answered so you were probably drunk and passed out. I dont know if you heard about mom so if you didnt you should prolly know that she was killed. Im pretty upset but im coming home for the funeral and i need to stay with you so clean up all your liquor and bullshit and act like a respectable adult for your daughter to grieve. I wish it was you and not mom.