Edwin Charles had blown his brains out. He was a doctor—a gynecologist. He was brilliant, often accused of having a photographic memory and unnatural skill. He could have named all the different bits of brain and each of the teeth that were stuck in the drying muck on the wall behind his nearly headless body. He could have pointed out the different muscle tissues of the face that were left burnt and exposed. He could have been a neurosurgeon or a Nobel Prize winner, but he chose to deliver babies.
He was also thorough in everything he did and prided himself in completing those things he had started. Proof of that existed in the room where a police detective, two uniforms and a handful of forensics team members took photographs and samples of his once dazzling mind, sprayed on the wall like a work by Jackson Pollock.
"Christ, what a mess," Detective Ralph Cobb said. "Twenty-six years on the force, ya never get used to this."
One of the uniforms flipped over a chunk of something bloody with his pen.
"Where's the family?" Cobb asked.
"They're at the widow's parents' home. She called this in about four hours ago, said they couldn't stay in the house. She's got three kids—can't blame her," the other uniform said.
"Suicide?" the first uniform asked.
"Looks cut and dry from where I'm standin'," Cobb said. "Anyone find a note?"
"Yeah, boss. Over here."
One of the forensics team waved him over. They had a blood-spattered letter, written in long hand, sealed in a plastic Ziploc bag. He held it up for Cobb to retrieve. The detective did so and pulled a pair of reading glasses from the front pocket of his grey suit jacket. Placing them on his long nose made him look his age.
"Sure this guy was a doctor? Excellent penmanship," he said.
"Penmanship? That's kinda like texting, right?" another member of the forensics team asked with a chuckle.
"Funny. I can see why they give you the important jobs," Cobb said, looking at the young man over his glasses.
The texter continued bagging up loose pieces of skull and other miscellaneous parts. Cleanup work—bottom of the totem pole. Cobb went back to the letter, holding it up, into the dim light of the ceiling fixture.
To my loving wife Jewel, it began.
Let me first apologize. I don't know what to say to our children.
Tell them I was weak. This all has to do with a patient, Mrs. Kelly Albers, who came in my office sixteen months ago. She said her husband wanted children, then asked me to "sterilize" her, to prevent it. Such a strange word for a young woman to use. She said she was not fit to be a mother, and begged me, in tears, to help her. She was twenty-four years old at the time.
"Kelly Albers," Cobb said. "Anybody recognize that name? Sounds so familiar."
He was met with several blank stares and heads shaking left and right.
I, of course, told her to think about it. "You're a young woman," I said. "You may change your mind." I gave her the number of Bob Cranston, my counselor friend. I told her to go and see him. She protested at first, but did in fact, go to see him. He told me so. He said they had a good session, although he wouldn't give details.
Three months later, she came back to see me, and she was pregnant. She seemed happy. When we found out she was carrying twins, she seemed overjoyed. There was no more talk of 'sterilization.'
We delivered the babies successfully, identical twin boys. Each was healthy. She named them Michael and Maxwell. Just over five pounds each. She recovered well and took her boys home without a hitch. I marked it on my calendar. I keep track of all the babies I deliver that way. I don't know why.
Then, two weeks ago, she called my office and left a message in my voicemail. She sounded distraught. Said something about monsters and how she wasn't fit to raise them. I called back, but it was too late. I wanted to tell her again about postpartum depression, and remind her she could get counseling, but it was too late.
Her husband told me what happened. He cursed at me, and my God, Jewel, he was right to do so....
It was then that Cobb remembered where he'd heard the story of Kelly Albers, and he put the note down. He couldn't read about how she'd grabbed little Maxwell by the ankles and beaten Michael to death with his own brother. He couldn't have that in his head anymore. It wasn't on the news in that detail. The news showed a young woman with a crazed expression being questioned in her prison jumper. Showed her going to trial. The news predicted she would end up in a mental hospital, but no details were given.
Cops had a way of finding out confidential and horrifying details—of overhearing them. They had ways of keeping things bottled up until they drank or smoked themselves to death. Cobb knew the detective who visited that crime scene, found him crying hysterically in the locker room. He wished he hadn't asked the questions, hadn't heard the answers.
He understood Edwin Charles' pain—just knowing was enough. But this man felt responsible. He knew if he'd read the last few paragraphs of the letter, it would apologize again and again. He knew the writing would show signs that the man's hand was shaking. He knew it would say that he loved them in the end, but just couldn't live with that knowledge.
"Hey, boss? You want me to question the wife? See if there might be something else going on here?" one uniform asked.
"No," Cobb said. "No. This one's just what it looks like."
END.
Thanks for reading!
More free flash here!
And don't forget to check out my books!