Alan washed his hand thoroughly in the sink, picking out the grime from under his fingernails. The water sat in the sweet spot between relaxing and uncomfortable. The January sun, warmed through the glass window in front of him, reflected off the sink head into his eyes; it was the only light in the otherwise dim kitchen. He dried his hands, taking the towel with him as he made his way back to the kitchen table.
Spread before him was a writer’s pleasant nightmare. His laptop was open, screen split between a word document and a web browser with way too many tabs open. Notes were strewn about strategically so that all could be seen without having to reach. Three coffee cups lined up symmetrically on the table’s edge; two were empty, one was fresh and steaming.
Alan sat at the table, tossing the towel into the unused second chair. He cracked his knuckles and stared longingly at his laptop, ready to tackle this scene again that had stumped him for so long. No more than three paragraphs were on the page before he was interrupted.
Knock…knock…knock…
The slow, considerate raps on the door tore his attention away from his work. He stood slowly, rubbing his hands on his jeans and walking the few paces to his front door. Through the peep-hole, a police officer stood, waiting expectantly. Alan furrowed his brow and opened the door.
“Officer Pettyjon! Funny seeing you here; normally I’m the one meeting you,” he said. Annoyance colored his voice, but he was welcoming nonetheless.
“True, Alan, but I’m afraid this aint a social call. Mind if I come in?” Officer Pettyjon’s voice was deep and gravely, its Texan drawl coagulating in the lazy speech he’d never quite grown out of. He scratched at his stubble, the bags under his eyes displaying to the world just how little sleep he got last night.
“Please!” Alan gestured inwards, opening the door wider to accommodate his guest into his small, one bedroom apartment, “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
Officer Pettyjon stepped through the door, removing his Stetson hat and taking his coat off, welcoming the warmth of the interior, “Coffee, thank you.”
Alan busied himself with his guest’s request, refilling his Keurig and waiting for the water to finish heating. Pettyjon seated himself at the table in the unused second seat, paying no attention to the towel he was now sitting on.
“Been a while since we’ seen you at the station, Alan. How’s that book comin’?”
“Lately, frustratingly slow,” Alan responded over his shoulder as he loaded the k-cup into its slot and started the contraption, steam rising from the cheap, yet fresh, cup of coffee as it filled, “Hit some writer’s block pretty hard.” He removed the cup from that machine and walked it back to the table, where Pettyjon accepted it gratefully.
“Shame. I’m sure you’ll catch it back soon, though. The last one sold pretty well, right?”
“About as well as crime fiction usually sells, anyway. Did a signing in Dallas, though. That was pretty cool,” Alan grasped his own cup, but elected to stand and lean on the kitchen counter, rather than join the officer at the table. He sipped his coffee, the black liquid burning his mouth in just the right way.
“Good for you,” Pettyjon said genuinely. He took a sip from his own mug, half-smiling at the taste. Then his expression darkened. He sighed.
“I’m not gonna sugarcoat this any more than I need to, Alan. You deserve that much.”
“Yeah, no, that’s fine. What’s going on?” Alan felt his heart start to flutter in anticipation, not being able to imagine what bad news the policeman might be bringing.
“I wanted to be the one to tell you…” Pettyjon struggled to get the next sentence out, “Lana Holcomb was found dead this morning. Murdered.”
Alan’s stomach dropped, the tips of his fingers going numb. His tongue seemed to swell in his mouth, almost choking him. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, and slowly set his coffee cup down on the counter behind him.
“Oh…Oh my God…” was all he could utter.
“Yeah,” Pettyjon started, “maybe you should take a seat, pal. This aint gonna get any easier to take.”
Alan nodded and practically fell into his own chair across from the policeman.
“What…how?” Alan tried to ask too many questions at once, but the older man held up an understanding hand, stopping him.
“I probably shouldn’t be sharin’ this with you, but I’ve known you for a while now, and I think you deserve the truth. She was stabbed. Multiple times. Whoever did this had some hate in his heart.”
Alan couldn’t feel his lips. His whole mouth felt numb, like his brain wouldn’t allow him to form the words he wanted to say but didn’t want to hear. It was all setting in now.
“Lana is…dead…”
“
Now, I know you two were close-” Pettyjon started, but was cutoff when Alan finally found his voice. It was a pained whisper.
“Close? We dated for two years, of course we were close! We…we wanted to get married, move down to the Valley!” His voice slowly rose as he spoke, now less of a whisper and more of a shrill plead.
“Which is why,” Pettyjon continued, regaining the conversation, “I need to ask you a couple questions real quick. That alright?” Pettyjon asked, pulling a pen and pad from his shirt pocket. All Alan could do was nod in agreement.
“When’s the last time you spoke with Ms. Holcomb?”
Alan swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. The warmth of the apartment suddenly felt uncomfortable on his skin, the natural lighting of the room turning to gloom.
“Probably a…a month ago. When we broke up…”
“Why’d y’all break up?” Pettyjon asked, scribbling on his paper. His handwriting was too scribbled for Alan to make out.
“My fault. I got busy with my writing, stopped putting in enough effort into our relationship.” Alan spoke ruefully, his voice pulled down by the regret in his words.
“This upset you?”
“Of course, it upset me,” Alan scoffed, “I wanted to put all I could into this book! Because…” Alan hesitated.
“Because?” Pettyjon prompted.
“Because I wanted this book to sell well so I could pay for our wedding. But I hit a wall, lost the muse. I just needed more time, but she…she couldn’t wait anymore. This was the opportunity I’d been waiting on. I guess the timing just wasn’t right.”
Officer Pettyjon frowned sadly, finishing the note he was on. Alan’s stare was vacant, with a single tear welling in his right eye.
“Where were you last night? Between two and six in the mornin’?”
“Here. Asleep,” Alan sighed in defeat.
“Can anyone corroborate that?” the officer asked.
“No. I’m a writer; I’ve got nowhere else to go, no one else to see. Certainly no one coming here. Why?” Alan asked, his brow furrowing deeper, this time in disbelief as the officer’s next words registered.
“Alan, I won’t lie to you, this next part’s probably the hardest news for me to deliver, but I got to. Your DNA was found at the scene. You’re a person of interest in the case now.”
Alan’s face said it all; this pill was nearly harder to swallow than learning of Lana’s death. It was a ridiculous accusation, even if it was implied.
“My…DNA? Pettyjon, I lived there with her for a year! I only just moved here a couple weeks ago, of course my DNA is all over the place!”
The policeman put his hands up in defense.
“I understand, Alan! This whole thing smells rotten to me too! But, I still gotta do my job. I need you to come down to the station with me for questioning. Once you’re alibi clears, you’ll be free to do whatever it is you need to. If I’m honest, I wouldn’t say no to you putting those crime novel skills to the test and helping us out with the investigation.”
“Yeah…yeah whatever helps. Just…let me grab my coat?” Alan asked as he rose from his seat. Pettyjon nodded in approval as he did the same.
Alan crossed the small kitchen into the equally modest bedroom. He opened the closet, grabbing a nice Carhartt jacket and a beanie. Then he paused. Peering past the closet door into the kitchen, Alan saw that officer Pettyjon was busy transcribing his notes into his cellphone. Returning his gaze to the closet, with door obscuring him from the rest of the apartment, he relaxed his face and took a deep breath, looking at his feet.
In the closet, haphazardly tossed behind a few pairs of boots, sat a duffle bag. He bent down and unzipped the bag, yearning to gaze at its contents one more time. Inside were treasures that brought Alan a catharsis he didn’t know could exist: a skull cap that fit tightly around his head, foot coverings and an N95 mask that he’d gotten as a set 50% off at Costco, a set of scrubs whose once vibrant speckling of vermillion had already oxidized to a rusty brown, and a kitchen knife he’d gotten for Christmas the one year during covid when he’d gotten really into cooking. The knife was the prize; it still held the sparkling color that had unlocked the block in his mind and had revitalized his writing in a way he’d never dreamed of.
He'd known better, but was careless anyway. His plan to get rid of everything immediately had quickly been abandoned, being replaced with the need for a day to savor it all. Now he had no choice. He’d have to dispose of everything as soon as he got back. This was his last, delicious gaze at the bag, before he zipped it back up and placed it back in the closet. He stood upright, took another deep breath, then flicked the sides of his eyeballs, the sting bringing tears back to the forefront of his act. He shut the door of the closet and returned to the kitchen.
Once his jacket and beanie were on, he followed officer Pettyjon out of the apartment and into the chilly Texas winter.
“I didn’t do this, Pettyjon. I swear on it…” Alan said, his voice breaking slightly as a tear rolled from his right eye. Pettyjon placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“I believe you Alan. Let’s get your name clear, and then lets get the son-of-a-bitch that did!”
Alan nodded appreciatively. The two men reached the police cruiser, the policeman opening the passenger side door for Alan, then taking his own place on the driver side. The car started away from the apartment.
“Let’s get your mind off this for a bit, yeah? Tell me about the book you’re workin’ on right now. You know, my mom’s a big fan. Think it’ll be ready by December?”
Alan looked out the window, a slight smile contrasting the tears he was forcing out of his eyes.
“I think so. I just recently overcame my writer’s block. The muse has never been stronger.”
