“Ok,” the officer says with a deep huff that is some obvious mix of impatient, frustrated and exasperated. He is about 40, white, with short black hair with some stray grays around the temples, black framed glasses and a bit of a beer belly. “Maybe you should just start at the beginning. What were you doing before you say you ‘found’ the knife?” It is clear from his tone that he isn’t going to believe you. “The party ended around midnight. A few guests had already left and I walked the last ones to the door a little after twelve.” “Who all was there, and in what order did they leave?” “Like I told the police when they first showed up,” you say with a touch more emphasis than is necessary, “It was my boss Dr Joe Hansen, his wife Claire, two other nurses Stacey and Marla, Adam who works in the lab and his girlfriend Jen.” “What about the victim?” You swallow hard. “He…wasn’t invited.” “But you knew him.” It wasn’t a question. “Yes, we all did.” “You were sleeping with him.” “No! Not anymore! We broke up months ago!” “So maybe he wanted you back? Got a little too insistent? If it was self defense you can tell us.” The female officer speaks this time. She is dark skinned, probably mixed race, younger but seems to be the leader of the two. Her hair is pulled back to the base of her neck with a yellow scrunchy and she smells like peanut butter. “No! I swear I never saw him, never talked to him , didn’t even know he was there until…” your voice fails as you imagine the scene in your mind. The knife, sitting next to the sink like any other knife might be, just waiting to be washed. You almost just toss it in the dishwasher, but hesitate when you saw the dried, red, sticky substance on the blade. What had you served that was that color? Nothing you can remember. It looks almost like blood? No, that is impossible. But then a red smudge on the kitchen floor catches your eye. A shoe print maybe? But all the guests left their shoes outside. Then you see the puddle, oozing out from under the pantry door. You open it and he tumbled out, white as a sheet, blood all over his naked chest, soaking the front of his boxer shorts, all down his bare legs and feet. “So back to the party,” Glasses pulls you back out of the flashback. “When did the first guests leave?” “Stacy and Marla left around 11. Stacey was pretty drunk so Marla decided to drive her home.” “Did they know the victim?” Scrunchy asks. “Yes. He used to work with us. They…I think at one point Stacey had feelings for him, and I know he dated Marla.” “Any reason they would have wanted him dead? All kinds of reasons, you think to yourself, but all you say is “I don’t know, I don’t think so. He was…he slept around a lot. There was always drama. When he left the clinic there were a lot of women who weren’t sad to see him go.” “And when they left, they went through the kitchen? Did you go with them?” “Yes, the only door to the apartment is through the kitchen, except for the balcony where the rest of us were still having drinks.” “Then what happened?” “Adam and Jen left about fifteen minutes later. They said they needed to get home to let their dog out.” “Did you walk them out?” Scrunchy is picking at a hangnail now and Glasses is asking the questions and taking notes. “No, they saw themselves out too.” “Any reason they would want to hurt the victim?” “Well…no, he and Adam were friends,” you answer. But that isn’t the whole truth. Adam told you once, just about a week ago, that The Victim once tried to stick his hand down Jen’s shirt when she was drunk. He said if he ever saw him again he would punch his teeth in. “And Doctor Hansen and his wife stayed another hour? What were the three of you doing?” Claire was getting her heart broken, you think to yourself. “Just joking around, talking about life, you know.” “And you walked them to the door?” “I…yes. Claire went to the bathroom first and Joe was getting an Uber. Then I walked them to the door.” Actually Claire was crying her eyes out in the bathroom, Joe was telling you that he couldn’t see you anymore, that he needed to save his marriage, and then he left you on the balcony while he got an Uber. You didn’t see them nicely to the door, Joe chased his wife and you chased him and he slammed the door in your face. “Your fingerprints were the only ones on the knife,” Scrunchy pipes in. “Your shoe was the one with blood on it. And you were alone when you say you found the body. Are you sure, absolutely sure, you don’t want to tell me it was self-defense?” “I used that knife to cut veggies for the salad, of course my fingerprints were on it. I have no idea how the blood got on my shoe! And I have no idea who killed that bastard but he deserved it!!” Then. You know. You knew all along, really. It is the only thing that makes sense. Every one of them had a reason to want him dead. And actually, every one of them had a reason to hate you. You slept with him after he broke up with Marla and rejected Stacey. You rejected Adam for him, when Adam told you he was a sleaze bag. You left him for Joe, true. But Joe was the jealous type. Ironic for a man who regularly cheated on his own wife. They all killed him, you think to yourself. They did it together, and framed you. Out loud you say, “I guess I killed him.” “Excuse me?” Glasses looks up from his notepad. “What was that?” You are going to prison. There is no way anyone will believe that so many people could cooperate for this kind of crime. All the evidence points to you. And really, do you deserve anything better? “I said I guess I killed him.” “Are you trying to make a confession? Do you want to consult an attorney?” Scrunchy asks. “Yes, I’ll confess. I want a plea deal. Not an attorney.” “A plea deal?” Glasses laughs. “Yeah, ok. We’ll talk to the DA. Maybe they’ll give you life instead of the death penalty.” End.