Another spring had come to Lockland, Ohio, but AJ McLean saw none of
its beauty and felt none of its warmth.
His world had gone cold and gray the day Jori had died, for she had been
the light of his life. Without her,
there was only darkness.
The winter had been rough.
Somehow, he had made it through the holidays and into the new year just
by going through the motions, like a blind man who has memorized the way. He hardly slept, ate too little, and drank
too much, but he continued to go to work each day because the record store was
all he had left. He had lost his only
child and the woman he’d planned to marry, the woman he’d followed to this
godforsaken town in the first place. He
couldn’t lose his business, too. It was
not just the only thing keeping him in Lockland, but the only thing keeping him
alive, period.
But Vintaj seemed on the verge of collapse. It had always hovered somewhere between life
and death, success and failure, but after suffering a steady drop in sales for
the past three quarters, AJ feared its condition was terminal. He sat alone in the back room with his
whiskey flask well in reach, running his hand absently along his receding
hairline as he stared down at his monthly bank statement. His savings account had started to look even
sparser than his scalp, the numbers dwindling down to nothing as he shelled out
everything he had left to save the shop.
He was broke, and despite the money he’d put into it, the store had
failed to break even. He didn’t know how
he was going to dig himself out of this hole.
It felt like he’d dug his own grave.
Maybe it was time to lay his dream to rest, bury the business, and move
on.
On to where? He didn’t
know. Back to West Palm Beach,
maybe. He had family there. Friends.
He’d once had a life there, too, but he’d given that up to start a new
life with Jori. He supposed he could
head home and try to salvage what was left of his old life. Or he could find a new home, make a new life
for himself in a place he’d never been.
He had done it before. Maybe it
was time, once again, to put the past behind him and look toward the
future. A fresh start might be just what
he needed.
But freedom wasn’t a luxury he would have for much longer.
When he heard the bell ring over the door, he looked up, ears pricked,
like a dog awaiting its master. He felt
an ember of hope flicker to life somewhere deep inside him. Customers were a rare commodity these days.
Howie was manning the counter, and AJ heard him speaking softly with the
two men who had come in. He could tell
they were men and that there were two of them by the sounds of their voices,
though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then, suddenly, Howie appeared in the
doorway. “The police are here,” he said,
in a hushed tone. “They want to speak
with you.”
AJ wasn’t worried when he stood up, slipping the flask back into his
desk drawer. What did he have left to
lose? He walked into the storefront with
his head held high, and when he saw the two uniformed men, he pasted on a
customer service smile and said, “’Morning, officers. How can I help you?”
Neither one smiled back. The
older of the two took a step toward him and asked, “Are you Alexander James
McLean?”
That was when AJ felt the first hint of fear. “Yes,” he said uncertainly. “What’s this about?”
“Mr. McLean-” The officer took
another step toward him, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his back
pocket. “-I have a warrant for your
arrest.”
“What?!” he heard Howie sputter.
“Why??”
But AJ knew why. Without being
asked, he turned around and held his hands out behind his back, allowing the officer
to cuff them together. To Howie, who was
watching, wide-eyed in shock, AJ said, “I need you to call me a lawyer, D. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure,” Howie replied faintly, “but why? What’s going on, AJ?”
“You have the right to remain silent.”
The second officer jumped in to read the Miranda Rights before AJ could
respond. “Anything you say or do can and
will be held against you in a court of law.
You have the right to an attorney.
If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights I have just read
to you?”
“Yes,” said AJ, offering Howie a one-shouldered shrug. He allowed the officers to lead him outside,
where their squad car was parked, and didn’t say another word until he was
sitting in the back, on the way to the police station. Then he asked, “Mind telling me what I’m
being charged with?”
The officer who was driving looked into the rearview mirror and caught
his eye, confirming his worst suspicion.
“The murder of Marjorie Jean Wilder.”
***
The presence of his newly-hired attorney at his side did not make AJ
feel any more comfortable in the small interrogation room. Sitting across the table was the officer who
had arrested him, while his partner stood, sentry-like, near the door.
“Mr. McLean, I’m Officer Campbell, and this is Officer Shears,” said
the seated man, gesturing over his shoulder to the standing one. “Now that your counsel is here, we’d like to
ask you some questions regarding your involvement in the death of your fiancée,
Marjorie Wilder.”
“Jori,” said AJ in a flat voice.
“She went by Jori. She hated to
be called Marjorie.”
Officer Campbell nodded. “Tell
me about the night Jori was killed. What
happened?”
AJ glanced at the lawyer, who gave him a nod of approval. “I went to bed before midnight,” he began,
intending to tell the same story he’d told every other time he had been
questioned about Jori’s death. “Around
two in the morning, I woke up to the sound of tires squealing, like when
someone slams on their brakes really hard.”
“Interesting,” Officer Campbell interrupted, “considering the police
who investigated the crime scene found no skid marks or any other evidence that
the vehicle that struck Jori applied its brakes.”
AJ met his eyes, returning his smirk with a glare. “Well, it must have, because I heard it,” he
insisted. “It startled me, so I sat up,
and that’s when I realized Jori wasn’t in bed.
I looked out the window of our bedroom, which looks out onto the street,
and I saw her lying there.”
The office raised an eyebrow.
“Your residence is two blocks away from where Jori was hit. You’re telling me you were able to see that
spot out your window and recognize her from that far away?”
“Well, I didn’t know for sure that it was her,” AJ replied
quickly. “I just saw someone lying there
and knew I had to help.”
“So what did you do?”
“I ran outside. It was raining,
so I got in my car and drove up the street until I got to her.”
Campbell nodded and glanced down at the file in front of him. “Yes, I’m wondering about that,” he said,
shuffling through the pieces of paper.
“According to the police report from that night, you transported Jori to
the hospital yourself. Why didn’t you
call 911?”
AJ swallowed hard. “I don’t
know,” he said. “I guess I
panicked. I just wanted to get her to
the hospital as fast as I could.”
“But why not call from your apartment, as soon as you realized someone
– not necessarily Jori – was hurt?”
AJ shrugged. “Like I said… I
guess I panicked.”
The officer seemed suspicious, but he accepted AJ’s answer and
proceeded to his next question. “So you
drove Jori to the hospital in your own car – is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And what kind of car was that?”
“A Chevy Malibu.”
“That’s interesting, because the surveillance cameras in the hospital
parking lot show you entering and leaving in a Ford pick-up truck.”
AJ felt his face heat up. He
took a deep breath and wiped his sweaty palms off on his pants, keeping his
hands hidden under the table so the interrogator wouldn’t see them
shaking. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. I forgot,” he said lamely.
“You forgot,” repeated the office in a sarcastic tone. His skepticism was evident. “Who did the truck belong to?”
“It was Jori’s.”
“And where is that truck now?”
“I don’t know. I sold it after
she died.”
“To whom?”
“I don’t know, some junker. I
sold it for scrap; it was a piece of shit, and there was blood on the seat from
when I took her to the hospital that night.”
“We found the truck,” said Campbell bluntly, and AJ’s heart started to
pound. “There wasn’t just blood on the
seat. There was some on the front
fender, too – the same fender that was visibly dented on the hospital
surveillance video. We had to scrape
through a layer of paint to find it.
Were you the one who re-painted the car?”
“You can stop answering questions at any time, Mr. McLean,” his lawyer
reminded him, but AJ forged ahead.
“Just to cover up Jori’s paint job, so I could sell it,” he replied
quickly. “She had spray-painted it
herself to look like rainbow tie-dye.”
“I thought you were just selling it for scrap metal,” Campbell
reminded him, and AJ’s heart sunk as he realized he’d been caught in another
lie. “Don’t bother trying to explain
your way out of this one. We already tested the blood from the fender. We know it’s Jori’s. We know you were driving her truck that
night. We can put two and two together,
Mr. McLean. It all adds up to one
conclusion: You were the one who hit
Jori.”
“Don’t respond to that,” the lawyer hissed in his ear, but it was too
late: AJ’s body language had said it
all. He slumped forward over the table,
burying his face in his folded arms.
“Talk to me, Alexander,” Campbell probed in a softer tone of
voice. “Tell me what really happened
that night. I already know the
facts. Now I want to hear your side of
the story.”
“My client needs a break from questioning,” snapped the lawyer.
“No.”
The room fell silent as everyone stared at AJ, who had spoken. He had lifted his head and was looking
straight across the table at Campbell, the officer’s face blurring before his
tear-filled eyes.
“Mr. McLean-” the lawyer persisted, but AJ ignored him.
“I’ll tell you what really happened.
I did do it, alright? I killed
Jori. I admit it,” he said, swiping at
the tears that trickled out of the corners of his eyes. “But before you condemn me, you need to
understand why. You need to know the
whole story...”
***