Confession
By nevis
- 608 reads
Born and raised in Montana, I wasn't aware that I had a rich uncle
until we moved to New York where, at the age of 12, I met my paternal
grandmother and the rest of Dad's family.
Moving was traumatic for me. I had been familiar with riding horses,
wondering around and scouting for arrowheads or ancient animals long
since turned to stone.
It was a cultural shock. Where in Montana, there was an abundance of
horses and sky. In New York, there were an abundance of vehicles and
tall buildings piercing the sky. People wore different style clothes
and were more concerned with style and sophistication than anything I
had been accustomed to. Growing up in this culture was tough but I
survived and even got used to the clothes and styles. So much so, I
turned into one of those people concerned with the material things,
style and most of all money.
My parents were never concerned with money, so I don't know where I got
this materialistic quality that was now a part of my character and
precipitated my downfall. I always wanted more. I worked after school
and saved money to buy clothes in boutiques, just like many of the
girls I envied and went to school with. I was able to develop a
personality akin to those I wanted to hang around with, and was
popular. I even had my eye on one particular boy that came from a
"good" family. The thought behind this was to marry for money and spend
my time climbing the social ladder, which I had interpreted as culture,
rather than working for a living.
This idea was attractive and in my naive way, I thought I could pull it
off. His ancestors were one of the founders of the city in which we
lived and the family had money. Old money I was once told. It didn't
turn out quite the way I wanted as his attention was drawn to some
mousy no-neck girl who also came from money. Money marries money my
grandmother used to say. This just served to infuriate me and I
resolved to get revenge by becoming rich. I suspected it was his
parents who pushed him into marriage with that girl. I knew then that
marriage was not going to bring to my life what I most longed
for.
I first met my Uncle John when I was 16. He was the proverbial rich
uncle and had everything. A grand house in Westchester County, a
penthouse on Park Avenue in New York and a yacht were just the few of
the things I fell in love with and of course wanted for my own. He also
had five children. Children who could inherit.
It was then that a plan started to formulate in my mind. To get rid of
them, one by one. I reminded myself of a movie I had once seen. "The
List of Adrian Messenger."
I made it my business to get to know my uncle and his children. I set
out to become his favorite niece. I made nice with my worthless
cousins, which was quite interesting and all too easy. He had two boys
and three girls and all were ripe for the picking. It was their
characters and personality that would help me follow through on my plan
of murder.
Larceny and drugs were the norm for them. Every one of them had been in
and out of alcohol and drug rehab programs, as well as being in and out
of jail. It angered me that they had all of the benefits of the rich,
but none of the responsibility. Their parents were more interested in
fighting among themselves that they didn't pay much attention to what
was going on with their kids, nor did they care. This was going to be
so easy I thought.
Jack, one of the male cousins, had a particular fondness for heroin.
One night while preparing to see Jack at a pre-arranged time, I managed
to score some high quality, pure heroin. Uncut, I knew this would most
likely induce death. I had known a few people in low places and the
heroin was easy to get in New York. His dealer was in jail and he was
looking for a high. I was there to save the day.
I made sure that no one was aware of our plan and waited for a time
when I would be with him alone. I knew his whole family was going to
some school function that night which Jack had no interest in,
especially when he knew I would be visiting. The only thing I had
insisted on was he could not let anyone know that I was coming over and
bringing him drugs. I needed him to be home alone and I did not want to
be seen or have anyone know I would be there. I had to make sure of
that. It was easy to convince Jack. All I had to do was tell him that I
had a job I enjoyed, which would be ruined if anyone knew I was
supplying him with drugs. I had long since cultivated a trusting bond
between him and me.
Jack was sitting on the sofa; bent over at the waist and sweating
profusely. He was going through withdrawal and he was hurting. I almost
felt sorry for him. I lit a candle, got a spoon and proceeded to cook
the heroin in a little water and drew it slowly into a syringe.
I tied the tourniquet around his arm and wiped the syringe clean and
gave it to him to inject himself. Only his fingerprints would be on it.
He asked me to inject it for him as he was shaking too much to do it
himself. I thought about it for a second and proceeded to inject him.
Still a perfect set up. He had problems with drugs and of course people
would think he simply overdosed.
I watched in utter amazement, as his expression went from euphoria to
surprise and watched while he went into convulsions. It took about five
minutes for him to finally settle down. When he did, I felt for a pulse
and found nothing. I then felt the artery in his neck, still nothing. I
left the tourniquet on his arm, surveyed the room to make sure I left
nothing incriminating behind and saw the syringe on the floor. I picked
it up and wiped it clean and then let it drop from my hand back onto
the floor. I went out through the wine cellar, which had a tunnel out
to the back of the house. I left my car down at the dock where my uncle
berthed his yacht, which was about a half mile from the house. I
thought that I would be less conspicuous if someone happened to see me
coming and going.
I had even thought of borrowing a friend's car rather than using my
own, as my car could be recognized. My pressing problem was that I
didn't want to be recognized and had disguised myself in little ways by
making use of sunglasses, a large floppy hat and a different car. Too
many people knew who I was having seen me at the house at various
times. I knew I had to be careful.
As I got into the car, I looked around carefully. Everything looked
normal. I smiled to myself with the thought of getting away with the
perfect murder and felt strangely satisfied and exhilarated at the same
time.
As I was driving the 45 minute drive to my apartment, I started
thinking of ways to dispatch the others. One down and four to go. I
wondered how long it would take for the rest of them. I knew it
couldn't be too soon, as several deaths one right after the other would
be suspicious and I couldn't afford that. Yes, this may take some time,
but it was worth it in the end. After all of his children were gone, my
uncle would turn to me and if all works out well, I will benefit from
his will. He would have no one else left.
I started to think of Uncle John. He was in pretty good health, 62
years old and a millionaire. How long could he live? Funny, I never had
given him much thought.
I was generally fond of him and killing him just never occurred to me,
until now.
I realized then this required more thought and time.
Suddenly, I was exhausted. I got into my apartment and decided to take
a shower and get a good nights sleep.
A million thoughts were running through my mind as I let the water run
down my back. Pure clean water washing away the sins of the day. A good
nights sleep is what I needed now, to keep the creeping quilt
away.
I put on a night gown and prepared my bed. My thoughts suddenly
interrupted by a knock at my door. My heart leaped up into my throat. I
glanced at the clock on my bed stand. Midnight. Has someone found him
already? It had been only two hours since I left Jack. The knock was
becoming incessant.
I went to the door and was confronted by two police officers.
"Are you Sandra Simpson?" One of the police officers said.
"Yes, has something happened?" I asked.
"I'm Detective Mark Richards ma'am, and this is Sargent Miles. Where
were you this evening ma'am." Detective Richards said.
My thoughts were racing. What should I say? Did anyone see me
leave?
"I went to dinner upstate with my boyfriend." I quickly said. "Could
you please tell me what this is all about?"
"Ma'am, is this your bracelet?" As he presented me with my Medic Alert
bracelet.
I knew I couldn't deny that it was mine. My name, address and medical
condition was written on it. I thought fast.
"Yes, I lost it a couple of days ago. Where did you find it?" I
said.
"Your cousin Jack Simpson was murdered tonight. Someone gave him a
lethal dose of heroin." Sargent Miles said.
"My cousin has a drug problem. What makes you think that he was
murdered?" I said.
"Your bracelet was found near the body. Somebody had to inject him
because number one, he was right handed and he was injected in the
right arm. Number two, his left hand had nerve damage and he was unable
to move it, much less give himself an injection. Number three,
according to your uncle, you hadn't been to the house for two months.
Just how did your bracelet get there? You just told me you lost it only
a couple of days ago. I think you lost it this evening." He said.
"Please get dressed. We need you to come with us. You have the right to
remain silent" Detective Richards said.
Epilogue
My hopes and dreams disappeared in a flash that evening. I was
eventually convicted of murder in the first degree, a capital crime in
this state.
The prison Chaplain suggested I write about what I have done. A
confession of sorts, a token gesture in search of absolution I suppose.
The only thing is, I'm not sorry for what I have done, just sorry I got
caught.
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