Sometimes I Kill Myself
By M. Daniel Nickle
Often I feel like
some kind of a phantom observer of my life, like I’m watching an Alfred
Hitchcock film instead of starring in it. I used to think this was due to being
an introvert. Now I’m not so sure. I might have been acting in the film all
along and being unaware of my participation was the premise of my role.
Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m living a dream or dreaming a life. What some
people would dismiss as vivid dreams leaves me feeling exhausted, like I’ve
been working the graveyard shift and not sleeping at all. Only that reticent
part of me passes through portals to what other selves I may be. The phantom
observer knows everything about me and my activities while right here and now I
live with blurred and fragmented impressions. Contrary to what you must be
thinking of me at this point in my story, I do not drink alcohol. I do not use
drugs. There are two things I am reasonably sure of: my name is Masson Meursault
and I am not insane. Other than that I think I may have killed someone last
night. At least that is what I told Detective Raymond Sintes.
You’re wondering why I went to
the police over a dream, aren’t you? It was that story in the newspaper. You
probably read it. The one about the young man found dead in Patriot’s Park? As
I read the article, images of the park and the body lying on the ground there
flashed as jump-cut in my mind. Details I knew which apparently the reporter
did not would have enriched the story. That’s how my visit to the police
precinct and to Detective Sintes’ office came about. I think the prospect of a
confession caught him off guard. He needn’t have been concerned. Confession was
the furthest thing from my mind. However, Detective Sintes invited me into his
office so we could continue our conversation privately. He did, however, also
invite another detective to join us whose name escapes me right now. Nothing I
told him, or that I am telling you, has a clean edge to it. I want to tell the
truth as much as I can, but like I told you up front, I am only an observer so
my recall takes me only so far. Maybe if I had thought to bring my dream
journal with me I could have told my story better.
***
Buster never wants
to go out in bad weather. Buster is a Jack
Russell terrier, my best friend always and a pain in the butt sometimes. Wind stirring out of the west at night means Buster
would just as soon hold his bladder until morning.
“Let’s go, boy. We
can beat the storm.” A low roll of thunder always sends him into hiding. This
was such a night. He fled.
“C’mon, Buster. We
won’t be long. Just a short walk and then we’ll both sleep better.” I made a
big show of putting a few of his favorite treats in my jacket pocket. Buster
was not falling for it. In desperation I pried him from his usual hiding place
behind the sofa and carried him outdoors. Something stirred in the shrubbery at
the far end of the back yard and he was off like a shot. A flash of lightning
didn’t deter him even with the smell of ozone in the air.
“Hey, Buster!” I
shouted. “Wait for me.” I raced down to the gate at the end of the hedge and
followed the barking into the adjacent city park. When I caught up, Buster had
assumed his pre-attack stance and growling from his throat. His tail was
straight out signaling trouble.
“There you are boy,”
I said. “What have you found?”
A young man with
his pants down around his ankles was lying face down in some weeds off the
path. There was dried blood in his hair. A closer look revealed an indentation
in the back of his head. He appeared to have been clubbed. Buster was sniffing
around a large tree branch, I’d say three maybe four inches in diameter and
about two and a half to three feet long. There was blood on one end of it. Lightning
flashed again followed by thunder. I realized that I had a couple broken
fingernails, a couple of bloody scrapes on my knuckles and no recall how any of
that occurred. Buster is staring at me and whimpering wanting to go home. I
reached into my pocket, but there were no treats. I could have sworn I had
brought some with us after using them as a lure to get Buster to come out of
hiding. More lightning flashes and more ozone. I felt dizzy.
Next thing I know
I’m waking up to weight on my chest and dog breath in my face. Buster is ready
for his morning retinue. As I grab some clothes to put on I notice my hands.
The knuckles show no signs of the wounds I noted earlier. My nails are even and
trimmed as normal.
Buster and I went
out the back door into the yard as is our normal routine. The yard is fenced so
I allow Buster run around freely. That’s when it hits me. The yard is fenced.
There are no shrubs or hedges. The only
gate is next to the house.
I went inside to
get Buster’s lead and then called him when I stood at the gate.
“C’mon, boy! Let’s
take a walk.”
Buster barks and
then gallops toward me. I placed the gentle lead on him. The two of us proceeded
out the gate to a park where we often play a few blocks away. Buster stopped to
look at me when he seemed to remember I ought to have been carrying a frisbee
or his ball. He gave me an accusing look.
“I didn’t forget
anything. We’re not going to play now, Buster. We’re just going for a walk. Now
stop looking at me like I’m an idiot and let’s go.”
We arrived at the
park. There was a Boxer roaming around that Buster doesn’t like. As if he has
springs on his feet, my dog can jump into my arms which he did. He has this
trick of moving around to the back of my neck. He lies there like a fur stole.
Once he’s secure on his human, Buster gets brave and barks to draw attention to
his superior position.
“Buster, hush! We
don’t want the Boxer climbing up me to get to you.”
Said Boxer looked,
but carried on as though we weren’t there. Buster seemed to believe there was
no point in having a tactical advantage if the enemy wouldn’t acknowledge he
had it, so of course, he barked again.
“Buster, be quiet!”
I said. “Do you want down? One more word from you and I’ll set you on the
ground.”
Buster nuzzled my
neck and went limp. He surrendered. The Boxer left the park.
When we arrived at
the far side of the park, I set Buster on his feet. We walked around while I
looked for some proof we had been there the night before to no avail. We went
home. I picked up the morning newspaper from the driveway on the way around the
house to the back door.
I opened the paper
and set it on the kitchen counter so I could remove Buster’s lead. He sat down
to wait for his breakfast. While he ate, I poured a cup of coffee and sat down
to read the headlines. There on the front page was the story of the young man
found dead in a city park though not the park where Buster and I had just walked.
The park wasn’t even near where we lived. The crime scene photo the paper
featured showed the guy lying on his belly with his pants down around his
ankles in the tall grass circumscribed by yellow police tape.
Everything in the
photo was familiar. The tall grass was the same. The clothes were the same. The
state they were in was unmistakable. The article did not mention the blood. The
reporter wrote the cause of death was to be determined later. Yet the tree branch
was right there. Off to the side, the murder weapon was almost concealed by a
clump of weeds. I called the police station and asked to speak with the officer
in charge.
The first thing the
voice on the phone asked me was, “Are you a psychic?”
“No, I am not. I’m
just an ordinary citizen who read about a dead body in a city park in this
morning’s newspaper. I noticed something in the photo that wasn’t mentioned in
the article, so I thought I would call.”
“What do you think
you saw?”
“The murder
weapon.”
“Hold one moment,
sir.”
I was put on hold.
A different voice came on the line.
“Detective Sintes.”
“Yes. My name is
Meursault. I’m calling about the young man found murdered in the city park this
morning.”
“Sir, no one is
calling this a murder.”
“Perhaps not in
public yet, but would a homicide detective be involved if it weren’t?”
“Sir, what did you
say your name is?”
“Meursault.”
“Mr. Meursault, I
think you and I should have a conversation. How soon could you be here?”
“I can be there
within the hour, Detective, if that’s all right with you.”
“Fine. I’ll see you
in an hour. I’ll tell the desk sergeant I’m expecting you.”
That was that. The
stage was set, so to speak. As Mr. Hitchcock always said on his television
show, “We’ll be right back after this brief announcement.”
(Feedback most welcome!)
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