I was sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a bowl of Raisin Bran when I was surprised by a hard rap on my kitchen door. Musing over who would be knocking at eight AM Sunday morning, I crossed the tile floor and opened the door.
Standing on my stoop was a man in his forties, wearing a cheap, wrinkled suit. Behind him were three uniformed cops. This was definitely not the normal Sunday routine!
"Mr. Young?" asked the suit as he briefly held up a badge. "Do you mind if we come in and ask you a few questions?"
"I'm afraid I can only converse with one person at a time, Detective ... what was your name again?"
"It's Cook. Detective Richard Cook. I'll be asking the questions, Mr. Young. These men would like to sort of look around your house, if you don't mind?" added the detective.
"Do you have a warrant? I've seen enough police shows to know you need a warrant to force your way into my home to look around, as you put it," I asserted.
"No, Sir. We do not have a warrant. I am requesting that these officers be allowed to look through your home. You have the right to deny my request. Then I would have to get a warrant," agreed the detective.
I really couldn't think of anything I had to hide, but I didn't know exactly what they were looking for, either. Was there any illegal porn on my laptop? Not that I could think of quickly. Any bodies in the freezer? It seemed unlikely. We did have some illegally copied DVD's in the den!
"You aren't from Interpol, are you?" I quickly asked.
"No, Mr. Young. Believe me, we are not interested in illegally copied movies. Everyone always worries about that," acknowledged the detective as he slowly shook his head.
"Could you tell me what this is all about then?" I politely asked. "This is quite unusual in this neighborhood. Why do you want to search my house?"
"Sir, there has been a murder and I am investigating it. These officers are assisting me. Is there any reason you would deny my request?" asked Detective Cook.
"Well, yeah! Because I can. Because I don't want a bunch of strangers wandering around my house. Because the floors are clean and I want to keep them that way or my wife will give me hell when she gets up," I responded. "How about them reasons?"
"How about I haul your ass down to headquarters and question you for five or six hours while my colleagues obtain a search warrant and go over your clean house with a fucking fine tooth comb?" snarled Cook.
"How about you gentlemen come in and look around while I entertain Detective Cook," I asked, directing my question in the vicinity of the three uniformed cops.
I wasn't sure why the cops were anxious to search my home, but I was pretty certain they wouldn't find anything very damning, with the possible exception those fucking missing tags the kids tore off their mattresses fifteen years ago. If push came to shove, Cook could drive out to Penn State and arrest my two sons. I wasn't taking the fall after I had repeatedly warned them about removing those damn tags!
I motioned to a chair for Cook as the three men in uniform filed into the kitchen. I watched as they slowed and came to a stop by the island in the center of the room. They turned almost in unison to look my way.
"Just one each!" I groused as the trio dove into my box of fresh doughnuts. I had picked up a dozen jelly filled doughnuts just minutes before their arrival and the aroma had called to their professional instincts. It was that moment that my wife, June, walked warily into the kitchen, clutching her bathrobe tightly to her throat.
"Steve, what's going on? Why are their policemen walking through the house eating doughnuts? Is something wrong?" she asked worriedly.
"June, this is Detective Cook. I'm hoping he'll enlighten us about the situation while he asks his questions. I gave permission to 'look around' as Cook euphemistically calls it. Detective, this is my wife, June. Can you tell us why you're here, investigating a murder?"
"Mr. Robert Morgan was shot and killed last night, around midnight. I believe you both knew him?
"Well, yeah!" He was June's boss. You shouldn't lack for suspects, Cook. The bastard created cuckolds faster than rabbits can reproduce. You should be looking for a jealous husband, or maybe even an entire platoon of them," I chuckled, feeling no sadness over the death of my wife's late employer.
No one else even cracked a smile. June's face was whiter than I had ever seen it and tears were forming in her eyes. Cook just nodded slightly as he studied my face. Except for some soft sobs from June, the room had become deathly quiet.
"Mrs. Young, how long ago did you enter into an affair with your employer, Robert Morgan?" questioned the detective.
"I didn't really, I mean it wasn't really an affair," sobbed June. "It was more of an occasional meeting. I didn't love him or anything. It was probably about six months ago that we first got together. I would never shoot anyone, and certainly not Bob!"
"I never suggested you would, Mrs. Young. I am simply trying to get all the facts," stated Cook matter-of-factly. "How did your husband respond to your liaisons with Mr. Morgan. Was he jealous? Angry? Enraged, when he found out?"
"Steve had no idea that I had been unfaithful until just this moment, Mr. Cook. The subject was certainly never discussed between us. I'm certain that Steve would have been upset, but not enough to kill Bob," replied June, with less conviction than I would have liked from my wife.
"Really?" grunted the detective. "Mr. Young, how would you answer the same questions."
"They started fucking August ninth of this year," I replied calmly. "It was at after a dinner party at Morgan's. I was called away early because of a problem at work. He offered June a ride home and hammered her in the back seat of his SUV. I am not upset because June and I have an unspoken agreement. Simply stated, we are free to fuck whomever we please, and we do. June decided to fuck Morgan. That was between the two of them."
June's mouth had dropped almost to the floor at my revelation. It took a few seconds for her mind to process everything I had just told the detective. I could see the wheels slowly turning.
"How come I never heard of this so-called agreement?" demanded June indignantly.
"Because that is what the word 'unspoken' means, Dear," I quickly responded. "If we had discussed it, I would have said that you and I had a verbal agreement, and if we had it notarized and signed, it would have been a written agreement. Ours was unspoken."
"Well, it would have been nice if I had known that," bitched June. "I worked awfully hard to keep you from finding out about Bob. I think all our agreements should be spoken, or even documented from now on. This sneaking around shit is hard on my nerves."
"This questioning is not producing what I would consider normal responses," admitted Cook as he reached into his shirt pocket and produced a small recorder. "Both of you need to be aware that I am recording everything you say. Mrs. Young, have you been 'meeting' with any other gentlemen, or was Mr. Morgan your only paramour?"
"Of course!" protested June, perhaps a tad too strongly. "I'm a married woman! How can you even ask such a question?"
"Has your husband been taking advantage of this 'unspoken agreement', to your knowledge, or has he been completely faithful to you," quizzed Cook.
"Steve would never break our marriage vows, Detective!" June answered somewhat indignantly. "He's as faithful as an old hound. You can take that to the bank!"
"Mr. Young, I am asking you the same questions again. Do you agree with your wife's responses?"
"June has been fucking her coworker, Bill Anderson, since September 15th. Other than the two aforementioned fuckers, she is as faithful as the goddamn geyser carrying that moniker in one of our national parks," I responded without emotion, even as June made an audible gasp. "She loves the way he eats her pussy."
.... There is more of this story ...