Welcome Home

At a crime scene, Detective Jim seems professional—until the interrogation goes wrong.

A mist hung around the trees, curling low over the underbrush. The morning was thick with fog, muffling every sound and blurring every shape.

Jim parked at the edge of the road, next to the filling station. The engine idled for a moment before he cut it off. Stepping out, he spotted some colored glass along the roadside. “Huh,” he muttered. Crouching, he picked up a piece and weighed it in his hand. Tire marks on the road caught his eye. Fresh, he thought.

“Shoot, I still say he shoulda sent that fella on home after that hit. We coulda tied the game up.” Ignoring the two officers talking about last night’s ball game, he moved toward the body. As he knelt for a closer look, one officer noticed him.

“A fella drivin’ by spotted her from the road. Reckon he called it in to the station ’bout an hour ago,” drawled the second officer.

He nodded, examining her. She was young. Face down, hair spilling like a veil. Her blue blouse hung loose on one shoulder, her skirt bunched around her thigh. Dark bruises spotted her pale skin. A piece of her blouse had caught on a branch in the brush. He carefully freed it, exposing her shoulder.

He recognized her. “Rachel. She works at the diner in town,” he said, gently moving her hair from her face.

“You mean the one over on Central?” the first officer asked.

“Yeah. That’s the one,” Jim said. He was quiet for a moment. “She mentioned her family moved here this year. I should be the one to tell them.”

He stood up, brow furrowed. His eyes fell back to her skirt. He took off his jacket and bent down to cover her lower body, smoothing it out.

“Where’s the driver now?”

“I reckon he’s down at the station house right now, givin’ his story to the Sergeant,” the officer replied.

He straightened and turned the glass in his pocket, staring at the ground as if looking for something. “Mmmhmm. I’m gonna head there. Secure the scene,” he said over his shoulder.

The morning light slipped irregularly between the trees in tight bursts, the flicker across Jim’s face never settling into an even rhythm.

He drove in silence, removing the glass from his pocket and placing it on the dash. At the light, he stared at it, his face in the reflection smooth and unreadable as the road ahead.

The station: metallic clicking of a typewriter, the scent of burnt coffee, the muted hazy light lingering in the air—welcome home.

“Sarge, did the driver give his interview?” Jim asked.

“Forget the driver. We have a suspect in custody.”

Jim stopped. His expression dropped. “A suspect?”

“Yeah. But before you go back there, you should know—this looks like that murder up in Dunn a few months back.”

The case had been in the regional news for weeks. State senator’s daughter.

“Yes, I know the case. What’s the connection?”

“The suspect talked about it on the ride here. Just bragging. When we got here, I phoned a detective I know in Dunn and he gave me the details. They matched.”

“What about Rachel?” Jim asked.

“He was tight lipped about her. Didn’t say a word.”

The Sergeant handed Jim his notes from the call. His eyes glided back and forth. His jaw clenched by the end.

He folded the note, tucked it in his breast pocket, and headed to the back room.

The suspect was rapping his knuckles to a tune in his head, humming along and finally, unable to contain himself, singing… “Love to hear the Robin…” Jim’s entrance cut the performance short.

Pulling the chair out, Jim sat opposite the suspect. His thoughts hidden by his expressionless look.

Jim pulled the note out and slapped it on the table.

“So, Ronald Smalley.”

“Ronnie, please.” He smiled as if he’d just recalled something amusing.

“Ronald, tell me what you were up to last night.”

The question covered his smile like a passing cloud, only for it to reappear moments later.

“Last night. Let me see. Oh yes, I was at the Southern Bucket, had a few. You know, to wet my whistle.”

“And what time was that?”

“Oh… I don’t know. Maybe 9, 10. I was hustling some youngsters in pool. Time blends when money is involved.”

“Where did you go after?”

“Oh here and there.” He smiled.

“Would there be Earl’s diner?”

Earl’s diner was a few blocks from the Southern Bucket.

“I didn’t stop in there. No. I got in my car and went to my place.”

Jim paused. He looked at the notes. Without looking up, he said, “We have a witness that saw you talking to Rachel Nixon last night after Earl’s diner closed. Rachel was found dead this morning outside of town.”

“Oh right. How could I forget that delicious treat. I did talk to her last night. I offered her a ride. Thought it would be the gentlemanly thing to do. I’m sorry Officer…”

“You can call me Jim.”

“Right. Officer Jim. Is offering a ride to a sweet young thing now a criiiime?” The easiness returned to his body.

The Sarge stepped into the room and sat next to Jim.

He leaned into the table and extended his finger at Ronnie. Waggled it a few times then returned it to his hand.

“We know about Dunn.”

“Dunn! Yes. Finally something worth talking over. Whatcha like to know?” His body came to life like spit on a griddle.

“In Dunn, did you…” the Sarge started but Jim interrupted.

“Let’s get back to Rachel, what happened after you offered the ride?”

“Listen, I get Rachel’s tight body in that skirt gets you all worked up, Officer Jim, but Dunn is on my mind right now.” He winked.

Jim’s words were slow and deliberate.

“What happened next?”

Ronnie lifted his hand, palm up, looking to the Sarge for help. Nothing. He let out a long breath. “Fine.”

“We talked for a bit in the car. I asked her how her day was, if she had a boyfriend. You know.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Like I said, a skirt.” He rubbed his chin looking up in the air, recalling. “And a blue blouse, I think.”

“How long was the skirt?”

“What?” Ronnie chuckled.

“The skirt, was it long or short?” Jim’s face was tight. His jaw locked in place.

Sarge spoke up. “We’re getting off track—”

Jim put up his hand, cutting him off.

“Let him answer.”

“Well it was short after my hand rode up…”

Jim shot up. “Smalley! I know what you did!”

Ronnie put up his hands in protest. “I didn’t hurt that girl.”

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

-----

After the heated exchange, Sarge led Jim out of the room and told him to take the rest of the day off.

“You lost your cool back there. Never seen a suspect get to you like that. And what was with the skirt questions?”

“I was just trying to…I mean I’m…I’m not sure. He just got under my skin, is all. I’m going to head home and get my head squared away.”

“Good idea. We’ll handle the investigation. Take a day or two. And Jim? Give me the glass.”

“The what?”

Sarge opened Jim’s hand. The glass was smeared with blood. He’d been gripping it through the entire interview without realizing.

“Go clean it off and get a bandage.”

-----

He drove around aimlessly for a while but had no memory of the drive. When his wheels hit the driveway, he sat there. His mind didn’t race; the expression on his face sat empty, waiting for an emotion to appear. None did.

He finally exited the car and followed his daily routine, which started with the mail. Walking back up the driveway, he absently touched the back of his car, dragging his hand along the side.

The plants needed attending so he grabbed the watering can and poured, touching their leaves to check for moisture. His attention was disrupted by the phone ringing.

He answered with a curt hello.

“I know I said you should take a break, but this is something I’m sure you wanted to hear.”

Jim braced himself. “Go on.”

“Well we located Ol’ Ronnie’s car and guess what was missing on the back? A taillight.”

“Right. Makes sense. Find anything else that connects him?”

“As a matter of fact we did. Rachel’s purse, some blonde hair, and some clothes.”

Jim’s gaze became fixed. He licked his lips. Silence.

“Jim?”

“Yes, you said something about clothes.”

“Yes. Rachel’s…undergarment.”

Jim’s grip on the phone grew tighter, his white knuckles the evidence.

“I have to go.” He hung up.

Jim walked slowly to his room and dropped to his knees. His head drew closer to the ground with arms extended. If one would walk in, they would think he was in prayer. Instead, he pulled something out from under the bed. A chest. He swung open the lid.

He sat there looking at the contents. Finally, he drew something out of his pocket and placed it inside.

It was the sixth set of women’s underwear that he laid carefully inside.

He shut the lid.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​