The Client [FICTOID]

“Are you a detective?”

“I am.”

“I want you to solve a mystery.”

“Okay, what mystery?”

“Why did I do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kill my wife.”

I took a long draw on my cigarette.  “She’s dead?”

“She will be.”

“Then why not save her?”

“It’s fatal.”

“What is?”

“AIDS.”

I took another long draw.  These things will kill me.  Eventually.  “You gave her AIDS?”

“No.”

I stubbed my cigarette out.  The client -- the would be client -- proved irritating.  “Let’s stop talking in circles.  What did you do?”

“I encouraged my wife to have an affair.”

“Ah.  Because she was unhappy, or you were guilty?”

“Both.”

“Let’s start with her unhappiness.”

“I’m a businessman.  I work hard.  I make a lot of money -- but I don’t have time for love.”

“Old story.  Kind of cliché.  To be frank, pathetic.”

“Yes.  Pathetic is the perfect word.”

“So you encouraged your wife to play around, to get her jollies behind your back, but with your permission.”

“Yes.”

“Did she pick her lover, or did you?”

The client-to-be hung his head in shame.  “I did.”

“Somebody you knew?  Or somebody you both knew?”

“Somebody I knew…mostly.  She met him once or twice.  He worked for me.  A rough sort, muscular.  In the shipping department.”

“And he had AIDS?”

The client hung his head again.  “Yes.”

“Did you know?”

The client looked out my office window for a long, long time.  The view was the alley between the buildings; the day was cold, wet, and grey.

“Yes,” he said at last.

“What do you gain through your wife’s death?”

“Millions,” said the client.  “My wife stands to inherit a fortune.  It’s in a trust, so it can’t be denied her.”

“Does she know you know her lover had AIDS?”

The client closed his eyes.  Tears leaked out.  “Yes.”

“So why doesn’t she divorce you?  Or at least rewrite her will?”

“She loves me,” he said, voice cracking.

“Are you worthy of her love?”

His voice cracked again.  “No.”

“Then either kill yourself, or prove yourself worthy.”

“How?”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Don’t you solve mysteries?”

“This isn’t a mystery,” I said.  I wanted another cigarette badly but I told myself I needed to wait at least half an hour. 

“You murdered your wife -- “ here the client sucked his breath in harshly but didn’t deny it “ -- because you hoped to gain from it.

“Now she’s dying, or at least cursed with a potentially fatal disease she’ll never escape.

“You could divorce her, give her a generous settlement, but that will only be more pain and suffering inflicted on her, dragging out over weeks or months, and you’ll still keep some of your wealth.

“Or you can devote yourself to her, make her happy, brighten her days, make her glad she is alive.

“Or you can kill yourself swiftly, make the shock sudden but final, and leave her everything to comfort her last days.

“They’re doing a lot with AIDS treatments these days,” I said.  “She could still have many, many comfortable years ahead of her.”

“What do you recommend?”

I decided not to wait.  I shook the last cigarette out of the pack, tapped it on my desk, lit it, and drew in a deep lungful before answering.

“That you even came to me -- that you came to anyone -- reveals volumes.

“’Why’ you did this is easy enough to explain.  You love money.  You thought you loved it more than your wife.  You realize this might not be the case, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.  It’s dawning on you what you might really lose, and you can’t weigh that against your greed to decide which matters most to you, so you’re looking for outside help.”

Another long drag.  “Have you spoken with a therapist?  A psychiatrist?  A doctor?  A lawyer?  A priest or a rabbi or a minister?

“Yes,” said the client.  “Yes, yes, and more yes.”

“And they gave you the same answer, didn’t they?”

He gulped and nodded.

“One of the answers I gave you, right?”

He hesitated, then shook his head slightly.  “Only two of the three options you offered.”

“So there you go,” I said, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs.  It felt good.  It felt clean.  Certainly cleaner that this client.

“Don’t speak in riddles,” he said.  “What should I do?”

“Do you go hunting?”

“Occasionally.  Pheasants, mostly.  Why?”

“Make sure you get your whole head over the barrel of the shotgun.”

© Buzz Dixon