Uncle Andrew

by K. A. Williams

      Uncle Andrew was wheeled out on a gurney while forensics were checking for clues. I had already talked with the police officers that had answered the call, and now I was being questioned by the detective in charge of the investigation.

Detective Simmons was reading the notes handed to him by the cops that were leaving on another call. "Now you said you never saw anyone leave the house after you arrived and found your uncle's body."

"Right."

"Tell me everything from the time you got here. Maybe you forgot something important."

I didn't think I had forgotten anything, but I repeated what I'd already told the other police officers. "The downstairs door was locked. I entered with my key and called my uncle's name several times, but he didn't answer, so I came upstairs to his study. Uncle Andrew was slumped over his desk. I checked for a pulse but didn't find one, and immediately called 911. At first I thought he'd had a heart attack, but then I noticed the blood on the back of his head."

Detective Simmons was obviously comparing what I was saying to the notes.

"I don't know anyone who would want to kill him. I think his murderer was a burglar who had gotten inside by climbing over the gate in the backyard and entering through the patio doors which were open when I came up," I said, volunteering my deductions, even though the detective had not asked for my opinion on the case.

The detective consulted the notes yet again. He walked over to the open patio doors which lead to the wooden deck and looked out across the well-tended lawn where uniformed cops were checking the area.

Then his gaze swept the entire room and settled on my uncle's mahogany desk. I could see a small black corner peeking out from beneath a large heap of papers.

"I must have surprised the burglar when I entered the house and called my uncle's name. That would explain why nothing is missing," I said, trying to distract him.

He ignored me, moved aside the papers, and picked up the object. It was a digital voice recorder. He studied it a moment before pressing a few buttons.

Uncle Andrew's voice came out of the speaker. "I wanted to speak with you about your gambling problem."

My voice answered, "I don't know what you're talking about."

My uncle said, "I took you in when your parents died and taught you my business so you could take over when I retire because I have no other heir. But you've disappointed me. I know you're in debt, and lately you've been stealing from the company."

"That's a lie," I said. "Do you have any proof that I've been embezzling?"

"No, but a lot of money is missing, and you're the only other one with access to the accounts. You're fired! Tomorrow I'm making a new will and removing your name from the business. You'll still get the house and my personal assets when I die but not the business assets. They will be sold and donated to charities."

I said, "You can't do that, I won't let you."

Then there was a loud thump.

Detective Simmons looked at me and shook his head. He read me my rights before he handcuffed me.

I had wiped my fingerprints from the bowling trophy I'd bashed his head in with but forgotten about my uncle's habit of dictating his correspondence into a recorder.

 K. A. Williams has been published in various magazines, including Black Petals, Bewildering Stories, Calliope, The Rockford Review, and Nuthouse, with upcoming fiction scheduled for Corner Bar Magazine and Transfigured Lit.

Cynthia Fawcett has been writing for fun or money since she was able to hold a pen. A Jersey Girl at heart, she got her journalism degree at Marquette University in Milwaukee and now writes mostly technical articles about hydraulics and an occasional short story or poem on any other subject.