Confession

I was born and raised in Montana also known as Big Sky country.  It was and is a beautiful place and I loved it when I was a child. It is where I was born and raised and had friends I’ve known since birth.

I spent weekends at rodeos, watching real cowboys’ rope calves and ride grouchy horses who tried their best to throw them off their backs. Some of the horses were comical when they couldn’t get the cowboy off their backs by bucking, they would turn around in circles like a whirling dervishes or simply jump up and down on all fours.

I learned to ride horses when I was about eight. I learned to square dance when I was 10. My friends and I were members of a square dance club called Quadra Dangle. Once a month there were dances with callers from all over the west. It was a family affair and the guys would dress up in their best cowboy duds complete with Stetsons and cowboy boots. The ladies would dress up with the typical dresses with stiff bouffant-type slips that spread the skirt out.

This ideal childhood lifestyle began to change when I entered my teens. By the time I was 14 my interests changed. I started reading magazines that told of places like New York and fashions that didn’t include cowboy hats. 

I started to lose interest in rodeos and square dancing began to bore me. I started to look at the fashions of square dancing as garish. That is the reason I was excited and happy when my parents decided to move ‘back east’ to New York where my father’s family was from.

Dad decided at the age of 36 to go to college and make something of himself instead of working for the rest of his life in the oil fields.
Moving was exciting yet traumatic for me. I was familiar with riding horses, wondering around and scouting for arrowheads or ancient animals long since turned to stone. The feeling was unexpected, but I was determined to work through it and looked forward to the move.

It was a cultural shock. In Montana, there’s an abundance of horses and sky.  In New York, there’s an abundance of tall buildings cluttering the sky.  People wore different style clothes, much like the ones I used to see in the magazines I read. People my age were more concerned with style and sophistication than anything I had been accustomed to.

Growing up as a teenager in the culture of New York was tough but I survived. I even grew accustomed to the clothes and styles. So much so, I turned into one of those people concerned with the material things, style, sophistication and most of all, I developed an overwhelming desire for money.

I think I thought at the time that material things and conforming gave me a sense of security.
My parents were never concerned with money, probably because they never had any, so I don’t know where I got this materialistic quality that was now a part of my character and precipitated in my downfall. Perhaps it was New York that tainted my personality and my character or perhaps I didn’t want to turn out like my parents, who were constantly struggling.

I always wanted more. I worked after school and saved money to buy clothes in boutiques, just like many of the girls I envied and went to school with. I was able to develop a personality akin to those I wanted to hang around with, and was popular. I even had my eye on one particular boy that came from a "good" family.

The thought in the back of my mind, even at that age, was to acquaint myself with the good families, the ones that had money.  I was fifteen when I was introduced to a boy from one of these good families. He was the captain of the high school football team and I had the idea that he would be my high school sweetheart and will eventually marry.

My days were filled with daydreams to marry well and I spent my time climbing the social ladder and becoming involved with charities, which I had interpreted as culture, rather than working for a living. The very idea of spending four years in college or working was abhorrent to me. I saw mom put dad through school working at a job she hated. Once he got his degree, he worked in his profession and mom became concerned with the house they were finally able to buy when they were well into their fifties.  I didn’t want to wait that long.

This idea was attractive and in my naive way, I thought I could pull it off. His ancestors were one of the founders of Westchester County in which we lived and the family had money. Old money I was once told.

It didn’t turn out quite the way I wanted as his attention was drawn to some mousy no-neck girl who also came from money. Money marries money my grandmother used to say. This just served to infuriate me and I resolved to get revenge by becoming rich by myself. I suspected it was his parents who pushed him into marriage with that girl. It was obvious that marriage was not necessarily a way out. The rich are always going to be suspicious of people like me and probably with good reason.

The first time I met my Uncle John, I was 16. He was the proverbial rich uncle and had everything. A grand house in Westchester County, a penthouse on Park Avenue in New York and a yacht were just the few of the things I fell in love with and of course wanted for my own. He also had two children who could inherit.

It was then that a plan started to formulate in my mind. I would need to get rid of them, one by one. I remembered a movie I once saw on television called “The list of Adrian Messenger.” My plan was forming.

I made it my business to get to know my uncle and became best friends with his kids. I set out to become his favorite niece. I made nice with my worthless cousins, which was quite interesting and all too easy. He had a boy and a girl and they were ripe for the picking. It was their characters and personality that helped me follow through on my plan of murder. To me, they didn’t deserve to have money, even if they were to the manor born.

Larceny and drugs were the norm for them. Each of them had been in and out of alcohol and drug rehab programs, as well as being in and out of jail. It angered me that they had all of the benefits of the rich, but none of the responsibility. Their parents were more interested in fighting among themselves when they were little that they didn’t pay much attention to what was going on with their kids, nor did they care. This was going to be so easy I thought.

As luck would have it.  A tragedy occurred in my uncle’s family.  The girl, my cousin Janet, was found stabbed to death in a seedy bar in Harlem.  One down, one to go I thought.

Oh, I played the dutiful niece, comforting my Uncle. He was such a tragic figure, losing a child in such a horrible way. His wife died in a traffic accident a few years before.  I set out to help with arranging Janet’s funeral and managed to shed a few tears along the way.

My mind wasn’t on the tragedy or the funeral.  It was on my other cousin, trying to figure a perfect kill.  After all, for a perfect murder, it absolutely cannot look like a murder.

My cousin Jack had a particular fondness for heroin. I could make it look like an accidental overdose. This seemed almost like I was being guided some how.

One night while preparing to see him at a pre-arranged time, I managed to score some high quality heroin. Uncut, I knew this would most likely induce death. I knew a few people in low places and the heroin was easy to get in New York. His regular dealer was in jail and he was looking for a high. I was there to save the day.

I made sure that no one else was aware of our plan and waited for a time when I would be with him alone. I knew his family was going to a function that night that he had no interest in, especially when he knew I would be visiting. The only thing I had insisted on was he could not let anyone know that I was coming over. I needed him to be home alone and I did not want to be seen or have anyone know I was there. I had to make sure of that. It was easy to convince Jack.

All I had to do was tell him that I was looking into some good colleges and was in line for a scholarship, which would be ruined if anyone knew I was supplying him with drugs. I had long since cultivated a trusting bond between him and me so I knew he would do exactly as I asked.

Jack was sitting on the sofa; bent over at the waist and sweating profusely. He was going through withdrawal and he was hurting. I almost felt sorry for him, but mostly I was repulsed. I lit a candle, got a spoon and proceeded to cook the heroin in a little water and drew it slowly into a syringe. “This will make you feel better,” I said.
I tied the tourniquet around his arm and wiped the syringe clean and gave it to him to inject himself. Only his fingerprints would be on it.

He asked me to inject it for him as he was shaking too much to do it himself. I thought about it for a second and proceeded to inject him. Still a perfect set up. His fingerprints would be added later. He had problems with drugs and of course people would think he simply overdosed I reasoned.

I watched in utter amazement, as his expression went from euphoria to surprise and watched, repulsed yet fascinated while he went into convulsions. It took about five minutes for him to finally settle down. When he did, I felt for a pulse and found nothing. I then felt the artery in his neck, still nothing.

I left the tourniquet on his arm, surveyed the room to make sure I left nothing incriminating behind and saw the syringe on the floor. I picked it up, wiped it clean, took a hold of his hand and pressed his fingers around the syringe then let it drop from his hand back onto the floor. This wasn’t as easy as it sounds. It took several attempts.

I went out through the wine cellar, which had a tunnel out to the back of the house. I left the car down at the dock where my uncle berthed his yacht, which was about a half mile from the house. I thought that I would be less conspicuous if someone happened to see me coming and going.

I even thought of borrowing a friend’s car rather than using my own, as my car could be recognized. My pressing concern was that I could not afford to be recognized and disguised myself in little ways by making use of fake glasses, a large floppy hat and a different car. Too many people knew who I was having seen me at the house at various times. I knew I had to be careful.

As I got into the car, I looked around carefully. Everything looked normal. I smiled to myself with the thought of getting away with the perfect murder and felt strangely satisfied and exhilarated at the same time.

As I started the 45 minute drive to my apartment, I started thinking of ways to dispatch my uncle. The thought occurred to me that in order to inherit, he would need to die. One down and one to go I thought, as I wondered how long I should wait to get rid of him. I knew it couldn’t be too soon, as another death one right after the other would be suspicious and I couldn’t afford that.

Yes, this may take some time, but it was worth it in the end. After all of his children were gone, my uncle would turn to me and if all works out well, I will benefit from his will. And I established a good relationship with him. I listened to his dreary war stories and childhood experiences with my father growing up over and over again. I deserved his money.

I started to think of Uncle John. He was in pretty good health, 62 years old and a millionaire. How long could he live?  Too long I thought.
I was generally fond of him and killing him brought sadness to me.  I thought I would just wait for him to die.  But then again, I really didn’t want to wait for what could be years.

I realized my plan required more thought and time.

Suddenly, I was exhausted.  I got to my friends house, dropped her car off and picked up mine. I drove to my apartment and decided to take a shower and get a good night’s sleep.

A million thoughts were running through my mind as I let the water run down my back. Pure clean water washing away the sins of the day. A good night’s sleep is what I needed now as murder is exhausting.

I put on a night gown and prepared my bed. My thoughts suddenly interrupted by a knock at my door. My heart leaped up into my throat. I glanced at the clock on my bed stand. Midnight. Has someone found him already? It had been only two hours since I left Jack. The knock was becoming incessant.

I went to the door and was confronted by two police officers.

"Are you Sandra Simpson?" One of the police officers said.

"Yes, has something happened?" I asked.

"I’m Detective Mark Richards ma’am, and this is Sargent Miles. Where were you this evening ma’am." Detective Richards said.

My thoughts were racing. What should I say? Could someone have seen me leave? "I went to dinner upstate with my boyfriend." I quickly said. "Could you please tell me what this is all about?"

"Ma’am, is this your bracelet?" As he presented me with my Medic Alert bracelet.
I knew I couldn’t deny that it was mine. My name, address and medical condition was written on it. I thought fast.

"Yes, I lost it a couple of days ago. Where did you find it?" I said.
"Your cousin Jack Simpson was murdered tonight. Someone gave him a lethal dose of heroin." Sargent Miles said.

"My cousin has a drug problem. What makes you think that he was murdered?" I said.

"Your bracelet was found near the body. Somebody had to inject him because number one, he was right handed and he was injected in the right arm."

"Number two, his left hand had nerve damage and he was unable to move it, much less give himself an injection. Number three, according to your uncle, you hadn’t been to the house for two months. Just how did your bracelet get there? You just told me you lost it only a couple of days ago. I think you lost it this evening." He said.

"Please get dressed. We need you to come with us. You have the right to remain silent" Detective Richards said.


Epilogue
My hopes and dreams disappeared in a flash that evening. I thought murdering my cousins and my uncle was a brilliant plan. I thought I had been so careful. So careful that I was eventually convicted of murder in the first degree, a capital crime in this state.

The prison Chaplain suggested I write about what I have done as I await the guards who will be escorting me in a few minutes. A confession of sorts, a token gesture in search of absolution I suppose. The only thing is, I’m not sorry for what I have done, just sorry I was stupid enough to inject him in the wrong arm and not getting the clasp fixed on my bracelet.