The Confession Born and raised in Montana, I wasn’t aware that I had a rich uncle until we moved to New York where, at the age of 12, I met my paternal grandmother and the rest of Dad’s family. Moving was traumatic for me. I had been familiar with riding horses, wondering around and scouting for arrowheads or ancient animals long since turned to stone. It was a cultural shock. Where in Montana, there were an abundance of horses and sky. In New York, there were an abundance of vehicles and tall buildings piercing the sky. People wore different style clothes and were more concerned with style and sophistication than anything I had been accustomed to. Growing up in this culture was tough but I survived and even got used to the clothes and styles. So much so, I turned into one of those people concerned with the material things, style and most of all money. My parents were never concerned with money, so I don’t know where I got this materialistic quality that was now a part of my character and precipitated my downfall. 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 behind this was to marry for money and spend my time climbing the social ladder, which I had interpreted as culture, rather than working for a living. The very idea of 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 got used to being concerned with the house they were able to buy and gardening. She enjoyed her prize roses. When mom was in her fifties, dad left with a woman half his age. The house was sold and mom needed to work again after 10 years. She needed a job. At fifty something, that was not easy and that was not going to happen to me. I just had to figure a way to go about getting rich with the least amount of trouble. This idea was attractive and in my naive way, I thought I could pull it off. His ancestors were one of the founders of the city 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. 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. Probably with good reason. I first met my Uncle John when 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 five children. Children who could inherit. It was then that a plan started to formulate in my mind. To get rid of them, one by one. I reminded myself of a movie I had once seen. The list of Adrian Messenger. I made it my business to get to know my uncle and his children. 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 two boys and three girls and all 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. Every one 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 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. Jack, one of the male cousins, had a particular fondness for heroin. One night while preparing to see Jack at a pre-arranged time, I managed to score some high quality, pure heroin. Uncut, I knew this would most likely induce death. I had known a few people in low places and the heroin was easy to get in New York. His 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 whole 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 and bringing him drugs. 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 had a job I enjoyed, 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. 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. I lit a candle, got a spoon and proceeded to cook the heroin in a little water and drew it slowly into a syringe. 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, absolutely 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 right 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 my 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 had 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 had disguised myself in little ways by making use of sunglasses, 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 was driving the 45 minute drive to my apartment, I started thinking of ways to dispatch the others. One down and four to go. I wondered how long it would take for the rest of them and what kind of interval would be less suspicious for the rest. I knew it couldn’t be too soon, as several deaths 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. He had no one else left. I had 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 started to think of Uncle John. He was in pretty good health, 62 years old and a millionaire. How long could he live? Funny, I never had given him much thought. I was generally fond of him and killing him just never occurred to me, until now. I realized then this required more thought and time. Suddenly, I was exhausted. I got into my apartment and decided to take a shower and get a good nights 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 nights sleep is what I needed now, to keep the creeping quilt away. 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 possibly 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. 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 get caught.
Copyright © 2001 Kathleen Mccarthy |