The Interview

Detective Graham Kelly slid the photograph across the table but the elderly woman continued to stare intently at the frosted glass window to her right. Her greying hair was meticulously coiffed and sat stiffly against her shoulders while her emotionless hazel eyes peered out from beneath a heavily wrinkled brow. Pink lipstick and heavy rouge had been applied to cover her ashen skin in an obvious attempt to counter years of heavy smoking. The room was silent apart from the mild hum of a ceiling fan that spun desperately against the suffocating stillness. Filtered light from the window scattered across the steel table between them and reflected off dust suspended in the air. Detective Kelly adjusted his dark-framed glasses and scratched his bearded cheek. He pushed his chair back slightly, allowing his long legs to stretch forward, and sighed deeply as he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“If you can’t look at the picture, then look at me, Ms. Caldwell.” he continued, “We’ve been sitting here for over an hour appreciating one another’s company; however, I need to remind you that this is not a meditative session but rather an interview. An interview with the purpose of understanding why you did this. Why, Ms. Caldwell. Not if.” He sat up and pulled a manila folder out of a leather satchel that leaned against the table’s leg. “This,” he said, tapping the folder, “is a report from our top pathologist, Dr. Sanford, that indicates the means of death. Now, I know you are intimately familiar with what happened to Ava; but I’m wondering if we should read his report together, to ensure there aren’t any discrepancies.” The woman shifted momentarily and stole a glance at the envelope while turning her head to face the wall, rather than the window.

There you are, thought Detective Kelly and began reading. “The victim is identified as Ms. Ava Benson. Age 22. Ethnicity is of Caucasian descent. Weight is sixty-five kilograms… that’s 143 pounds in case you were wondering, Ms. Caldwell… and appears to have been in good health.” he paused, looking up. “Is that right so far? Pretty basic start, of course. These reports are quite dry but it’s important to make sure we get it right. The most significant words so far, in my opinion, are have been. Note that he uses past tense.” He watched her as he counted to five in his head. Such a simple thing, counting to five, but he could feel the tension grow and noticed her breath quicken. He continued to read, “The cause of death is a large laceration across the anterior of the neck dissecting both carotid arteries, which would result in immediate exsanguination… that means that she bled out. She bled out quickly and from somebody slicing her throat from side to side.” With the back of his thumb, he traced from one side of his neck to the other. He paused once again and took a sip of his stale coffee. “This was a violent murder, Ms. Caldwell. More violent than is typical of a woman. I don’t mean that in any sexist way per se, but statistically, women don’t often choose these methods. They are eternally the more graceful sex, even in murder.” Ms. Caldwell was now staring at her hands beneath the table. He could hear the clicking of her false nails as they picked at one another irritably.

“There is one more important line I want to read to you, Ms. Caldwell. Quite important. It says, Analysis of blood samples taken from the weapon found in the suspect’s home and from underneath the suspect’s nails, shows it to be a match for Ms. Ava Benson. The term ‘suspect’, is referring to you, of course.” He closed the envelope and slid it to the side of the table. Standing up, he tucked a stray tail of his shirt into his jeans before finishing his coffee with a large gulp and dropping it in the trash can. He looked at it and squirmed, reminded that he’d forgotten once again to bring the travel mug his wife had bought him. He made a mental note to remember it the next time and then quickly reoriented himself to the task at hand. Sitting back down he reclined in his chair and crossed his legs, his hands resting comfortably on his thighs.

“Why did you kill your granddaughter, Ms. Caldwell? Please, help me understand… I really do need to, before we can move on. It’s a compulsion of mine… as my dear wife would say.”

Mary Caldwell slowly raised her head and looked at Detective Kelly. His sharp blue eyes were magnified ever so slightly by his glasses and Mary was surprised to see that they held more interest than they did anger or disgust. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before finding any words.

“She wasn’t any granddaughter of mine.” The words barely escaped her lips before fading into silence once more.

“The blood test would disagree, Ms. Caldwell. As would the fact that she had been living in your home for the last five years following her mother’s overdose,” Detective Kelly replied gently, unsure where this was heading but satisfied that her resolve was finally weakening. He stole a look at the recording device on the edge of the table to ensure it was on.

“Have you ever lived with depression, Detective?” Ms. Cladwell asked after a moment’s reflection.

“This isn’t about me, Ms. Caldwell,” he answered.

“I don’t mean have you been depressed. I mean, have you lived with it… in your home? Have you watched it grow, like a fungus that nourishes itself by consuming everything around it… like a… a stain on your life?” her eyes narrowed. “Yes, a stain that spreads until it’s saturating and is all anyone can see.” She gently rubbed her thumb in circles on the palm of her hand as if tracing an invisible blemish.

Out, damn spot? the detective wondered as he watched the rhythmical motion.

“I can’t say that I have. Are you trying to tell me that you were depressed?” he asked.

“No… not me.” she took a shuttering inhale through her nose. “I didn’t see it at first, not until she’d been with me for a year or so… just a sad girl that had lost her mother. She would be seen crying on the porch now and then, but what would you expect from such tragedy. I only heard a few offhand comments about it now and then from my neighbour, Margaret. But then it got worse. She would stay in her room for days. She stopped going out or talking to friends… people started asking me about her.” she paused, her gaze unfocused, and lips pursed “and then the doctors, the counsellors, and psychiatrists. Overdose after overdose. So many nights in the emergency department, just begging someone to keep her. I can still feel the judging eyes watching me unload her from the car the next morning.” she crossed her arms over herself and squeezed tightly.

Detective Kelly leaned forward, “who was judging you?” he asked.

Ms. Caldwell snorted, “Who wouldn’t judge someone like that?” she shifted her chair back from the table and looked at the window again. “I thought I was done with such embarrassments,” she mumbled, seemingly to herself.

Graham watched her stare into the distance, arms still crossed and her cheeks hollowed by a tension in her jaw. He moved closer to the desk, resting his forearms on its edge.

“That must have been very difficult. To maintain a respectable household and reputation, with all that you had to manage… with Ava, that is.”

“Hmph, you have no idea,” she said, a vein of righteousness infused her tone.

“No, I don’t suppose I would. It’s my understanding that you were even a member of your local council for three years—”

“Four years.” she said, her eyes narrowed, “a record term for one to serve,” she said with a nod and slowly turned her head away again, this time as if she were holding a profile rather than looking away.

“My mistake, Ms. Caldwell. Of course, four years. And to achieve all of that after having had a daughter like you did…” He paused as her body tensed and she shifted once again in her seat. “I have her history here as well, actually.” he grabbed another small folder from his bag, laying it open on the table. “Ms. Chris Benson— ”

“Christina. Her name was Christina, not Chris. An ugly and masculine shortening of a carefully chosen name.”

“Right, again, that is my mistake.” he said, holding a hand up in apology. “Ms. Christina Benson unfortunately had some challenges in her youth, didn’t she? I see some petty thefts as young as the age of twelve, drug possession which seems to have escalated to selling.” he licked his finger and turned the page, “oh dear, breaking and entering, and I even see a report of manslaughter charges that were dropped… relating to an incident at your previous address…” he looked up from his notes to see her staring at the pages with pure hatred etched across her aged face. “I suppose that must have been the last straw… having an investigation in your own home where a youth died? Police out front… the crowds standing and staring across the yellow tape, wondering how you had raised such a— ”

“Enough!” she shouted, slapping the table with an open palm. “That was not my fault! It was the fault of a stupid and selfish girl! A girl who never listened to the wisdom of her mother and never understood what it meant to be a woman of substance. I tried to teach her, Detective. I was never short on discipline, but some people just can’t be taught.” she breathed heavily, her pulse racing and fist clenched so tightly that her nails slowly cut into the palm of her hand. Detective Kelly started counting silently in his head once more, watching as her hand slowly relaxed its tension.

“Could Ava be taught, Ms. Caldwell?” he asked, his softly spoken words hung in the air.

“I thought so… at first. But she was too much like her mother it seems.”

“Ms. Caldwell, she was depressed—”

“She was selfish! She cared only about her own misery, Detective Kelly. It was nothing but a game to her… and an embarrassment to me. Oh yes, she was medically depressed, but that didn’t mean she had to drag everyone else down with her. That wasn’t depression, that was intentional.”

“Tell me what happened, Ms. Caldwell. Tell me why.” His tone was soft but unaccommodating and Mary Caldwell recognised she could no longer skirt the inevitable. Her tension released and she sank into her chair, her poised entitlement giving way to exhaustion.

“I had come home to find her door closed. She was wailing like a banshee from behind it, as usual. I asked her, yet again, to stop. Told her that a person can choose to be a victim or to hold their head high and get on with life… she told me to fuck off. I opened her door, having removed the locks years ago, and there she was, sitting in the corner with a knife to her throat… staring at me with a feral look on her face. I had seen this performance so many times that I knew every scene. A knife to the neck, the hesitant scratches followed by tears and a call to the crisis line who invariably would alert 911. Police at my door, rolling their eyes and making snarky comments about what she had done this time and looking at me as if it were my fault. As if I were a miscreant that abused their services. It couldn’t happen again. I knew that it couldn’t happen again… and so did Ava. We were both so tired of it, Detective. I stepped toward her, and she didn’t move. I placed my hand on the knife, and she didn’t move. I held it there… she was pleading with her eyes. She needed to be free. We both did.”

The room fell silent once again as Ms. Caldwell’s head dropped to her chest. Graham sat forward and turned off the recording device. Breathing slowly, he gently moved the picture in front of her once more before standing up and leaving the room. Mary Caldwell looked down at the photograph and saw a younger version of herself staring back at her. She was stiffly seated on a bench, hair perfectly set and her make-up pristine, while a smiling four-year-old Ava sat happily on her knee, safely frozen in time.