Confessions of an Unconscious Murderer

July 13th, 2012 7:18 am

She sat on the icy cold metal fold-out chair in the middle of an interrogation room. Two officers stood before her. The tall, lean officer took the seat on the other side of the fragile wooden table. It wobbled unstably as he placed his file down. The officer's black, striped grey hair was slicked back with an abundant amount of gel. His face was marked with age, he had wrinkles on his cheeks and forehead, as well as a mole on top of his nose. The second cop had a much younger complexion. His hair was a soft blonde, which was obviously dyed that color because his routes protruded through the golden color. The two men studied the cuffed girl that sat silently in her place. She wore her jumpsuit modestly, as if she had come to terms with the means of wearing it. She sat with her arms somewhat crossed, the handcuffs preventing her from crossing them comfortably. The girl looked no older than fifteen. The timeworn cop opened the file, this young girl had been trialed for third degree manslaughter. She didn't look like the kind of person to commit such a crime. He looked to his younger partner who stood by the door. He cleared his throat and looked to the silent adolescent. He hit record on the audio recorder.

"July thirteenth, two-thousand and twelve. The time is 7:24 A.M. I'm officer Grant and I am accompanied by officer Renalds. Today we will be asking Bethany Frane questions regarding the murders of Stephanie Frane, Michelle Baldwin, Nancy Beau and Andrew Edwards." Officer Grant spoke into the recorder and then placed it carefully onto the table. He looked to Bethany again. "Ms. Frane, where were you the night of February nineteenth two-thousand and eleven?" He clicked his pen out and opened his yellow notepad to a clean page.

"I was at home." Her words came out strong. They were sharp and short, direct to the point. She kept her arms crossed and leaned her back against the seat.

Grant nodded his head and scribbled down her reply. "And what were you doing at home around the time of one A.M?" He asked clicking his pen in and out.

Bethany groaned. "I was sleeping. I don't understand why I have to answer these questions again! The answers are the same every time you ask me!" She slammed her cuffed hands onto the table as tears rolled down her cheeks. "I didn't kill my sister! Or anybody else for that matter!" She cried.

All Grant could do was nod. He felt pity for the young girl. She was obviously wrongly accused of this harsh crime. "Was there anybody you feel might have had a motive to kill your sister, or any of the others?" He asked. He kept his voice withdrawn from emotion.

Bethany's face fell sullen, and she sunk back into her seat with a slight shake of her head. "No." She croaked.

Grant searched the file and pulled out pictures of the evidence. He slid them across the table to her. "This is what you were wearing the night of Stephanie's murder, correct?"

Bethany picked up the picture. Pajamas, drenched in blood. Her favorite band tee coaxed in an ugly stain. She nodded as she continued to study the picture.

"The blood found on that shirt was tested. It was your sisters. That same blood was found on this knife, your fingerprints were found on this." He slid her the picture of the knife.

She picked it up and looked at it. More tears fell down her cheeks. She had lost her entire family because of this crime. She had been disowned. She had spent almost two years in jail for a crime that she didn't commit, she was sentenced life for a crime she didn't commit. "I loved my sister." She cried softly. She sniffled and wiped beneath her nose with her sleeve. "I would never hurt her."

Grant nodded his head again. "I don't believe such a girl like you would ever do a thing like this.That's why I chose this case. I will do whatever it takes to prove your innocence."

Bethany nodded and wiped her tears. "Thank you." She sniffled, but on the inside, something laughed.

The demonic voice lulled a eerie lullaby. Her body grew tense, it knew the sound all too well. The laugh become louder, more soothing to its song. Bethany fell asleep, carried by the lullaby to Hell.