There were four people at the funeral, if you don’t count the deceased. I was one of the four. Standing there in the rain with drizzle sliding inside the turned-up collar of my trench coat, I was definitely second guessing my reason for being there. We all know what curiosity did to the cat, but I couldn’t help myself when I saw the notice in the paper. The blurb that said Ralph Burrows was being buried today. A year ago Ralph was half of Burrows & Tate Private Investigations. I was the Tate half. We had been partners but never pals. That was because Ralph was a lousy bastard. It made sense to share an office for a while. But the longer it went, the less sense it made. Life’s too short to split it with an asshole everyday. So we parted company. But I couldn’t resist the urge to look in on the funeral, because the death notice said he’d been murdered. Old habits die hard I guess. I wondered if old partners did too.
+++++The other attendees were Ralph’s wife, Irene, their adopted son, Tony, who looked maybe ten or so. It’s hard to tell with kids that age. The third was a guy named Preston. The funeral home director told me he was a neighbor. They all looked appropriately glum. Guess that’s the way you’re supposed to look at funerals. Well anyway, they fit the bill, until Preston’s comforting hand on Irene’s shoulder slid down to her hip and gave it a bit of a squeeze.
+++++A buddy on the homicide squad told me Ralph had been found in the alley by his apartment. There was a knife wound in his neck that might have been the one that finished him, but the really unpleasant part was that his pants were around his ankles and some of his privates had been wedged in his backside while the rest resided in his mouth. The cops chalked it up to a mob hit or a vengeful queen. Now I had no knowledge whatsoever about Ralph’s sexual proclivities and no desire to know more. But I did know what I saw at the funeral looked like a love tap to me so I decided to look into it.
+++++From a stairwell near the hall, I staked out the Burrows apartment that evening just to satisfy my inquisitiveness. I’m a little compulsive that way. Satisfaction was achieved however when I saw this Preston dude get out of the elevator, walk to the Burrows’ door and use his own key to enter. He didn’t come out until the sun did the following morning. I followed him into the elevator and when he got out on his floor I braced him.
+++++“Comforting widows part of your neighborly ways, Preston?”
+++++“Who the hell are you?”
+++++“Ralf Burrows’ ex-partner.”
+++++“I don’t have to answer to you.”
+++++“Rather answer to the cops when I tell them what I saw?”
+++++“What do you think you saw?”
+++++“You, patting Irene’s ass at the funeral. Then spending the night with her the very day her husband was planted.”
+++++“Look, if you were Ralph’s partner then you knew what a creep he was. Irene fell out of love with him long ago. I’ve been crazy about her for some time. But she was determined to stay with the man she married.”
+++++“So maybe you took care of that. Maybe the both of you did.”
+++++“No. She had absolutely nothing to do with it. The cops say it was some random killing.”
+++++“The cops don’t know what I know…about you and Irene.”
+++++“Are you going to tell them?”
+++++“Not sure. Think I’ll talk to Irene first.”
+++++He went to his own apartment and I knocked on Irene’s door. She offered coffee and conversation. I took her up on both. All was copacetic until I told her what I had seen.
+++++“Mark Preston’s a wonderful man. A kind man. He had absolutely nothing to do with this.”
+++++“Love makes good men do bad things. He was in love with you. Maybe he was tired of waiting.”
+++++“He was tired of waiting. So was I. But I know Mark could not have had anything to do with Ralph’s death.”
+++++“How can you be so positive?”
+++++“Because I killed Ralph.”
+++++Jesus. When you’re expecting some convoluted alibi and you get a confession, well it gives you pause as they say. So I took a swig instead of a sip of my java and replied with this bit of wisdom.
+++++“I assume that’s something you haven’t told the cops.”
+++++“Of course I haven’t. I’m only telling you because you knew what Ralph was like…what he could be like.”
+++++“Sure, he was a waste of humanity, but he didn’t deserve what he got. I mean, call me old fashioned, but what about just getting a divorce?”
+++++“He would have labeled me an adulteress, so he could have custody of our son, Tony. I couldn’t let that happen.”
+++++There’s a reason lawyers are told to never ask a question they don’t already know the answer to. But I’m not a mouthpiece, I’m just a shamus, so I asked.
+++++“Why not?”
+++++I then got a story I hope you never get from any woman. Here’s a summary. Apparently Ralph was a decidedly more twisted bastard than I realized. Not only was he a wife beater, but he was also a sodomite. She confessed to me that in all the years they were married, Ralph never once engaged in sexual congress the way most normal people do. That was the reason they never had kids of their own. She said it was perhaps because of all the time he had spent in the Navy before marrying her, but that was cutting him a lot more slack that I cared to. Anyway, to make a sordid story short, she said she eventually had all the perversion and the beatings she could take, so she stabbed and mutilated him to make it look like some gang of perverts did him in.
+++++I was set to believe her, and I would have to, if I hadn’t asked to use her bathroom to relieve myself of the coffee and stress her story had provided. As I was standing at the toilet releasing my tension, the bottom of my trench coat eased over the side of a laundry basket filled to the brim. That’s when I saw the little kid’s tidy whities – the skivvies with the bloodstained bottoms. I said to myself, Ralf, may you rot in hell.
+++++Sure, maybe Irene was the killer. Maybe someone else was. Maybe they both helped each other out of a horrible situation. Doesn’t really matter now. I saw no need to talk to the cops. Seems to me that Irene and the kid were definitely better off. And Ralph? Well, I figure old Ralph got what we’ll likely all get eventually – hopefully not in the same way – but the fact is we’re all responsible for the lives we live. And at some point we all get what’s coming to us…justice.

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Joe Kilgore

Joe Kilgore is an award-winning writer of novels, novellas, screenplays, and short stories that have appeared in magazines, creative journals, anthologies, and online literary publications. One of his stories was recently accepted by the prestigious Kurt Vonnegut Museum & Library. Joe lives and writes in Austin, Texas. You can read all about Joe and his work at his website: https://joekilgore.com.

Latest posts by Joe Kilgore (see all)

• What Goes Around - October 1, 2020