Who Killed Timothy Weller?

CHAPTER 2: WHO KILLED TIMOTHY WELLER?

9:08 AM

“You died,” he said unsympathetically.
“…but somehow they managed to revive you.”
“..a real fucking miracle, I hear. You were technically dead for a good 5 minutes.”
“So, answer me this: what is it like on the other side?” he said with a sly grin.

Timothy Weller watched as Dr. Grimm left the room- the detective’s tactless words echoing off somewhere far from his attention. He swore he saw another ghostly red thread stalking the doctor as he disappeared out the door.

“Pay attention, Mr. Weller,” the detective’s stern voice managed to cut into his thoughts.
“This isn’t some mundane classroom lesson in high school that you can daydream through- I want to know what happened three days ago.” He was used to being in control.
Tim remained quiet as his eyes dissected the man sitting before him. He was a scruffy man in his late forties surrounded with an air of arrogance, disillusionment and alcohol. He smelled like cigarettes, which barely masked the scent of cheap whiskey in his breath. He wore an overly long brown coat over his wrinkled white collared shirt. A little modest guest badge by his breast pocket read: Detective Derrick Gently. He was staring at Tim with reddened, impatient, unforgiving eyes.
“Are you mute? I don’t recall you being stabbed in the throat…” said detective Gently derisively as he pretended to read his medical chart.

“I don’t know,” replied Tim indignantly.
It was followed by an uncomfortably long silence. Tim shrunk into his pillow from the silent intimidation.

“Oh, really?” Gently finally responded rather nonchalantly. His eyes swiftly diverted from the conversation and eventually settled on a small “No Smoking” sign by the bed.
He grinned and casually took out a pack of cigarettes from his right coat pocket. His other hand lifted and listed back in forth in a flicking motion as the door behind him obeyed with well-trained obedience and closed. The faint shadow of another man could be seen standing in front of the door through the fogged windows of the door. Gently reached into his left pocket and revealed a strange trinket of sorts, a small silver dragon whose body was wrapped around a small red orb. His thumb happily pressed down upon the back of the dragon’s head. Its mouth opened and a lively blue flame spewed forth as he leaned in with a cigarette already strategically placed between his dry lips. He inhaled deeply and paused as his eyes shut with pure enjoyment. He began to fidget a bit.
Addict.
Then abruptly, he leaned forward, compressing his body towards the direction of floor tight against his thighs, his face almost touching his knees. His hands curled into fists swinging menacingly in the air before him. He fidgeted violently for a brief moment before he was struck by a sudden calm like a squall squeaking into silence. A meaningless moment went by before he lifted his head and stared at Tim. His eyes were bulging yet hypnotic in their chaos. Gently finally exhaled a heavy plume of smoke into Tim’s face. The thick gray cloud struck Tim breathless as the alcohol laden smoke almost seemed to ignite into a fiery ball that burned his eyes, nose and throat. He coughed continuously until the smoke dissipated.
Gently sat and smiled unapologetically.
Lucky Tim. Here was another predicament he managed to find himself in. Timothy Weller was awake for less than 30 minutes and already he had been humiliated, interrogated, and nearly gassed to death by some sadistic cop. All the while, he still couldn’t remember anything. But, it all felt strangely normal as an irksome memory seemed to always laugh at his misery in these situations. That damn fortune cookie he read the night he finally lost his virginity was still haunting.
The star of misfortune shines brightly upon you… (…in bed.)
He lasted less than a minute that night.

“I’m frustrated, Mr. Weller.”
“I’m sorry…”
“None of this makes any sense to me…and I dare say I’m not often confused by these sorts of things. So please, do enlighten me,” Gently continued.
He took a picture out of his pocket and threw it on the side of the bed, carefully aiming for the most inconvenient place for Tim to reach. He motioned carelessly for Tim to pick it up. Tim, begrudgingly, reached for the picture as he gritted his teeth and bore the pain.
Fifty sucker punches to the stomach…
A rusty fork twisted into his abdomen…
They were insufficient magnitudes of pain. Damn him.
Gently took another puff of his cigarette and then held it sloppily between his fingers over the floor.
Tim lifted the small Polaroid picture to his face as he groaned and panted from the unnecessary ordeal. His eyes were finally clearing up from the haze that bothered him since he woke this morning and it offered him a long denied clarity. Barely legible words were written on the picture with a sharpie marker: Discovered impaled in victim.
This object was the root of his pain. It was a bloody knife with a long blade and a simple wooden handle. A strange symbol was carved and burned into the handle. It was far from familiar yet somehow not entirely foreign to Timothy. It was like meeting a familiar stranger you swore you never met before. It was beautiful yet undeniably deadly. Tim looked closer, harder at the photograph- concentrating on any minor detail he could see. Absorbing all the questions in his mind that it brought forth so that he might remember something he forgot. He squinted his eyes as he brought it ever closer to his face. And then he saw something he didn’t see before: it seemed like a silver string attached to the hilt, but he was certain it wasn’t there when he first looked at it. It seemed to faintly glow. He rubbed his eyes. What was wrong with his eyes today?

“Bloody Murder!” hollered Gently abruptly interrupting Tim’s concentration.
“That’s what we all screamed when we saw it stuck so neatly into your body as you laid on the bed bleeding ever so profusely into your pretty white sheets. A pretty valid assumption, eh?” Gently smirked.
“By the way, you might want to change your sheets when you get back- you wet the bed.” He chuckled to himself at his own “witty” joke.
“But, anyways, there is, of course, that tiny detail that you somehow survived it, so it’s technically not quite murder. And, well, I also have a few other minor details that could use some of your expert victim opinion,” he snidely remarked. Timothy began to wonder if he ever stopped with his caustic sense of humor.
Gently sat up from his seat and walked toward the window. He grabbed a white chain on the side of the window and pulled the blinds open. He pressed a small lock on the side of the window and slid it open and calmly returned to his seat. The ever-changing autumn air filled the room and flushed the remaining smoke from it. It was a familiar scent of falling leaves. Yet, the atmosphere of the room somehow felt more stringent as the detective shifted in the chair and rolled his neck. He stretched his arms out with no intention of relaxation. His face was severe yet calm, curiously without humor. The typical dry, sarcastic smile was swept away and hidden under his intensity.
“You see…It doesn’t bother me that you were stabbed with this knife. It doesn’t strike me as anything more unusual than your daily passion-driven murder attempt or some crazy stalker carving a masterpiece or even some cannibal making lunch out of a hapless fool. No, what bothers me is the context, Mr. Weller.”
Timothy remained a quiet audience.
“Let’s put this into context shall we? A third floor apartment accessible via a single entranceway with security cameras mounted in clear view. Locked doors and windows and no signs of forced entry. A knife lodged in your abdomen that doesn’t appear to be self inflicted. No fingerprints on the weapon at all. No roommate. No screams or any sounds, for that matter, heard by anyone. No signs of struggle. No suspects seen entering or leaving the premises. Tox screens were negative for any substances. Forensics was shit. Witnesses were worthless. It’s a god damn nightmare…who the hell do I even begin to suspect? The Invisible Man or the ghost of Houdini?” Gently’s stare was firm and piercing- disarming Tim of any defenses he would meagerly manage to muster.
“What’s worse: you are the worst victim ever. You have no real friends, no immediate family who cares enough to visit you, and, heartbreakingly, no real enemies who think you’re worth killing…You are a casually likable, forgettable, unremarkable young man.” Gently frankly continued.
“What am I supposed to think about all this crap, Mr. Weller?”
“I don’t know…” said Tim.
“Yes, Mr. Weller, we’ve gone over that issue before so lets move on shall we?”
“You know what I think? It’s fucking impossible, that’s what I think. For this to be a homicide, oh pardon me… an attempted homicide…it’s quite frankly impossible. But, I tell you what is possible…at least, within the realm of plausibility and it’s happily quite a bit simpler of an explanation. Let’s start with the basics first: Who would have motive to kill Timothy Weller?”

“…Nobody?”

Gently smiled.

“Exactly.”

Gently puffed his cigarette again, appeasing the fire’s hunger and leaving its white ashes perilously dangling over the bed. He paused again, collecting his thoughts or maybe just his words.

“So, do tell, how is Leslie?”
Her name struck Tim speechless for a moment—just a moment.
“How do you…”
“I am very good at what I do, Mr. Weller.”
“We…” Tim hesitated for a bit, as if speaking the words acknowledged the reality of it.
“We…we broke up…I haven’t seen her in two weeks…she won’t return my calls.”
“She returned my calls.”
“Heh…well aren’t you fortunate?” said Timothy with a sharp sarcasm.

I envy you.

Gently smirked. He walked over to the bed and leaned in close to his ear.

“...are you happy, Mr. Weller?” Gently whispered.
“Excuse me? What does this…” replied Tim somewhat confused by the seemingly random question.
“ARE YOU HAPPY!?” he repeated with much greater animosity. Timothy jumped from the sudden loudness.

“I…I don’t know….No,” Timothy reluctantly replied.

The detective smiled and, strangely, it seemed for the first time during this interaction between them that it was genuine. He flicked the ashes from the cigarette onto the floor and replaced the cigarette back between his lips. It was burning away to its final few breaths and he was ready to finish it. He confidently crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair as he tilted his head. One last breath and it was done. He pressed the cigarette bud into the nearby table.

“You want to know an interesting little fact, Mr. Weller?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Then, happily.”
“Did you know that people are twice as likely to kill themselves as to be killed by someone else?”
“No.”
“A wonderfully educational statistic isn’t it?”
“Enlightening.”

“So, Mr. Weller, I need the truth…did you…”Gently said finally resuming his interrogation.

“No.” Timothy replied defiantly and abruptly before Gently could finish.
Gently looked at him- taken aback by the sudden confidence of his statement. It was so resolute, unlike the insecure, confused boy Gently had sized him up to be. But, was it honest? Could he be wrong about all this? He frowned disappointedly. Timothy put doubt in him. Damn him.
He got up from his seat and paced around the perimeter of the room. His eyes avoided Timothy yet his body’s gestures showed his obvious aggravation at the situation. He finally stopped in front of the open window. He closed his eyes as a soft breeze spilled into the room and ruffled his already cluttered hair.
“Are you sure, Mr. Weller?” he finally asked as he stared aimlessly out the window. The prior commanding tone of his voice was now gone. His arrogant demeanor seemed replaced by one of lost thought. From the corner of Tim’s eye, he could barely manage to see Gently’s left thumb compulsively rubbing one of his fingers.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Tim replied promptly.
“Do you remember what happened then?”
“No.”
“Then how can you be so sure?”
“I don’t know what happened, but I know myself fairly well. Truth be told, I’m too much of a coward to stab myself like that.”
“I have no affinity for pain.”

“Hah, you know yourself huh?”
“Well enough…”

Gently smiled and whispered something beneath his breath before he chuckled as if in surrender.
“How well does anyone know themselves?”

“You make my life so much more difficult than it has to be, Mr. Weller.”
“You’ve made my morning so much more bothersome than it has to be, Mr. Gently.”
“I don’t like you very much.”
“I don’t like you either.”
They both smiled.

Gently turned away from the window and strolled about the room towards a table below the television. He grabbed the remote that someone had inconveniently left there and dropped himself back into the seat beside Tim’s bed.
He began switching the channels. Rapidly they passed, as he surfed with no real intention to see what was on TV. Timothy was a little irked by this action, he’d wanted to change the channel all morning and now he was helplessly held hostage by Gently’s fickle channel surfing. Finally, he came to a channel with no signal. He un-muted the TV and the crackling sound of electrical static filled the room. A row of green bars that indicated the volume of the TV began to grow and the grating sound of static rose tenfold. He smiled, stood up and placed the remote on the table furthest from the bed.
“Enjoy, Mr. Weller.” he said cheerfully as he turned to leave.
The sound of chaos, the electrical anarchy that permeated throughout the room was giving Tim a headache. Damn him. Tim placed his hand over his forehead rubbing his temples. The motion did nothing to alleviate the pain. It was throbbing, almost enough for him to forget the pain in his stomach…almost. But, then something strange happened. Inside the noise, inside the myriad of senseless pops and crackles of the television speakers, Timothy did something he had failed to do all morning thus far—he remembered something.

“Detective,” Timothy called out. Gently stopped and turned around.
“What is it? Don’t like the morning programming on television today?”

“I remember…dying.”