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Perfect Murder, Part II:  
A character sketch

a Phantom Production

I'm a murderer. I've killed two people. The first one was an intruder. Well, that's what I thought at the time. Turns out that he was a hired killer subcontracted by my lover to murder me. My lover's name was Dan and a lovely person he was, or at least I thought so until I found out that my husband had convinced him to kill me. He preferred quick money to a long involvement with me. But he didn't have what it takes to kill, so he hired his friend to do the dirty work. But I killed the killer.

The police detectives pieced the story together for me. We've spent hours down at the station in the little room with the mirrored wall. The first problem was to decide if I was justified in killing the intruder, which I had done by stabbing him in the throat with a meat thermometer. They cleared me of that charge. Then it all became more complicated when they found me with a smoking gun, having just shot my husband three times, once in the shoulder, once in the stomach and then finally right through the heart. That did it. When he found out that I knew everything, he decided he had to kill me. I killed him instead. Now I'm a double murderer. Don't mess with me.

While we were reconstructing this very complicated plot twist, the phone rang in the little room and the detectives were informed that Dan's body had been discovered in a private compartment of a train bound for Miami. He'd been stabbed. I needed another alibi, now that there were three bodies.
Eventually they figured out what happened. My husband killed Dan and reclaimed the money he had paid him to kill me. My husband would have gotten away with it if I hadn't found the tape-recorded meeting between him and Dan proving that they were planning to kill me. I would still be sort of happily married to him. At least until he figured out how to plan an even more perfect murder. Seems as though he needed my money because his was running out because of bad investments. I have tons of it. Maybe he should have just asked me for it.

And so my husband's attempt at a perfect murder is over, and I have been cleared of all charges. Now I'm alone, no husband, no lover, and just the nightmares of reliving those gruesome events. Every night in my dreams I reach for the metal meat thermometer and once again plunge it into the mugger while he tries to strangle me. I'm always amazed at the strength I find to do the job. After all, the only exercise I'd been getting was from rolling around on Dan's bed. Sometimes I dream about shooting my husband. That's a better dream but I think I need some target practice.

I also need a change of scenery. I don't want to live in New York City any more, even though my best friend has once again offered to let me live with her. I don't have any reason to be in the city. Dan is not there and I quit my job. I need a new life. But first I have to get rid of our penthouse apartment. The agent has it listed and will probably sell it soon enough. It's beautifully decorated by some high-end decorator and is filled with our precious objects d'art.

I don't want any of it. Well, perhaps I should take a few things. It would save time to just choose some of the old stuff for a new apartment. That way I wouldn't have to hire another decorator. And I would have to hire one because I simply have no acquired taste of my own. I wouldn't know the first thing about what colors I want, what kind of art for the walls, what kind of furniture I'd prefer or even what dishes I'd like. I have always been able to afford to buy somebody else's good taste.

There is probably some guest room furniture that would work in an apartment, and I did remember liking the most recent centerpiece from the dining room table. It wouldn't remind me of my late husband because we never used it. We rarely ate in. So, I could have the movers pack the kitchen dishes. But wait, not the pans over the stove. They're appearing nightly in my dreams. I remember seeing them as I wrestle the bad guy. And, definitely leave the meat thermometer behind. Make a note: I think I'll become a vegetarian. Also, scrap the ice pick and the Henkle knives.

Maybe I'll move to Paris and become an artist. Think again. I truly believed that Dan was a good artist. My husband saw through him in a quick minute. His "art" consisted of photographs with crime scene tape hung across them and paint dashed over the whole mess. Not Jackson Pollack painterly splatters, but ugly red swathes of paint. What was I thinking? There were tubes of oil paint and turpentine scattered around, but he never used any of it. He used paint from Sherman Williams cans.

Hey, wait a minute.  I have an idea:  I speak several languages and I seem to be good at killing people. I wonder if the CIA is hiring…
 
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