Tyson sat down in the cold, steel chair and stared at the picture of his dead wife. His fingers inched towards the cell phone holding the last image it had taken of her, but they pulled back at the last moment. They couldn’t bring themselves to touch something that had been hers. He fidgeted in his seat, eyes bordering on red. He felt some mix of embarrassment and anger as the police officer watched him fight off his emotions.
“Mr. Rayne, I can assure you we’ll find whoever did this to her.” The officer frowned at what he saw on the cell phone. Mrs. Rayne was sprawled out in some awful alley, her legs bloodied and spit. A thick rope had rubbed the flesh of her ebony neck raw. Gashes ran along her wrists and her Afro had been mostly wet and flattened. “Did she have any enemies? Anyone that she was scared of?”
Tyson clamped his hand over his mouth and took a deep breath. He looked up at the officer. The dark brown man looked like he spent more time in Popeye’s than the gym and his was holding on to a few dregs of curly hair. He had a stupid goatee that didn’t fit his Krispy Kreme inspired face. Tyson, being a short powder keg of muscle, didn’t see much to respect in the man investigating his wife’s murder.
“No she didn’t have enemies. The woman sat at home all day! She knitted fucking sweaters! Who the hell would want to kill her?” Tyson slammed a hand down on the metal table and it echoed throughout the small interrogation room. When the police first came for him, he knew that he was the prime suspect. Thankfully, his alibi quickly checked out and they dropped the angle of him being involved. At least for now.
The officer pushed his lips to one of side of his face and looked down at the cellphone, the picture having went away. “By my estimate, this was personal. The way she was attacked and the way she was left behind feels like someone who didn’t like her…or you too much.”
Tyson raised an eyebrow at the man. “So you think someone was trying to get at me?”
The officer shrugged and reached into his pocket for a box of cigarettes. He tapped them against the bottom of his palm. “Do you have any people who would want to hurt you? Mind if I smoke?”
Tyson waved a dismissive hand at the second question and pondered a moment on the first. Just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, a loud knock came on the door of the room. The officer grimaced because he was in the motion of lighting his cigarette. Putting away his lighter, the officer tucked his cigarette away and answered the door. Tyson slumped in his chair when he saw who it was. He turned his gaze to one of the corners of the room.
“What do you want?”