The Man in the Kitchen

Detective Riley stepped into the house. He’d been pouring over leads for the missing woman case when they’d gotten the call to the residence, and it was nice to have a change of scenery. Taking a seat on the small wooden bench near the door, he slipped off his shoes and replaced them with the thin plastic crime scene booties. The tile was cold beneath his feet and his toes curled for a moment in reflex. The house was quiet — he’d asked for some time alone, it was part of his process.

Looking up, he surveyed the room. The house was immaculate. Immediately inside the front door was a four foot square tile area, with a small wooden bench where he now sat and a shoe rack. Four pairs of shoes sat on the shelves; two sets of sneakers, a pair of winter boots, and a tattered set of moccasins.

The living room was the type your grandmother would have, the pretty but do not touch type. Plush, white carpet covered the floor from wall to wall. The air had the smell of lavender and Febreze, sweet but with a tinge of chemicals. The far left wall had a fireplace, brick painted white to match the aesthetic. On the mantle, two pictures sat prominently on each side — a young man with short, sandy blonde hair in an army uniform holding an assault rifle on the left, and the same man kneeling next to a chocolate lab, both with large grins on their faces, on the right — with the centerpiece being a Colt Single Action revolver mounted to a wooden plaque. Above the mantle hung a large flat screen TV. The furniture matched the room, all white and pristine. A large L shaped couch sat nearest the front windows of the room, and a large, well padded recliner sat opposite. Between the two was a glass coffee table, white legs to match the rest.

Riley absorbed the room. Whatever happened, it wasn’t in here. That much was evident. There weren’t any traces of tracks across the carpet and nothing was out of place. No one had even come into this room. He stood from the small bench and strode across the soft carpet toward the entryway of the kitchen.

The kitchen was almost as pristine as the living room. Black accents — a fridge, stove, microwave, and dishwasher — were the only things to break up the whiteness of the room. The cabinets were all white with black handles, and the counters were a white granite with black speckles embedded in it. The scent of lemon and disinfectant hung in the air, along with another, vaguely smokey smell. Riley imagined that the rest of the house would be equally as bright and clean.

There were, however, a few things that stood out.

On the counter nearest him there was a small black notebook, resting on top of the elastic band used to hold it closed. Next to it sat a golden fountain pen, the cap still off and standing on the counter. It would have been the only thing of color in the room if not for the dull red speckles of blood that dotted the top of the counter, the cover of the notebook, and painted an impressionist image on the cabinet above the stove. Between the counter and the stove, a blue sheet of plastic covered what Riley knew was the victim’s body. Taking a breath through his nose, he caught the smoky smell once again, nodding as he recognized it.

Gunpowder.

They’d been called when the neighbors had noticed the victims car running in the driveway for nearly an hour. The closest neighbor had heard what he later described as something sounding like a muffled gunshot, but didn’t consider it as important until the police had asked. When the patrol arrived, the garage door was open, along with the door from the kitchen to the garage. No neighbors had seen anyone come or go, but they also weren’t paying the utmost attention.

Riley imagined someone waiting outside for him. When he’d opened the garage door and started the car, the killer had followed him back inside, done the deed, and then slipped away without anyone seeing. Forensics had already been through the house but didn’t seem to have much to work with. Whoever had been here, he was good.

As he stood on the icy tile of the kitchen, Riley reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two latex gloves. He slid them on quickly, flexing his hands to make sure they were snug. He took a few careful steps toward the counter and picked up the black notebook. The cover was stippled leather, rough and chilled through the latex gloves. He turned it over in his hands, holding it up by the covers and shaking it gently. A small, wallet sized photo tumbled out from somewhere between the pages. A woman, in what looked to be her 20’s, sitting on a picnic table at a park. Riley leaned down, pickup up the photo and made his way to the kitchen table. He took a seat and placed the journal and the photo in front of him. Cracking it open, he started at the beginning.

January 13th-

Hi. I don’t know how to write in a journal, I’ve never done this before. But it felt like something I should do because this has been a crazy week. This feels weird. Who am I talking to? I guess myself? Whatever. So I guess I’ll start at the start. I went out hiking the other day, last week actually, when it was at least kinda nice out before it was going to get cold again. It was a good hike...I guess better than good. The only thing that would have made it better was if Rufus could have come. Man, I miss that dog.

Anyway, I did the trail and as I was making my way back to the car I spotted something in the woods. It was like a black blotch against the brown backdrop of dead trees. Of course I had to go investigate it. So I get over there and it’s this black duffle bag, just sitting on the ground behind this big oak tree. It was like something out of a movie. So I opened it up and it’s just FILLED with cash. Stacks of 20’s, stacks of 100’s. It had to be at least 20k if not more. Literally the craziest thing I’d ever seen. I didn’t know what to do. I was gonna leave it, maybe tell the people in the park office about it, that would have been the smart thing to do. But I’ve got debt, medical bills. The therapist isn’t cheap for sure. And no one was around, it wasn’t like someone had dropped it or something. So yeah, I took it. That was about a week ago. It’s been sitting in my house since then. I still don’t know if it’s real or what. Maybe someone WAS filming something and it’s all fake money for a scene. I haven’t seen anything on the news about it, or anything on Reddit or anything so I don’t know.

Riley squinted at the page, pursing his mouth together. After a moment, he continued.

January 15th-

Ok sorry for just ending the last entry, I’m still new to this. I do kinda like being able to write out my thoughts, even if it’s just for me. The therapist always said I should try it. Anyway, the money IS real. I went to an office supply store and got one of those money testing pens that they have at restaurants and stuff. Tested at least 20 different bills and they all came back legit. I can’t believe it. Should I bring it to the bank? I can’t just deposit a duffle bag full of money, that’ll get me thrown in jail for sure. I guess I could deposit it slowly over time, but even then what if someone gets suspicious. Just spending the cash outright is probably the best option. If I even want to spend it. It still feels weird but I haven’t seen anything about it so I guess no one is missing it. It’s just crazy, stuff like this doesn’t happen to me. For now, I think I’m gonna put it in that little crawl space in my closet, just to be safe.

Riley thumbed through the next few pages. The victim talked about going out to dinner at an upscale restaurant, leaving the waitress an exceedingly large tip. He’d bought some new clothes, nice name brand things. The cash was accepted everywhere with no issues. He wrote that he thought about going to buy a new car but had decided against it. His next thought was investing. He sounded happy. Twenty thousand dollars could easily change someone's life. Riley was contemplating what he’d do with that amount of cash when he came across an entry in the journal that shifted tones.

January 26th-

Something weird happened. So I got home from work tonight and something felt weird. It’s hard to describe. It felt like someone had been in my house and moved stuff around, but nothing was out of place. I went and checked the crawl space, the money was still there. So I don’t know what that feeling was but it’s been bugging me all night. And then, about an hour ago, I got a call on my cell. Restricted number so I didn’t answer. Maybe a minute later I had a voice mail, some guy's voice, and after like 30 seconds of breathing all he said was “Hi”...

Needless to say I’m a little freaked out. Is it about the money? But hey, no one knows I have it, maybe it was just a prank call or something. How would anyone know? It’s been like two weeks. So I’m guessing it was a wrong number or something. But I think I’m gonna move one of the pistols up to my bedroom just in case. Let’s hope it’s nothing.

Riley flipped forward a few more pages until the writing stopped, and then he turned back to the final entry in the journal.

January 29th-

I’ve been getting calls from that restricted number every night now. I found out how he knows who I am. I went through the duffle bag the other night, dumped all the money out and searched through it. There was a little tracking device sewed into one of the side pockets in a little hidden space. That’s not all though, there was also a picture of some woman? I’m wondering if it’s all connected. A hitman? Is this blood money? Am I being paranoid? Maybe I should go to the cops. But then I’d have to give it up...I need to think things through. I think I’m going to go out of town for a while and get my head on straight.

Riley closed the journal and sat back, shutting his eyes. The 29th was yesterday. The victim was getting ready to get out of dodge, and he’d almost made it. The picture of the woman flashed behind his eyelids and he opened them, leaning forward to pick it up from the table. He pulled it up close to his face, studying the girl's features. After a moment, it hit him. The woman in the picture was younger than she was now, but it was definitely her. Ellen Joliet. Wife of the senator. She’d gone missing around the 16th, some people expected foul play. Riley had been following up leads on that case for the past few weeks. He stood from the chair, grabbing the small black notebook and picture, made his way across the living room, grabbed his shoes and opened the front door.

He had work to do.