Bastard (A Novel)

George Hamilton parked and exited his vehicle, marching after Frank Miller, refusing to run because he didn't want to give himself away.

Finally, George caught up to Frank and grabbed him, cuffing him.

"Frank Miller. I am taking you in for questioning. Now!"

He dragged him to the car and drove him down the rainy highway to the station.

He dragged him out of the SUV and into the station for questioning.

"Frank Miller. Where were you on the night Roseanne Miller was murdered?"

"Out."

That was a lie. An enormously obvious one at that. There was no way this Frank Miller was going to compromise in any capacity. The bastard was just going to keep lying through his teeth. Over and over again.

"Did you have a gun on you?"

"Nope. No gun. It wasn't me that night, you know."

"Did you rape your only daughter?"

"Me?! No. Not me. I wouldn't."

George rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"Did you scream at your wife because she wouldn't have sex with you?"

"No."

He leaned in, hoping to get some reaction from the man with his next question.

"Did you kill Sarah Miller?"

Frank looked genuinely shocked, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

"What? She died? I thought. I thought she was okay."

George nodded.

Maybe he hadn't done it. He'd probably been out of the country, after all.

There was a call as George was questioning Miller.

He locked the man in a cell temporarily so he wouldn't run away, then picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hello. It's Susan Freid. May I come to the station? I have what I think is damning evidence on Frank Miller."

George Hamilton refrained from audibly groaning—Susan Freid always thought she had damning evidence—then asked her to come to the station, just in case.

He then proceeded to let Frank Miller out and continued questioning him to no avail.

"Did you call Doctor Jonathen Heathrow?"

"No."

Exasperated, George Hamilton leaned in and stared the man in the eye.

"Frank Miller, did you kill your wife?" He spat aggressively.

"No. I don't know who did."

The man was looking him in the face and lying. He just knew it. Those beady eyes never told the truth. Never.

Susan Freid arrived, photographs in hand. Each one was dated December 19, 2023.

She entered the room, sat down presumptuously, and laid down the photos on George's desk.

"There you have it. Frank Miller did it." She said matter-of-factly and walked out.

Frank Miller was looking suspiciously at the window, probably planning to escape, but he couldn't break it. These were bulletproof, not that he knew that.

George glanced at the door, got up, and made sure it was locked for good measure.

He then sneered at Frank Miller, already convinced that he was the one who'd done it.

Let's hope this evidence really is damning.

He looked through the photos.

Holy shit. Susan Freid had caught everything on camera, or whoever had given her the photos had. Probably Darlene. Maybe that's what she was doing that night, but why would she hide that from him? Was she really that angry? Maybe it wasn't her. Couldn't have been. Anyway, back to business, George. Back to business.

Sure enough, there was Frank Miller, captured yelling at his wife with a gun in his hand. There was another shot of a sauce pan being thrown at him, and, finally, there was a photograph of a bullet shooting through the air and landing in Roseanne's chest as she fell to the floor.

The last photograph depicted the doctor holding the vile over what seemed to be a lifeless body. If Roseanne Miller wasn't dead, she was certainly close to it.

"Frank Miller. You are under arrest for the murder of Roseanne Miller. Anything you say can be used against you. You have the right to remain silent."