Letter to Mary Malone

What is wrong with those detectives? Have I not taught them not to be fooled by sympathy? You are the wife of a detective; they should know you would know exactly how to manipulate them!

Feeding them the murder weapon: Good one, girl! Even if they found you out, they would not have any evidence… Could they not see it had the form of a club? How pathetic!

One would think you to be the innocent victim. I, with my hatred and irritation, would be thought the potential psychopathic murderer, but now the dead victim. Maybe I would walk in that evening and boom; the gunshot would have gone off.... I got rid of the clinging housewife and could continue my life with my secret lover. You proved us all wrong: The loving housewife, the potential victim, who was told the horrible truth of her future, killed me with a frozen leg of lamb! Never would have thought I would die this way…

There was always a slow smiling air about you. It was what made me fall in love with this stunning woman, you, Mary… Then life became a drag: Everyday at six, I would come home. You would be sitting in your chair opposite mine, both of our side lamps on, the drinks prepared. I would greet you, go sit in my chair and we would talk about our day. And every Thursday we would go out for dinner. HOW DAMN BORING!!! And so predictable! I got so sick of it! I just could not stand that routine anymore!

I needed proof that my life was not a ritual. I looked for adventure and diversity. Elaine was so different; she made me feel alive again. That mischievous about her just turned me on. I had a case to solve, things to discover about her…

I am sorry, Mary. Seems like there was much more to you than what was clear on the surface. There was something hidden about you, you just never let me know. Why didn’t you show me your independence? The continual dependence from me drove me out against the walls!

You handled this murder with supreme excellence. I really did not think you had it in you. Pulling off such an act by (supposed to be) professional men, getting yourself an alibi and getting rid of all evidence. Wow!

I saw the poem you wrote about me: It touched