The Last Word 1

There are two things you should know about me: 1) I am a Technical Support person. I work for a quasi-governmental agency (i.e., one that has a private board directing it but has little funds other than from state or federal sources). Yes, I'm a nerd, but a first-rate nerd. My job not only encompasses keeping computer hardware and software up to date but also includes audio-visual equipment, usually hooked up to a computer. By default, I have had to become the go-to guy for slide shows, video, internet training, etc. 2) I am a mystery nut. I watched and probably have on DVD every TV mystery show and many movies. You name a mystery author and I can give you a synopsis of his/her writing style and typical plot line. Currently CSI feeds my mystery addiction. I could give you SO many more details about my addiction, but that would probably totally geek you out. Now with that bio info, on with the story.

My name is Jared Simpson. I was married to Beverly Conners Simpson for 24 years. We had two sons, Sydney and Norris. Beverly was a stay at home mom until the oldest boy got his driver's license and could drive himself and his brother to and from school. That gave Beverly the chance to take the Director's position at the Second Chance Mission, her favorite local community charity for the previous five years.

Although our marriage was never paradise, the thorn in the paw was my obsession with solving mysteries. Specifically, I was focused on finding clues that show one spouse cheating on another. You probably already see what's coming. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that Beverly was cheating on me, three different times. Each time I confronted her, she denied it and demanded proof. Each time my proof was no more than a random fact with lots of imagination on my part. I tried to excuse my suspicions with a remark about how great she looked to be 45 and how I could easily believe every man who saw her wanted her.

I paid dearly for my mistakes. At first, she responded, "You've got to be kidding." Then it became, "I think you're accusing me just to cover your own lustful thoughts of other women." Finally, it was "You better have real proof next time because I am one pissed off moment away from divorce and castration, not necessarily in that order." Worst of all was that she always had to have the last word. As many times as I kept the fight going, I finally had to let her have the last word in order to get some sleep, go to work, go to an appointment, or whatever. Except for conversations about the boys, our discussions were usually adversarial. Our sex life was on life support.

After she took over as Director of Second Chance, I gradually had to assume most of the chores she had done around the house. If I dared question the change in roles, she would look at me with a "Now where did I put those shearing clippers" look and I would cave. I stopped accusing her of adultery, but it wasn't because my stupid brain would not keep coming up with possible affairs she was having, but because I valued keeping the essence of my being of the male gender.

And, darn it, if she didn't turn out to be a fantastic agency director. Despite other agencies that lost funds during these down economic times, Beverly was able to increase the budget of Second Chance with a combination of local fundraisers and state or federal grants. She had assembled a board of some of the most influential (and rich) members of the community. Her programs received local and state recognition. The Jobs and Transition to the Community Program for ex-cons was nominated for a national award. She accepted her accolades with humility around others and arrogance around me.

It did not seem to matter to Barbara when I tried to complement her on her work. She was always dismissive of my praise as if it was only proof of my willingness to kiss ass to get on her good side rather than proof of my genuine admiration. My big attempt at impressing Barbara was when I was able to get a huge grant to buy new computers and software for Second Chance's job readiness program. Beverly never thanked me and even complained that the computers increased her internet cable costs.

The only saving grace in our relationship was the front we put on for the boys. They were progressing well in school and sports and seemed to be among the most popular in their class. Once Beverly went to work, we were soon able to pre-finance their college education, at least at the bachelor's level. Currently the oldest was a sophomore in college and the youngest would be a freshman next fall.

This next part is probably what you're looking for in the story: The Clue. Another thing about me is that I am very punctual. I leave work at 5:00 pm every day and am home by 5:30 depending on traffic. Beverly is usually home by 3:30 as the mission only is open until 2:00 each day. Normally, it takes her about an hour to do her paperwork and clean up (Yes, my CSI mind did require me to check on what she was doing after the mission closed and she was doing just what she was supposed to be doing.).

One this particular day, a squirrel provided the felling of the first domino that is the basis for this story. A squirrel got fried in a transformer that caused other transformers to blow and wiped out electricity in our building and the surrounding block. The electric company said that it would be late that night before power would be restored. Reluctantly, our department head let everyone have the rest of the day off without our having to take annual leave.

It was extremely rare for me to be home when Beverly arrived. She came in the house with a worried look on her face asking, "I saw your car. Are you sick?"

"No. The power's out on the other side of town. We got sent home early. Are you okay? You look a little disheveled." Her hair and makeup were not the usual perfect picture she usually presented.

"Uh . . . I had to serve lunch today and help in the kitchen. Some volunteers didn't show up. I need to clean up. I will be back down later." With that she hurried upstairs seemingly trying to hide her appearance.

As you might be able to tell already, it does not take much for me to go into CSI mode. I quietly followed her upstairs. When I heard the shower water running, I went into our adjacent bedroom (ours when I was not banned into the guest bedroom) and saw her clothes strewn on the floor. That was not like her. I picked up her panties and examined them. There was some whitish yellow substance in the crotch. I smelled the panties. From both sight and smell, I thought semen as the likely substance. I needed to test the evidence. If I took the panties, she would know I suspected hanky- panky and that would be the final straw for her. I carefully went into the bathroom praying she would not notice. She did. "What are you doing in here? Can't you wait until I finish? Get out."

"Sorry dear, just needed to get the fingernail clippers. Hangnail." Instead I got a cotton swab and took it in the bedroom. I took a swipe across the fluid residue on the panties and was about to put them back on the floor when I noticed a small, curly black hair. That hair was not likely from her head or pubic area nor could it have been mine. I used the other end of the cotton swab and captured the hair also. Going downstairs to the kitchen, I got a couple of small plastic sandwich bags. I put the hair in one bag and put the swab in the other. Then I put the bags in my briefcase.

Now if I had the money, I would probably buy myself a mini CSI laboratory with all the microscopic, analyzing equipment I could get my hands on. The next best thing is knowing someone who does work in a lab like that. Our neighbors, the Jacksons, have a daughter who shared my passion for CSI work and actually became a forensic pathologist with the state police. When she was growing up, I was her mentor in purchasing hardware and fixing her computer when she had a problem. Although I did this for several neighbors and their kids, Judy was the one who shared the mystery gene. I went to see her.

Judy greeted me, "Oh no, not another clue to an unsolved mystery."

"Judy is that how you treat your old buddy, pal, mentor?"

"Do you know I could have been fired after that last test I ran for you? I think my debt to you has been paid." She thought for a minute as I allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. "Alright, what have you got?"

"I've got a substance on the end of a cotton swab and a hair. I need you to tell me everything you can about what the substance is and where the hair came from."

"Please don't tell me this is another "she's having an affair scenario."

"Okay, I won't tell you."

Judy sighed, "You know that we're breaking all kinds of regulations and laws, don't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you knew. I should have results in a week or so."

"A week?"

"Look, I have to find the right time to do the tests. That means I have to know how long I have before someone might check what is being run through the machine in question. I'll do it when I think it's safe. Okay?"

"Okay. I'm sorry. It's just that it's important to me."

"And when hasn't it been important? Now go on, get out of here."

A week passed and nothing from Judy. A second week passed and nothing. I thought my hair was falling out and I didn't have that much to lose. I broke down and called her. "I'm sorry to call but it's been two weeks. . ."

"I was just going to call you. There's a reason it took so long. We need to talk and not over the phone. Can you meet me at the Starbucks near my office at 10:00 tomorrow morning?"

I agreed and was on pins and needles until our meeting. I couldn't even drink my latte with cinnamon I was so nervous. Judy reported, "It took me so long because there were three substances on the swab. I had to separate them and then test each one. The three substances were: vaginal secretions from a Caucasian female about 40-50 years of age, saliva from the same Caucasian female, and semen from a 25-35 year-old African American male."

After all the years of suspicions and imaginations, to really have some proof of my wife's infidelity still hit like a two by four between my eyes. After sitting there stunned for a couple of minutes, I heard Judy continue.

"The hair was pubic hair, also from the same African American male. I hope this is not what I think it is."

Judy got up to leave. "Remember: You can't let anyone know where you got this information. It cannot show up in a court of law. Mr. Simpson, this is it for me. If you want proof you can use in a divorce, it will be up to you to find."

Great, now I had proof, but it was proof I couldn't use in a divorce proceeding. Okay, I need pictures and audio. I'm a tech geek so it should be a piece of cake. All I needed was to know where to put some cameras.

Over the next few days I thought about the location where Beverly might be having her affair. Nothing pointed to her having someone to our house. Nothing to suggest a motel/hotel or out of town love nest. There was no pattern to her night or weekend times away from home. I thought I needed a Private Investigator to follow her. Since I could not afford a PI, I was stuck. Because she was seldom gone nights and weekends, I could follow her at those times but that would be very tricky. See might easily notice my car. The biggest time I could not cover was during the day.

My solution to having a day time spy came from an unexpected source. I remembered my army buddy Walt had called a few weeks ago and said that our Third Musketeer, Denny, was being transferred from Walter-Reed to the new VA homeless shelter in our town. There were originally four Musketeers, but Ronnie had committed suicide after returning stateside from his third tour, the latest being in Afghanistan. Denny had lost both legs below the knee to an IED in Iraq. He spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals and rehab units until he got a pair of bionic legs that he could tolerate. Even then he preferred a wheelchair for speed and avoiding lines at the airport. I called Walt.

"Walt, hey man. How's it going?"

"Hey back atcha Sarge. I wondered when you were going to call. Denny should be here next week."

"That's why I called. You got anything planned for him, especially something that includes liquor, cigars and loud music?"

"I thought we could take him to the Woodshed."

"What?"

"The Woodshed is a new bar and grill over in Southland. It's not too crowded usually and several old army buddies have started hanging out there."

"Sounds like you've become a bar and grill expert."

"One goes where the heart leads."

"Okay, let me know day and time. I'll be there."

When the day arrived for the reunion, I approached Beverly about my going out with some old army buddies. She responded as I expected, "Are you sure you're not going to meet YOUR girlfriend?" She was smiling smugly. "Go ahead and play with the other boys. At least you'll be out of my hair for a little while." Last word as usual.

At the Woodshed, Walt, Denny and I drank and told war stories. We all toasted Ronnie more than once. After a lull in the conversation, I brought up an idea I had come up with. "Denny, I need your help with something. I'm willing to pay."

Denny's composure soured. "Look Sarge, I don't need none of your damn charity."

"Whoa, take your clip out of your gun bio-man. I'm talking about something I'm going to have to pay someone for and I figured you could do it. I need someone I can absolutely trust."

"I'm sorry. I get touchy too easily. What have you got?"

"Have you heard of the Second Chance Mission?"

"Yeah, in Orientation at the shelter they told us the mission had job counselors and activities we could participate in during the day. I thought I might check it out."

"Well, my old lady runs the place and I think she's having an affair, maybe with someone there."

Walt interjected, "Oh no, not again. Man, when are you going to give it up? You ain't ever got the goods on her."

"This time I have forensic proof, but I need more. Will you help me or not?"

Denny answered, "Shit man. That sucks. How can I help?" Walt looked on in disbelief but said no more.

"I just need you to go there a few days and observe. Let me know if there are any times when she is missing during the day. That's all."

"That's all? I can handle that. Should I go in my wheelchair?"

"Sounds good. Here's my number. Keep in touch."

Denny rolled into the Second Chance Mission and very slowly worked his way into the daily routine. It helped that he had a legitimate need for services. One day, his cover was almost blown. Beverly came over and introduced herself. She saw his name on his army jacket. "Tooley. Denny Tooley? Were you in Iraq with my husband, Jered?"

"Sorry. My name is Alfred Tooley and I was in Afghanistan, not Iraq." She didn't follow up the conversation.

Two weeks went by before Denny called. "You want a progress report? 7:00 at the Woodshed?"

I was not optimistic that Barbara would be foolish enough to be having an affair at an agency as busy as Second Chance. Denny pulled out a notepad and reported, "Mornings are full of a lot of various activities and people coming and going. Your wife usually is there in the thick of things. Doesn't spend much time in the office. After lunch, however, she often has counseling sessions with the guys who want jobs. Most of the sessions seem random but there is one dude that goes in almost every day and his sessions last up to an hour. Everyone else is done in about half an hour. The office door is locked and the shade over the window in the door is pulled down. There's no way to see into the office without raising suspicion. If she's doing someone at the mission, it's that guy in her office. Demarcus Freeman. Ex-con. The funny thing is that he seems reluctant to go in her office. Once he comes out, he looks really depressed. Your wife, however, well, looks like she just got laid. Do you want me to keep going?"

"No, man. Thanks. I'll take it from here."

I now had a solid lead as to the place. Still it would not be considered a slam-dunk by CSI standards. But at least this would be one lead I had the expertise to follow up on. Beverly kept all her keys on a single chain in her purse. I waited for Beverly to take her Sunday afternoon beauty nap, took her keys and sped to the mission. My excuse, if Beverly woke up and noticed her keys missing was that I had misplaced my set and rather than take just her extra key to my car from her chain, I took the whole ring.

No one was at the mission, but if anyone might inquire why I was there, I could say I was sent by my wife to retrieve something she needed. I moved quickly, opened the side door, went across the cafeteria area, opened the office door and looked for the best places for cameras. The bookshelves showed little sign of frequent usage so the minicameras were placed in a way to give full coverage of the office. Within 7 minutes I was in and out. Once to my car, I tested the cameras and saw the screens appear on my computer. I was not able to test the sound.

On Monday, there was no action in the office after lunch other than Beverly doing paperwork, making phone calls, and job counseling with a couple of men. Tuesday was different. First it was difficult for me to keep an eye on the computer as I was called for tech help several times. I was recording during the time I was away, but when I did return, I caught the end of one tryst between Beverly and a black man. I stayed after work to watch the full recording. I was pleased to hear that the sound worked just fine.

Demarcus was heard first, "Ms. Simpson, do we have to do this again? My wife is getting suspicious. I'll never get to see my kids again if I screw up. You could ask several other guys and I'm sure they would be happy to service you."

"Demarcus, Demarcus, Demarcus, how many times do we have to go over this? You are mine. I own your ass or rather your penis. I could have other men and I have before but right now, for the time being, I want you. And as long as you want to keep from going back to prison, you will keep, as you put it, servicing me. One bad word from me and you're back to wearing orange. Now pull it out and let's get started."

What followed were a variety of sex acts in several positions. Beverly appeared to be enjoying herself. Demarcus was obviously a reluctant participant, but his body did respond eventually.

Finally, I had proof, documentation, "the goods" and so on. Now what was I to do with it? Divorce by reason of adultery did little more than the general Irreconcilable Differences which requires no proof of anything. Proof of infidelity was only valuable in custody and maybe shortening the period of alimony. In two months, both boys would be in college, so custody and child support would not be issues. There would be no real financial benefit to me. The only benefit to me, however, was quite appealing: SPITE.

After years of being disrespected by my wife, I wanted REVENGE. My CSI instincts had finally proven correct. For once, I would get the last word. Now I had to figure out how to use what I had. This was where being a tech geek came into play.

The Board Chairman of Second Chance Mission had approached me about creating a video of the success of Second Chance Mission, highlighting the outstanding work of its Director, Beverly. The Board would get me the historical videos and I would convert the VHS to DVD and then edit and organize the presentation. At the celebration where the video was to be played, Beverly would be given the national award in community service she had just won but was not aware of yet. They could think of nothing more appropriate than for her loving, tech-savvy husband to prepare the presentation. Heh. Heh.