I Didn’t Kill Her

He said he didn’t kill her. Sat right there in that chair and said it over and over again and again; I didn’t kill her.

The detectives had different ideas. They’d teamed up on him. Went over his story good and hard; facts and more facts. The two officers played good cop bad cop. Gave him cigarettes and coffee. He still wouldn’t confess.

The boy was sticking to his story. Some wild tale about being across town all night at his mother’s grave. Said he went there to weep. Said he couldn’t sleep. Went there to pray.

His mom had passed away a couple of days ago. She took care of him. Fed him. Put him to bed. Read stories to him about Santa Claus and wild things in the night. Said he missed her. Said one day when Jesus comes back, he’ll be with her all the time. Now, why would a boy who loved his momma so much go and do a thing like that?

Her body was found on the floor. Head was blue and green. Dried blood formed from her forehead. They showed him pictures. Said they had a bat with his prints on it. Asked why there was no alibi? He didn’t know what that was.

He just kept saying, I didn’t kill her.

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