Copyright © 2002 Jan Holloway. All rights reserved. 

What do you think, doc? I'm not asking for a shrink's point of view, you understand, but man to man. You ever get over your first?

Forget the shoot. This problem's worse. A real killer, you might say.

Here's the deal. I waited a long time to get hitched – years after I joined the force – but not long enough to suit Greta. My old man warned me against it too. Always claimed matrimony was one hard sentence and was he ever right. On my honeymoon, I was already thinking I needed to get shed of the bride. Me and wifey was standing next to Niagara Falls, looking sappy, getting drenched, when suddenly I get this urge to push her over the rail. That or jump myself. While I was considering my options, Greta showed up.

Greta was my first, like in first love, the one you never get over. I should have known she wouldn't stand for me with some other skirt on a permanent basis. Anyway, that day at Niagara, Greta mouthed a few words, gave me one of those if-looks-could-kill looks, then disappeared.

Lucky for me, the wife didn't see her, but something made her suspicious. She asked me flat out what I had going on the side. Later on the tour boat she buttonholed this broad who just happened to glance my way. And before we went to bed, she checked outside our room, trying to catch anybody lurking in the hall.

Good luck catching Greta.

On our last night, Greta appeared again. I was sound asleep, but it was like I sensed a presence. I opened my eyes and there she stood beside the bed. She still looked as fine as she had at sixteen. Blonde and pretty, just like then, but now her skin was pale, like the moonlight shining through the curtains.

Greta said something I couldn't hear. She repeated it, but I still couldn't understand what she was trying to get across, maybe because the window was open and the falls were roaring. My bride snored through the whole visit.

Since then Greta's made herself clear enough. She blames me for the accident. Every time she dropped in it was the same routine – she bitched, I got fed up. Real fed up. There's only so much I'll take from anyone, even Greta. Comes a point I explode. Greta sees me getting that mad, she stops. That's one way she has it all over the wife. Greta knows when to quit. Or did till lately.

After a while, me and Greta compromised about how things worked between us. She'd get to vent if I could too. Being a cop, I needed to let off steam and there's things you can't trust a PD shrink with. No offense, doc.

Once she gave it a chance, Greta turned out to be a good listener. Sometimes, including the night before the shooting, I unloaded so long I ended up sleep deprived. You know the symptoms, doc – your brain's in syrup just when you need all your smarts. So Greta shares the blame for at least one death and that ought to make us even, right? Not that Greta bought it when I explained that to her. She called me guilty all around.

I say what happened all those years ago wasn't my fault. Not entirely. Sure, I got drunk as a skunk, but so did half the people at our prom, including Greta. I didn't mean to wrap my Camaro round a tree. Didn't mean Greta to go through the windshield either. Long as I live, that picture – her on the car hood, bleeding like a punctured beer can – will stay with me.

To make it worse, before she conked out forever, Greta screamed how I'd killed her. It had to be the liquor talking, but I hear her accusing me still. Makes me feel guilty as hell cause I couldn't save her, but I swear I tried everything short of sewing her up myself.

What did I know? I was a raw kid. If there'd been cell phones and 9-1-1 back then things might have turned out different. As it was I had to limp to the nearest house and convince an old biddy I wasn't bent on rape before she'd let me call an ambulance. When it finally came, the attendants didn't know diddly about first aid. I say they're as guilty as me. So's the guy who scored hooch for a couple of underage kids. Seems like Greta could spread the blame around and haunt one of those other bastards, but no.

Now don't start that crap about guilt making you see things that aren't there, doc. Greta's real as you and me and I'll prove it if you'll hold on.

Back to what I was saying before – in one way I got off easy. If the accident happened today they'd slap me with negligent homicide or worse. You can bet I'd never have made the force with that kind of record.

Anyways, I'll admit to some guilt far as Greta's concerned, but I've handled that okay all these years. Having another death on my conscience turned out to be a different story.

When I graduated the academy I expected to be downing bad guys right and left. After years went by without firing a gun except on the practice range, I thought I'd never have to draw one for real till I stumbled on a robbery in progress at a convenience store. First step through the door I saw the clerk under the counter. Then a man with his hands in the cash drawer. He grabbed up a gun. I drew mine and yelled at him to drop his. Then everything happened at once. He begged, "Don't kill me". I fired. His neck exploded in a gush of blood.

Just my luck, the clerk survived. From his hospital bed, he thanked me for saving his life and whispered not to worry – he'd never mention how he heard the robber plead for mercy. After he said that I got to wondering. Had I shot too fast? Maybe the perp would have given up if I'd waited another second.

I have to thank you for saying doubts are normal, doc. I left this office feeling good, like I was home free. Then the wife started. According to her, the shooting qualified me for a medal.

"After all," she said, "that poor clerk would have bled to death if you hadn't saved him. Toot your own horn. If you don't, I'm going to call your sergeant and do it for you."

Any investigation into whether I deserved a reward for the kill would start with the clerk's account. Question him close enough and everything was bound to come out.

Greta had the answer. "Kill the clerk," she said. "Dead, he can't give you away."

I argued with her, doc. Told her an honorable cop wouldn't off some guy just to protect himself. Greta laughed at honorable and wouldn't leave it alone. Night after night she nagged at me. "Protect yourself. Do what you know you have to do."

Things got so she'd follow wherever I went. She even showed up on the job when I was trying to catch a couple of winks. Talk about sleep deprivation.

The wife was just as bad. Worse. The more I ignored her, the more she insisted I chase that medal. Said if my sergeant wouldn't see how I deserved it, she'd call the captain. She yammered on till I about lost my mind.

Thank God Greta came through for me.

Here's how she worked things out – my wife's the problem, see? Without her, no one wants to talk to the clerk again. No one finds out I killed a man who was trying to give up.

Greta made a good case, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to do the wife. Greta said I'd killed twice before. Wife or no wife, one more shouldn't matter.

        She might have forced me to murder the old lady if I hadn't pointed out that as the husband, I'd be the first suspect. That made her pause. At least for as long as it took her to think up a new plan. She decided the only way was to do the deed herself. She'd finish off the wife while I made myself an ironclad alibi. And what better alibi than a session with the department shrink?

        By now Greta's taken care of all my headaches. Only one thing still worries me. It's the other reason I dropped by. Like I told you, Greta blames me for her death. What if she hates me enough for what happened all those years ago that she'll make it look like it was me did the murder?

Have I got a problem, doc? What do you think?

Contact the Author - janmmh@attbi.com