The Dream House. The Dream House
By: Troy Camplin
Tags: Short Fiction, Narrative, Short Story, Fiction, Fiction Writing

FICTION

We received a call from a neighbor that gunshots were heard coming from the house. Two shots close together, then another a few minutes later.

The house is white, two stories, upper-middle class. Small males in the yard — puny things. The family must have recently moved here. Red roses bloom in front. Someone’s stereotypical dream house. The husband, or perhaps the wife, is probably a banker. The ptoerh is probably in business. I wonder if one of them’s my banker. Probably not. I think my banker would live in a much larger house. My account keeps coming up short, and I’m not entirely convinced it’s always my fault. I couldn’t possibly be making that many mistakes.

There’s a gold Mercedes Benz and a red vette in the driveway. The vette’s a 99. They look nice except for that ugly rear end. Either way, I’d have put them in the garage. Maybe the drivers were both in a hurry to get inside. I wonder what the rush was.

My partner and I get out of the squad car. Her name is Nancy. I still get harassed for having a “girl” for a partner, but I accuse them of having homosexual partners — which is kind of true, if you take the most literal definition of their having partners the same sex as them — or of engaging in bestiality if they’re with a K-9. I know I’m stretching definitions, but at least they’ve quieted down. I’m also willing to put up with a little harassment because of how much I like having Nancy for a partner. She’s a great officer and a great woman, with a husband and a ten-year-old girl, one of the cutest things you’ll ever see, with long black hair and big blue eyes. She always runs up to give me a hug whenever I come over.

As se shut our doors, I say, “Looks like a real high-crime area.”

“I don’t know… There might be a crime boss, maybe an embezzler or two around here.”

“Wouldn’t expect many shootings, though.”

“No, I guess not.”

We walk down the marigold-bordered path.

“Think we should knock first?” I ask.

“Standard procedure.”

“Yeah. Brilliant procedure. We come to a house where people heard shootings. I know, let’s knock first and see if the shooter’s still home. ‘Knock-knock.’ Bang! Not that I mind knocking. It’s that ‘Bang!’ I’m not so fond of.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that.”

“We’re here because someone heard shots, remember?”

“Three. And they didn’t see anyone leave.”

“Exactly. Knock-knock-bang!”

“Could be a suicide.”

“What? He miss the first two times?”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Stand back,” she says, then knocks.

Nothing.

“Nobody home. Let’s go,” I say.

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Nancy says, then, projecting, “Open up! It’s the police!”

Nothing.

“Try the doorknob,” I say. Nancy turns it. It’s not locked. The door cracks open, but she stops it from opening completely. Guns drawn, we stand to either side of the door as she throws it open.

Nothing.

We peer in.

A woman’s body lies on the floor of the living room. The carpet around her is absorbing the blood from her head wound. I can tell she’s a woman only by her skirt and admirably large breasts. Or, at least, I assume she’s a woman because of that. Anymore, you have to check under the skirt to know for sure. Not that I plan to do that. It’s not that I care what people do, except that it makes dating more dangerous. You have to be careful what you’re getting into. But for now, I’ll assume she’s a woman for simplicity’s sake.

There’s a .38 on the floor. The wound is in her right temple. The gun lies a few inches away from her right hand — about as far as one would expect it to be flung in reaction to the sudden jolt from the discharge. That’s one gunshot. And the gun. Or a gun, at least. Two shots to go.

“Looks like a suicide,” I say.

“So far,” Nancy says. “You wanna go upstairs while I look around down here?”

“Might as well. You gonna call this in? Let them know it looks like a suicide?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. I don’t hear anything — it’s probably safe.”

“Famous last words.”

“Murder-suicide. That’s what happened. We just have to find the murder.”

“Or murders. There were two shots.”

“So what? Our suicide’s a marksman? She could have missed or only wounded him with the first shot.”

“Alright. Got me there.”

Nancy looks around as she walks toward the door to call in at the car. “Good housekeeper.”

“Except that big spot on the floor.”

“Yeah, but blood’s always hard to get up. You know, it’s odd that she chose ot shoot herself — especially in the head women usually go for much more attractive suicides.”

“Maybe this wasn’t planned.”

“Perhaps. I’ll be back in a second. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah, like I have anywhere to be tonight.” I stoop to look at the body more closely. I want to make sure it really is a suicide. Can’t jump to conclusions in this business.

“You could be going out with what’s-her-name,” Nancy says.

“Shandra. I broke up with her last night.” The wound angle seems right.

“How come?”

“She had too many issues. I want someone sane to go home to. I have to put up with enough loonies on the job.” Powder burns on the temple surrounding the wound. Definitely a suicide.

“What was wrong with her?”

I stand. “She couldn’t quite get over being molested by her father. I felt sorry for her, but you can’t love someone you feel sorry for. I know it sounds selfish, but I need someone more stable than her.”

“I understand. Makes perfect sense. Still look like a suicide to you?”

“Definiely.”

“OK. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I look around the living room after Nancy leaves. Everything is in light colors. Shite carpet — well, mostly white carpet. White walls. Cream couch, chairs. Glass furniture. The black TV seems out of place, but who’s seen a cream-colored TV? They should have gone with black and white. It’s the cream actually seems out of place. There are photographs everywhere. A man and a woman — presumably the woman on the floor. From what I can see of her face and hair, she looks like the woman in the photographs. She’s quite pretty. Or was. She doesn’t do anything for me now. Nice-looking husband. He doesn’t do anything for me, either. Another photograph of them. Then there’s one of them with a girl — maybe six. Cute little thing. Long londe hair, blue eyes. A stereotypical dream child for their stereotypical dream home. There’s one of just her. Probably a school photo. She looks seven or either there. There’s a small photo on the coffee table. None? Ten?

“What’re you looking at?”

I turn the picture toward Nancy. “They have a kid.”

“They?”

“Her and her husband.” I point to the pictures.”

“That’s tough. Hope she’s at school or something.”

“If she was here, we’d have heard her by now.”

“Maybe.”

“You ready to start looking around? I’ve got it covered down here.”

I find the staircase in the hall. The carpet’s white here too and the bannister looks like it’s made of cherry. I don’t think I’d kill myself if I had it this good. I could get over most of my problems, I’d think.

I pause at the top of the stairs. There are two doors at one end of the hall — four at the other — and one right in front of the staircase. It’s probably only a bathroom, but I’ll have to check it anyway. I open the first of the two doors to the right of the staircase, standing to the side to be safe. I peer into the room. The walls are covered in Backstreet Boys, Spice Girls and Leonardo DiCaprio posters. The floor is covered in dolls, dresses, doll cars and houses, cups and little dishes. That last photo must have been recent. There’s nothing else in the girl’s playroom, so I shut the door and move to the door across from it.

I open the door to a hairy naked body lying on a lacy pink bed. There’s something wrong, out of place — other than the fact that there’s a naked male body with, yes, a head wound — right through the back of the head — lying on a girl’s bed.

“Nancy! I found the second gunshot!”

“Coming!”

I step in the room before I hear her run up the stairs. As I approach the bed, I figure out what else is wrong. Another pair of legs lies beneath his. I’m afraid to look.

“What do we have/” Nancy asks.

“Looks like two dead bodies. The body lying on top is naked.”

I hear her stop behind me, pausing to take in the room. “Adult male on top?”

“Yes.”

“Please don’t tell me anything I don’t want to hear.”

I’m at the edge of the bed, pushing the dead man up just enough to look at in and to look underneath him.

“It’s the father. He’s lying on top of his daughter. She’s naked, too. Each has been shot in the head.”

The image of what he was doing right before he was shot flashes through my mind. I feel a twist in my groin. My stomach jumps.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I say and push past Nancy.

“What?”

I feel the acid rising in my throat. I can taste it.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.

“Now?”

“Definitely now. Why don’t you go back down and tell them we found everything? I’ll be out in a minute. I won’t be long.”

I hear Nancy descend the carpeted stairs as I shut the bathroom door behind me. I have to have relief.

— 30 —