After helping an elderly woman carry her bulky belongings home last night, multiple police cars arrived at my house this morning and accused me of murder…
After a long day at work, it was a typical evening. I saw an old woman standing at the corner of the street as I was exhausted and making my way home. She was breathing heavily as she leaned against a fence. There were two big shopping bags next to her. I went up to her and inquired if she needed assistance.
She groaned, “Thank you, son. I just got back from the store.” I exaggerated how strong I was. My heart is acting up again, but it’s not far from my place.
I couldn’t simply leave. As I listened to her heavy breathing, I picked up her bags and walked next to her. She informed me on the way that she lived alone because her children seldom ever called, her pension hardly met her expenses, and her husband had died a few years prior. Her speech was calm and compassionate, and I respected and felt sorry for her.
We arrived at her former residence on the outskirts of the city. She thanked me, wished me well, and opened the door. Grinning, I put the bags by the door and walked out. It all appeared to be quite normal. Not even the house number escaped my memory.
However, there were multiple police cars parked in front of my house the following evening when I got home from work. It resembled a scene from a movie, complete with flashing lights and uniformed officers. They came up to me and called my name.
I replied, not knowing what was happening, “Yes, that’s me.”
After giving me a lengthy look, he uttered something that made my blood freeze.
— You are under suspicion of killing a woman.
My heart stopped beating. What I was hearing was unbelievable. Murder? The police were certain that I was the last person to see her alive, despite my attempts to clarify that I had just assisted her in carrying her bags.
They played video for me from a security camera outside her home. I was there, following her through the gate while carrying her baggage. She did not reappear after that frame.
After being brought to the police station, I spent hours being questioned. I said the same thing over and over again: I helped her and then I went. They didn’t think I was real. I was in a cell all night, unable to sleep, mentally reliving every moment.
The investigation’s findings were received the following day. Later that evening, it was discovered that another man—her son, whom she frequently quarreled with over inheritance—had entered the residence.
Although they had heard the argument, the neighbors paid little heed. He was the one who escaped after strangling his mother, leaving behind evidence that the authorities subsequently discovered.
The cop apologized when I was eventually freed. But on the inside, all I felt was fear and coldness because, had it not been for the cameras and the fingerprints, I may have been permanently convicted of a crime I did not commit.
