(Originally published inThe Ramblings of a Condemned Man, NEVER STOP NEVER QUIT, 2018)
It was a Tuesday.
Nobody knew who the hell Spencer Tucker was when he walked up to the
administration desk of the Red Falls, Virginia Police Department and laid
his palms directly on the plexiglass divider, staining the window with fog
and spit from each excited breath. Tanya was not amused by the fat man in a
velour jogging suit.
“Sir, can you please take your hands off the glass!” she insisted. It was
not a question.
Spencer complied, though he continued his fight for air. Sweat dripped from
handprints left behind on the glass. It disgusted Tanya.
“Can I help you with something?” Fatty was hunched over now, hands on his
knees as he continued to snort and wheeze. Tanya didn’t get paid enough for
this shit, so she picked up the desk phone to call an officer down from the
briefing room, but stopped when she saw the guy had one finger raised in the
She could see beads of sweat dripping down his digit and gagged at the
thought of the god-awful mess underneath his mass.
Spencer had nearly caught his breath. With his finger still raised, he
stood straight and inhaled a few more mouthfuls of air before he could
speak. Once he started, he wouldn’t shut up.
“Sorry about that,” he blurted.
“I just started running again,” he confessed.
“I’m trying to get back in shape,” he proclaimed.
“You know, there was a time I could run five miles without breaking a
sweat,” he boasted.
The sentences grew longer as his need to suck in so much oxygen tapered
Tanya peeked over the counter to get a better look at the guy. He could see
the disdain in her eyes, the judgment she was sending his way from behind
her square hipster glasses, her overblown bleached-blond hair, and a liberal
application of makeup, all brutalizing every modern fashion trend out there.
“Sir, is there something I can help you with?” Spencer noticed a little more
twang in her slight Southern accent this time.
“Yes, there is.” Spencer was now quite composed. “I would like to report a
murder.” That ought to get her attention. The thought made him smirk. But for the excess blush on her cheekbones,
all color faded from Tanya’s face. She pulled open the top drawer of her
desk, grabbed a “Criminal Complaint” form, and checked the “Violent” box on
the top left. She took a second to compose herself before looking up
Yes, it’s me. The poor man who must be going through hell right now. Spencer was savoring his feeling of control.
“You want to report a murder,” she echoed while completing the form.
“Three murders, actually.”
“Did I say three?” Spencer reared his head back and belted out a jolly
laugh, as if Santa Claus himself had stopped by the police station to report
a homicide. “I meant to say four. Four murders.”
Tanya stopped writing and looked back up.
“So, it’s four murders?”
“Yes.” Spencer could clearly see the form she was writing on. He could also
see that all she had written was “Murde” in the “Complaint Description”
section. I never even got a full word out of her.
“Do you know who committed these murders?” She posed the question in that
singsong intonation you use when speaking to a child. Annoying, but that’s okay, he figured. This is probably the first time she’s had to document such a heinous act,
let alone four of them.
“I do…umm…what’s your name?”
“Tanya,” she said, looking down at her desk, slowly tapping her pen against
the nameplate—TANYA was written across its front.
“Tanya,” Spencer chuckled. “Yeah, I can see that now, right there. Tanya, I
committed the murders. All four killings.”
She didn’t write another thing, leaving that one almost-word her only entry
on the form. Surely, even if no one believes me, even if they think my
statement—my confession—is a farce, they have to take my complaint and
document it. Maybe she’s waiting to get more information? Maybe she wants
to see if my story and details are going to change again. That one word stuck in his head: details.
“Oh, I see,” he declared, realizing his mistake with the confession. “When
I say I committed the murders, I didn’t actually do the killing. I
orchestrated the whole thing. Masterminded, if you will. I have people who
do my dirty work.” Spencer stood a bit taller after his proclamation.
Tanya dropped her pen to the desk, pointed at a single metal chair that
definitely wouldn’t accommodate his mass, and instructed, “Okay. Umm, why
don’t you go ahead and take a seat right over there. I’m just going to make
a quick call and have some of my people come out here. Maybe they can get
together with your people and we can figure out what happened here. Okay,
hun?” She picked up the phone and made a call.
Spencer had no intention of trying to sit in the chair, not for her simple
amusement. He stood close to the window, hoping to overhear the
conversation, but Tanya had turned her back to him. Spencer Tucker tapped on
the pane repeatedly until she gave in and turned back around.
“Five, Tanya. I’m sorry. The actual number is five.”
Sensing that Tanya had had enough, Spencer turned from the window and
walked into the waiting area. First, he pulled out his phone and fired off a
few text messages, none of which received a reply. Then, he began to gauge
what exactly he was up against. It doesn’t seem like there’s going to be much of an intellectual battle
here, not if this is the best they have. Sizing up the competition—that’s how he liked to describe it—Spencer
rummaged through the notes and flyers tacked on the bulletin board.
Barbecues, community workshops, lost dogs, found dogs—to him, they all
seemed to blend into one never-ending, pointless theme: life here is dull.
One of the faded-wallpapered walls was adorned with eight by ten glossies in
cheesy frames, hanging on nails randomly scattered across its surface. Three
retirement ceremonies, two volunteer-of-the-month awards, and a recent
graduating class of the Teen Citizen’s Police Academy highlighted everything
he needed to know about Red Falls. For a town not even one hundred miles outside of DC, everything turns
real rural here, real quick.
After twenty minutes, Spencer’s critique of the station’s decor was
interrupted when three police officers entered the reception area and
approached him. No guns were drawn, but hands were hovering close. The
officer in the middle broke the silence. “Sir, do you have any weapons on
your person right now?” Spencer shook his head defiantly, sending his jowl
and chins into rippling convulsions.
“Nope. Personally, I’m scared to touch them.”
“Are you in any danger right now?”
“I don’t think so. Am I?”
“Do you know of anyone else in danger right now?” The question made Spencer
pause, as if he didn’t know which answer would be more entertaining. With a
slight grin, he decided to go with, “No. Final answer.”
He was instructed to follow the officers, two leading, one following, into
the back so they could take his statement. Once inside, Spencer looked
around. Not impressive. How can they conduct an official interrogation from a
round table? And, the room is carpeted! I don’t think the good crime
dramas have carpeted interrogation rooms.Either way, it’s not safe. It’s not even sanitary. With a little kitchenette in the corner housing a sink, fridge, and
microwave, Spencer realized he was in their break room.
He was invited to sit at the round table while the officers stood over
him. Is this supposed to be intimidating? The only interrogating that is going
to happen here is, “Who stole my leftover hoagie?” What a joke! The lead officer introduced himself and the other two, then explained
the objectives of the interview. The officers muddled their way through a
script like TV reporters trying to fill five minutes of dead air after
finishing the last news story. Spencer drifted in and out. This is all so
disappointing. And they haven’t even asked my name yet.
“And you, sir. Can you give me your full name, please?”
“Huh?” Spencer asked. Sergeant Daniels had caught him by surprise. Daniels
knew that was going to happen. He could tell by the eyes. Whenever someone
came into a police station—no matter if they were a criminal, complainant,
or witness—and everything started to overwhelm them, they got that look. Daniels loved to snap them back by turning the conversation over to them.
“Your name, sir. Can I please get your full name?”
“Oh. Sure. Tucker. Spencer Tucker.” Spencer thought for a moment, then
clarified. “No middle initial. Just Spencer Tucker.” Daniels acknowledged
this with a nod before moving on to date of birth, home address, employment
status, marital status…
“Marital status?” A bit of a smirk, the check-this-shit-out kind, spread
across Spencer’s face as he looked at the officer on his left, Bridle, then
on his right, Donnelly. Check this shit out! “That’s a tricky one, Sergeant Daniels. My wife, Vicki, is one of my
Daniels could feel the hair on the back of his neck stiffen and stand. This
was his alert, his warning signal. If nineteen years on the force had taught
him anything, it was that when something raised the hair on the back of his
neck, there was fixing to be trouble. He opened his notepad, scribbled a few
lines, pulled the sheet off, and handed it to Officer Donnelly.
Pull anything you can
Find his wife. Vicki
Without a word, Donnelly was off. “Bridle,” said Sergeant Daniels, “can you
check and see if Interview Room A is available?”
“Sure thing, Sarge.” Spencer and Daniels were alone.
Spencer Tucker was no longer a fat buffoon lost in a fantasy world. Spencer
Tucker had just put a name to his victim. Neither man spoke another word
until Bridle returned, confirming the room was open. Finally, Spencer Tucker
was going to get the treatment he felt he was due. Officer Bridle patted him
down, kneading his sweaty jogging suit pants to confirm there were no
weapons; he was only carrying a wallet and phone. Both were bagged for
Spencer was escorted down the hall and into Interview Room A. Looking
around, he smiled. Now, this is more like it! Barren walls. A rectangular table. No rug. But
where’s the video camera? Do they mount it at the end of the table or use
a standing tripod? They don’t have a two-way mirror—how disappointing. But
this is a significant improvement.
Daniels read Spencer Tucker his Miranda rights and asked if he wanted a
lawyer present. Spencer declined. “No lawyer. I have a better idea.”
“What do you propose, Mr. Tucker?”
“Simple. I’ll tell you everything you need to know. I just want to be able
to tell my story, my way.”
“That’s it?” Daniels kept his part of the conversation short; letting a
perp talk was usually the best starting approach. If they felt like they
were in charge, they usually started singing. That made getting to the truth
much easier. Daniels figured that if this guy turned out to be a crackpot,
his own words would be his one-way ticket to the psych ward. If he was
guilty, and the reality of his crime felt like too much of a burden for him,
a confession would be his redemption—and his conviction.
“That’s it, Sergeant Daniels.” Spencer looked around, like a lion
overseeing his domain as he decides where to strike first. “Now this is an
interrogation room,” he mused. “Where’s the video recorder?”
Daniels held up his cell phone. “We don’t usually shoot video, Mr. Tucker.
We just record the interview from our phones here.” He could tell Spencer
wasn’t satisfied with the answer. “Would you like us to use a video
recorder, Mr. Tucker?”
“I think the brutality of my crimes warrants a filmed confession, don’t
you?” The sergeant nodded at Bridle, who stood up, left the room, and
promptly returned with a video camera. No one spoke for the next few minutes
while the camera was being set up. Spencer was wondering just how far he
could push this, gauging how much control he possessed. Daniels was
wondering the same, though he was calculating how much rope to give
The camera was placed at one end of the table, on top of an empty cardboard
box, since Bridle couldn’t find the tripod. Spencer sat at the other end of
the table, his arms spread leisurely across its otherwise empty surface.
When the red light turned on, and Bridle confirmed, “We’re running,” the
stage was Spencer’s.
“Can I get something to drink? A pop, maybe?” This was not the opening
statement Daniels was expecting.
“Mr. Tucker, you are trying my patience here. If a crime was committed,
let’s get on with it. If not, this charade is about to rack you up a whole
slew of charges. Now, why don’t we—”
“Vicki Tucker,” Spencer cut the sergeant off. Suddenly, jolly transformed
to evil, a mood change that caught fire in an instant, flushing his fat face
from pasty white to blazing red. “My wife, Vicki Tucker. She was my fourth
Showing no emotion, Daniels continued writing notes on his pad. “Who were
the first three?”
“Where’s my pop?” Another nod from the sergeant sent Bridle off again. “The
regular kind,” Spencer yelled after the young officer. “That diet stuff is
no good for you.”
Spencer got his pop, the regular kind. His face had returned to what was
probably its normal color. He was ready to talk. “I met Vicki at a Christmas
party almost six years ago,” he began. “She was drop-dead gorgeous. She had
it all. I mean, she had the long blond hair, nice firm tits. Not like those
ridiculously over-pumped silicone ones. No, hers were nice. And her body was
tight. I mean, she could’ve had her own Pornhub channel, it was that nice.
And she kept it nice.”
Bridle squirmed in his chair a bit, kind of hoping Donnelly would find some
photographs of Spencer’s wife. Sergeant Daniels took a different course.
“So, you two hit it off, I guess?” Bridle snickered a bit, imagining a
gorgeous body like hers pinned under Spencer Tucker. One look from his boss,
however, and he clammed up. If there was one thing Daniels hated in this
world, it was having to care for these damn rookie cops. Wipe their nose.
Tell them when to speak, when not to speak, and when not to giggle like a
“I’m not an idiot, gentlemen. I know how fat I am. I weighed 347 pounds
this morning. Although that is three pounds less than last week.”
Daniels just wanted to get him back on topic and to keep him talking.
“Officer Bridle has a little difficulty controlling himself.” Daniels shot
Bridle another look that clearly meant, Keep your fucking mouth shut. “Self-control is clearly a trait that comes with age. Mr. Tucker, please
“Anyway,” he continued, staring straight into the camera, “I was a lot
slimmer six years ago. Not skinny, just thinner. I think I was about
two-fifty-ish when Vicki and I met, but I had something that won her desire
one thousand times over. I had lots and lots of money!”
Daniels wrote a note on his pad: “MONEY,” accenting his speculation with
two firm underlines.
“I made my millions as a defense contractor, writing software applications
for the military. Our Christmas party that first year served a dual purpose:
commemorating the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and the
successful test of my satellite targeting algorithm. We could shoot a laser
from space, vaporizing a single terrorist standing in a schoolyard full of
children without any collateral damage.”
Spencer Tucker leaned back and closed his eyes. He could smell the seared
flesh, the result of his computer code. But, this is not the time to reminisce about past exploits. We’re here to
discuss your most recent achievement. “Anyway,” he summarized, “blah, blah, blah. The sex was incredible
for me. We got married six months later and moved out here about five years
Daniels seized the opportunity to poke his first hole. “Well, I’ve been in
Red Falls all my life, been a cop here for more years than I care to
remember. I never heard of a multimillionaire defense contractor living here
“Exactly,” Spencer shut the question down. “We live outside of the city
boundary. Well, we lived…or is it she lived?” With a quick smirk and a shrug of his shoulders, he moved on.
“No matter. It’s unincorporated no-man’s land, I guess. I don’t get out
much, usually just stay home writing code and getting fatter, but Vicki took
a lot of trips to DC with her friend, Samantha.” Spencer felt it was time.
“She was number three.” Daniels and Bridle both snapped their heads up,
Daniels from his fourth page of notes, Bridle from his lethargy.
“Samantha was the third victim?” That question came from Daniels. Bridle
knew better than to talk.
With his attention directed to the sergeant, Spencer Tucker replied, “She
was. Samantha Eppling. And her prick fuck husband, Robbie, was the
second.” Now, we finally get to square off, Sergeant. For the first time, a new shade of crimson brushed across Spencer’s
“And who was the first?”
“He fucked my wife.”
Daniels knew his plan had worked. He’d let Tucker slip deeper and deeper
into his own self-absorbed monologue until he could no longer control
himself, sending the conversation exactly where the sergeant desired. All
Daniels needed to do now was extract the details.
Spencer loved details. As a man who built his fortune using the most
complex syntax in the world, he appreciated the importance of having every
command, every subtask, properly formatted. If his plan compiled correctly,
the result was a work of art. Spencer was exceptionally proud of his most
celebrated compilation. Now, all I need to do is share every detail with them. He launched into it. “Vicki and Samantha enjoyed their DC excursions.
They loved to shop and gossip.
“The problem was that Samantha truly loved her husband, Robbie. Their
marriage was a goddamn fairy tale.” Spencer’s face showed disgust, not
jealousy, as he described their magic. “Two gorgeous people madly in love
with each other, both driven to succeed, both independently rich. Then,
there was my wife, Vicki. She was dumber than shit and, without question,
had no interest in earning her prosperity. She found sex with me repugnant
but stuck around because I had the wealth she craved. But, you know, we were
a happy couple, just living separate lives that occasionally crossed to
satisfy my lust for sex and Vicki’s desire for affluence.”
Spencer went on to describe the strain in their marriage. As he did,
Sergeant Daniels learned how Spencer’s insecurities about keeping a woman of
Vicki’s caliber led him to hire a private investigator. The PI’s audio and
video recordings of conversations between his wife and Samantha ended up
substantiating Spencer’s fears. He said that Vicki craved love. She longed
for passion, when it was the result of being the object of attraction as
well as when she felt that uncontrollable desire for someone else. As far as
he could tell, Samantha and Robbie Eppling kept no secrets from each other.
The PI told Spencer they were the ones who hatched the plan to introduce
Vicki to a guy named Jeremy Poshure.
“When my contact first showed me pictures of Vicki and Jeremy together, I
was devastated. I found out they slept together less than three hours after
Spencer’s grim attitude softened for a moment. “I planned to confront her,
but when she got home that day, she acted so happy. It had been a while
since I’d seen her truly happy. When she was happy, she made me very happy.”
Bridle contained himself when images of a blond goddess making her fat guy
“happy” popped into his head.
“So, I let it go for a while. I had my contact keep track of Jeremy and
Vicki. It turns out Jeremy and Robbie were attorneys at the same law firm.
Vicki and Samantha’s trips to DC became more frequent. My wife started going
to DC for the weekend by herself, though she always said she was with
Samantha. It wasn’t long before she was just driving to his house in Gates
Spencer’s eyes dropped and his arms slumped into his lap helplessly. For
the first time, he looked defeated. “She still came home happy, but no
longer shared her euphoria with me. I tried to rekindle the romance we
feigned for many years by suggesting a month-long getaway in Hawaii. Do you
know what she said?” Spencer asked no one in particular. “She just pointed
at me and said, ‘I’m not going any place where you’re allowed to walk around
with those titties hanging out, but I can’t.’
“When she returned from her fictitious DC trip that week, we had our last
conversation. She was wearing this banana-cream sleeveless maxi dress. You
know the kind? It hugs a woman’s body all the way to the knees before
“Sure,” was all Daniels could say as he watched Spencer’s demeanor morph
“Well, she was wearing that with a matching floppy fedora. God, did she
look amazing! As I looked at her—feeling her captivating radiance—the only
thing I could say was, ‘You are going to suffer for this.’ That was the last
time I ever spoke a word to my wife.”
Daniels stared into the face of pure evil. For the first time in his
career, he was scared to ask the next question. “So, what did you do
“I talked,” snickered the once-again jovial dumpling. He pushed the chair
back to make room for his belly, kicked his feet out, and sunk down a bit
before taking another sip of his beverage.
“I talked, and I talked, and I talked. Much like we’re doing now, you see,
but I wasn’t conversing with her. I wasn’t even talking at her or to her. Instead, I talked around her. Much like we’re doing with your protégé here,” pointing at
Bridle, who was still sulking in his chair against the far wall, separated
from the big boys’ table. “Mostly, she just listened. Sometimes she would
ask questions. Other times, she would beg and plead. But mostly, she sat
there in horror as I detailed what I was going to do to Jeremy Poshure…then
Robbie Eppling…then Samantha Eppling…and finally, to Vicki Tucker.”
Sergeant Daniels kept his mouth shut as he weighed his options. The obvious
choice was to stop the interview and call the medical staff over at County.
He had never seen this level of detail in a delusional suspect before. Then
again, what if the story was true? Was Tucker boasting of his sadistic
accomplishments? Or did he feel remorse for his crimes?
Daniels realized Tucker had stopped talking. He was sitting quietly,
waiting, with an ever-so-slight smirk on the left corner of his mouth.
Daniels knew the guy was just waiting for him to continue to play the game,
to indulge him. If the police wouldn’t play their part, neither would he.
Daniels cursed Donnelly for taking so long. “All right, Mr. Tucker,” he
said, giving in. “What exactly did you tell your wife?”
Officer Bridle leaned in closer, hungry for an answer, yet reluctant to
imagine the horror he was about to hear. Spencer could see suspense building
in the junior officer. I bet you’ve never heard a tale like this before, skippy. Bridle just stared into his eyes, unable to move, unwilling to talk.
Spencer loved it. I am going to give you nightmares for years…
With a wave of his hand, Spencer continued. “Jeremy Poshure moved in fast
on Vicki. It wasn’t his fault. He was young and horny. I mean, he just
wanted to get his dick wet. Then, they go and plop Vicki in front of him.
Hell, I probably would’ve done the same thing he did. I didn’t know Poshure
and he didn’t know me.” With a vengeful gaze, he stared right through
Daniels. “But then he got close with my wife. He pulled her in as she was
pushing me out. So, he had just entered his apartment when they got him. One
shot to the head. POW!” Tucker’s hand slammed onto the table, the burst
reverberating off the bare walls, sending the camera and its cardboard stand
skipping across the table. (The rest of the interview was filmed at an
unusual angle with the star slightly off-center, a mishap that Spencer
thought ruined an otherwise flawless confession.)
“No, there was no need for him to endure pain.” Daniels was sure there was
more to the story. Tucker was too meticulous with the details of the rest of
his fantasy. And there was.
“When Vicki first heard what I was going to do to these guys, I’m convinced
she never imagined any of it would become reality.” Spencer smiled the
biggest smile his face could form, sat upright, and arched his back, as if
he intended to dazzle the audience with his first presentation. “My, how
everything changed when she opened the box with Jeremy’s severed penis and a
note card that said, ‘So you will never be separated from your true love
Bridle and Daniels both squirmed uncomfortably, a sight Spencer cherished.
Then, giggling in anticipation of the next scene, he moved on.
“Now, I’m sure you can imagine Vicki’s reaction,” he said matter-of-factly,
“or maybe you can’t. I’ll admit, I had a hard time envisioning it myself,
which is why I got a photographer. The shots are quite lovely. I’ll have
them sent to you when we’re all done, okay?”
“Thank you, I guess.” Daniels kept playing his part.
“You’re quite welcome.” Spencer kept going. “Anyway, after the Jeremy
episode, I was sure Vicki would remember the pecking order I had described
to her: Jeremy, Robbie, Samantha, and then, finally, her. I hoped she would
run to her fellow conspirator, which she did, for the pictures I have of
those two girls together when the second box was discovered are priceless.”
He sustained an ear-to-ear smile, making it clear that he was especially
proud of the second murder.
Playing his role, Daniels asked, “You cut off Robbie’s penis as
“Oh, no, Sergeant. Robert Eppling was much more complicit in my betrayal.
He violated my trust as a friend. He helped put this whole affair in motion.
He was so much more than just a dick, so I took more. I carved out enough so
the ladies knew exactly what I thought of that asshole prick.”
Bridle silently prayed for the story to end. He knew there were still two
to go, but he just needed Tucker to stop talking.
“It’s almost a shame Vicki knew how the rest of this part of the story
went. She could not bring herself to watch the videotape of my trophy being
pulled while Robbie still took breath.”
“Officer Bridle, do you need to go outside and take a moment?”
“No, Sergeant. I’m fine.”
Daniels was hoping for a yes, unsure of how much more Bridle could
stomach—or he himself, for that matter.
Oh, I can’t have you give up just yet. Maybe I will extend you the
slightest bit of compassion. After all, you did get me my pop! “I see my narrative is taking a toll on you both.” No one responded. “Why
don’t I give you the rest in a condensed version?”
“You just go ahead and say what you feel you need to say, Mr.
“Thank you, Sergeant Daniels.” His momentary air of civility did not mask
Tucker’s thirst to relay the gruesome images with pride.
“Vicki ran, for fear of her life. Let’s just say Ms. Samantha, the freshly
crowned widow, expended way too much energy mourning the loss of her
fortune. She watched helplessly as everything in her home was dismantled and
destroyed. I took her passion. I took her possessions. With her hands bound
together, holding a pistol to her face, I gave her the option: take her own
life or watch me peel it from her bones. She chose the former.”
Sergeant Daniels was ready to put an end to Tucker’s games. Before he
moved, there was a quick rap on the door. Officer Donnelly stuck his head
into the room. “Hey, Sarge? Can I run some stuff by you?”
“One moment, Mr. Tucker.” Daniels got up and rushed toward the
“Take your time, Sergeant Daniels. Me and Officer Bridle here will get
Daniels looked over to the rookie. “Don’t you say a fucking word.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Bridle was glad Daniels had said that out loud. All he had
to do was sit and stare at the wall while Tucker stared back at him,
Out in the hall, Donnelly beamed with pride. “It’s all bullshit, Sarge.
Whatever he’s telling you is all bullshit. His wife is alive. She’s sitting
right out in the waiting room. Apparently just came back from a trip to DC
with a friend.” Donnelly flipped through his notes.
“Yeah, that’s it, Sarge. Samantha Eppling. But Mrs. Tucker says she doesn’t
understand any of it, says she and her husband haven’t even had an
After instructing Donnelly to go stay with Tucker’s wife, Daniels stood
still. For the briefest of moments, he considered the two debating cartoon
images on his shoulders. The angel, who told him to follow procedure, stop
the interview, and call in the County doctors. Obviously, Tucker was crazy.
The devil was agitated by the wasted afternoon and having to sit there
listening to the deranged stories, stories that would probably give Bridle
nightmares for a month. He decided it was his turn to play games.
He returned to Interview Room A, casually took his seat, and looked over to
Officer Bridle. “Where were we?”
“Um, we had just finished hearing about the incident with Samantha Eppling,
“That’s right. Samantha Eppling.” He turned to Spencer. “Mr. Tucker, I
believe you were going to talk about your wife now? Vicki Tucker?” Spencer
detected Daniels’ sudden air of superiority. He fought off the urge to make
the sergeant his nemesis, as there was still one last story to tell.
“It’s obvious you’ve grown bored with me, Sergeant. To be honest, I am also
fatigued. But I will tell you, Vicki got exactly what she wanted. Once she
came out of hiding—you know she couldn’t hide forever—I had her taken to a
special location. There, she spent the rest of her life in a room not much
bigger than this.” He scanned over all six sides of Interview Room A,
nodding in agreement. “Yep. Not much bigger than this room at all. She was
surrounded by everything she wanted. Lots of money. Lots of jewelry. And her
friends Jeremy, Robbie, and Samantha. Well, at least what remained of
“So, she just stayed there?” Sergeant Daniels tried to imagine how a person
could create such a fantasy.
“Of course not. What kind of loving husband would I be if I didn’t leave a
gift of my own?”
“Not much of one,” Daniels mocked.
“No,” he agreed, “not much at all. On the walls, I arranged photographs of
her three friends in all their glory. Two televisions, mounted high out of
her reach, blared videos: the final moments of Robbie and Samantha Eppling.
It’s amazing how long a body can last before surrendering to famine, thirst,
and insanity. Yes, indeed, Vicki Tucker died with everything she
“And what about victim five? You mentioned there were five victims.”
“Yes, that’s right. Of no significance,” Spencer said, waving his hand as
if sweeping the air clean. “I don’t even know the poor fool’s whole
The sergeant beamed as he stood up. “My turn.” Picking up his phone, he
called the contact already pulled. “Yeah, bring the witness in now.” Daniels
turned to Spencer Tucker with a smile, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Tucker, your story is indeed a fantastic tale. I’d like to bring in
someone who, I think you’ll agree, has a slightly better version.” He walked
over and opened the door. Officer Bridle nearly fell out of his chair when
he saw Vicki Tucker standing in the doorway very much alive. She was as
beautiful as Spencer had described.
Spencer Tucker looked over at his wife and hissed, “You are going to suffer
for this.” Vicki jerked back in surprise, dropping her banana-cream
Spencer Tucker had been in County Psychiatric for ten days when Vicki found
a package on her doorstep.
No one has seen Tanya for a week.
If you enjoyed the story, please consider a donation to NEVER STOP NEVER
100% of your donation will directly support our fight. We pay the cost of
managing our foundation.
All donations are tax deductible to the extent allowed by law. You will
receive a receipt.