About Henry Fellows (Continued)
Henry’s not so bad. Okay, he’s pretty bad.
On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows
Chapter 2: Motive (Continued)
…All that was true. If you were the heir to a true mogul, the owner of one of the biggest companies in the world, you’d have a chip on your shoulder, too. Oh yeah, they were my parents, so I’d been to their mansion a time or two, touched whatever, the way you do when you don’t anticipate being accused of a gruesome double homicide. And the belligerence? Guilty! My father was a brilliant but aging man and had no want of his ungrateful son’s advice when it concerned the future of the company. By then I was basically running things anyway, taking Fellows Security to heights and depths he never could’ve dreamed. So we’d argue. Emails, eyewitness accounts a-many all confirmed what everyone suspected. No other suspects. Just Henry Fellows. They filmed the trial. The trial of the century, they called it, but they call every trial that until a better one comes along. Think there’s been five trials of the century since mine.
It wasn’t just my high profile or my parents’ fame that made the case so captivating to the masses. That might have been brushed aside after a few days, what with all the wars and the poverty and the famine in the world. What struck a chord was the nature of the crime. Did I say hacked? Think I did. That’s putting it lightly. You probably know most of the details, but I know every single one. The whole thing’s seared into my memory. Massive brain trauma couldn’t wipe that slate clean. Body parts all over the house. It turned into a macabre Easter egg hunt for police. For days they were pulling a kidney from this nook, teeth from this cranny. Disgusting. I was guilty for jealousy, guilty for having visited, guilty for being recalcitrant with my father, but not the rest. My service record should’ve helped. Didn’t matter. They had their man. Henry Fellows. They didn’t care about me heeding the words of Chris at the nuthouse. Only that I was at the nuthouse. My wife? Oh yeah, my precious prep-school sweetheart. We’d been having problems. Convenient. She’d been sleeping around due to my “distance,” not to mention building a trumped-up case for a divorce I had no knowledge was coming until the day of my arrest.
So much for a character witness.
Poor Henry Fellows. For a while, life was cloud nine: money, pictures in magazines, press conferences, all the accoutrements of excess and esteem. Then nothing. You don’t believe me, probably never will. That’s why I’m turning around, pulling out of this police station. I mean, have you asked the question yet? Who the hell is informing on a guy that can’t be found? Let’s see, best guess, the people who killed my folks and left me to rot in a dungeon. Here’s another one. “They” only pull this crap when I’m about to surrender myself. Yeah, doesn’t make sense to me either. It’s an itch in my brain that needs scratching. I’ll probably die first, they’re probably watching me at this moment, but I need to find out who really did it. Throwing myself to the wolves would be nice. Finally relax. But I can’t do it, not without… what do they call it—closure?
Eh. What a bunch of crap.