Rewriting My Dad's Murder

My dad was a highly decorated narcotics detective. Fifteen years ago, they framed him for corruption and claimed he swallowed his own gun. It ruined our family.

But tonight, everything changed. I was digging through his old evidence box when a heavy, battery-less police radio suddenly crackled to life.

"Pumpkin, I'm bringing a turkey home."

"Dad! Don't go to the motel today!"

Right before my eyes, the ink on his autopsy report physically shifted. "Suicide" twisted into "homicide."

————

I hate Thanksgiving.

Fifteen years ago today, right before dinner, Dad took a phone call. He grabbed his coat, walked out the front door, and never came back.

Within a week, the precinct suspended him. The local news branded him a dirty, bribe-taking cop. Then they found his body.

Mom couldn't handle the shame and grief. She wasted away in a hospital bed completely broken.

Mark was the one who took me in. He used to be Dad’s favorite rookie, the golden boy of the department. Now, he's the Chief of Police. He's also my husband.

This afternoon, I knelt at the cemetery. I laid two white roses against the cold headstone.

Mark stood behind me in the grass, not saying a single word.

He never talks about the old case. He always says he keeps quiet so I don't get upset.

We got back home late tonight. Once Mark went into the master bathroom to shower, I slipped into the study.

Reaching into the bottom cabinet, I dragged out an old cardboard box. The precinct had returned his stuff years ago.

I opened the lid. That familiar smell of old paper and dust hit me right in the chest.

A faded Polaroid of Dad and me by the treehouse sat right on top.

Underneath it was his rusted police badge. Right next to that was his bulky radio, the one he stopped using long before he died.

His coroner's report was jammed at the very bottom.

I traced my fingers over the Polaroid. Looking at his face, my throat suddenly locked up. A hot tear slipped down my cheek and hit the glossy photo.

God, I missed him. I just missed his loud laugh before everything went to hell.

I grabbed the police radio, wiping my face with my sleeve. The back panel was totally loose.

I flipped it over. The battery slot was rusted shut.

I was about to put it back when suddenly, a tiny red light flickered on the top dial

"Channel test. Hey pumpkin, Dad's bringing a turkey back for Thanksgiving. Over."

My legs gave out. I hit the floor, staring at that empty plastic slot.

My thumb jammed the side button down hard.

"Dad? Is that you?"

Dead silence.

"Who the hell is this? How are you on this frequency?"

"Dad, it's me. It's Charlotte." I gripped the radio with both hands, pressing it close to my mouth.

"How could you be my daughter."

"I know you won't believe me. But I'm talking to you from fifteen years in the future."

"Identify yourself right now."

"You hid the Wonder Woman comics beneath the loose floorboard in the treehouse! You told Mom you threw them away so I'd do my homework."

Five agonizing seconds of dead air followed.

"Charlotte?" His voice shook. "How is this even possible?"

"You have to listen to me! Please, you cannot go to the motel today."

"How do you know about the motel?" His breathing quickened. "I'm looking into the offshore black money."

"I'm in disguise, so it's fine."

"It's a setup. Turn the car around right now. Don't go!"

A heavy exhale came through the speaker.

"Okay. Okay, pumpkin."

A sharp tap suddenly echoed through the connection.

"Hold on. Someone's knocking on my window..."

A harsh, ear-piercing squeal erupted from the speaker. The red light completely died.

"Dad? Dad!"

Nothing. Just a useless piece of plastic in my hands.

I looked down at the desk and rubbed my eyes. The report now read "gunshot homicide."

That couldn't be right. I knew for sure it had said Dad committed suicide before.

I shoved the paper aside and grabbed my phone. My hands shook as I typed his name into the browser.

The news archive popped up instantly.

"Veteran Detective Gunned Down in 5th Street back alley Two Days After Thanksgiving. Schizophrenic homeless suspect in custody."

I pinched my bare arm hard. Sharp pain flared up immediately.

I wasn't dreaming. He didn't put a gun to his own head. Someone murdered him.

The date changed. The history actually changed.

I grabbed the radio again and held down the button. "Dad, come in! Turn around!"

A robotic, automated voice buzzed back.

"Signal out of range."

I dropped the radio back into the box. I needed answers.

I walked back into the master bedroom. Mark had just stepped out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a white towel.

"Mark," I said, staring right into his eyes. "I saw an old article about Dad. How exactly did he die?"

Mark froze. The towel dropped slightly to his shoulders.

"Charlotte, the final report said a crazy drifter shot him."

He walked over, gently took the phone from my hand, and tossed it face-down on the nightstand.

"Stop digging up the past. Just let it rest."

I lay in the dark under the duvet.

I stared at the ceiling in the quiet room. My chest felt tight.

The timeline completely rewrote itself.

Could it be because of that call?

My heart pounded heavily. I couldn't close my eyes for the rest of the night.