Chapter 1
More than three years had passed since the day Peter, Alegra, Joe and Frederik had presented the Enlightenment ONE to the world in Boston. A time machine that made it possible to solve crimes by sending a flying camera—technically designed to be invisible—into the past. The crime would be recorded and the perpetrator identified. As a result, the crime rate in the country steadily declined. With the Enlightenment TWO, it even became possible to prevent impulsive crimes, and the crime rate for murder and other serious offenses dropped to just 1%. That 1% remained because the perpetrator could not be located before the act was committed.
As he did every morning, Peter had taken a walk with Lana, his dog, along the beach at Nauset Bay and witnessed another beautiful sunrise. Lana, a mix between a Golden Retriever and a Cocker Spaniel, was mostly brown, with white patches on her head and paws. Ashly, Peter’s wife, had originally been against getting a dog, but since Peter promised to take full responsibility for walking it, she eventually agreed. Over time, she too had grown fond of Lana and often joined Peter on his walks. Just not today—she had slept poorly and wanted to stay in bed a little longer. Much to Peter’s annoyance, Lana had found a dead fish carcass on the beach and rolled around in it with great delight. That meant that once they got home, the first stop would be the shower—not just for Lana, but for Peter as well, since he’d end up soaked too.
Peter and Lana had just stepped onto the terrace of his house, and he was about to slide open the glass door to the living room when he suddenly saw the reflection of a man and a woman behind him in the glass. As he turned around, he also noticed two uniformed police officers with badges from the Orleans Police Department standing slightly off to the side.
The man in the suit and tie asked, “Are you Dr. Peter Wheller?”
“Who wants to know?” Peter replied, although he was fully aware that the man questioning him was a detective.
“Detective Samuel Thompson, Special Unit for Crimes of Passion,” he answered, then repeated, “Are you Dr. Peter Wheller?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
By now, Ashly had come to the patio door holding a cup of coffee and asked, “What’s going on here, Peter?”
“I don’t know, but I’m about to find out,” he replied.
“Dr. Peter Wheller, you are under arrest for the murder of your wife in one month,” Thompson said, which caused Peter and Ashly to let out a brief laugh at first.
But when Thompson signaled the two uniformed officers to arrest Peter and put him in handcuffs, neither of them felt like laughing anymore.
“Call Sullivan and let him know I need him!” Peter said to his wife as he had to turn around so that one of the officers could place the handcuffs on him, reciting the well-known words: “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights?”
“Yes, I understand,” Peter replied, then turned to Ashly again and said, “Yes, please call Sullivan and tell him to come.”
“I will, honey,” Ashly replied, then turned to Thompson and asked, “Where are you taking my husband?”
“For now, to the Police Department here in Orleans, Mrs. Wheller. But you really shouldn’t be helping your husband—after all, in a month, he would kill you in a crime of passion,” came the somewhat warning response.
Ashly just shook her head and went inside to get her smartphone and call Dr. Sullivan Roberts, their lawyer and a good friend. They had met Sullivan three years ago when they needed a lawyer to help them start their company. Peter’s previous lawyer had retired, so they needed a new one. And in the three years Sullivan had been working for them, a friendship had developed. They met at least once a month with him and his wife Elizabeth for dinner at one of the finer restaurants in Boston.
As Ashly searched for Sullivan’s number on her phone and tapped it, she thought about their last dinner together two weeks ago. Sullivan had jokingly said that Peter’s invention had taken away a large part of his work.
Well, he’d definitely have work now, she thought, just as Sullivan answered the phone.
Chapter 2
Peter had been sitting alone in the interrogation room for an hour and was just about to call out for someone when the door opened and Sullivan walked in. He placed his briefcase on the table in front of Peter and said, “I’m sorry you had to wait so long, but traffic from Boston out here to Orleans was hell.”
“It’s okay, I figured it was the detective’s intention to let me wait here,” Peter replied.
“The police sometimes does that, of course—to watch the suspect through the one-way mirror and the cameras in the room and observe how they react. But this time it was my fault. Anyway, we’ve got five minutes to ourselves. During that time, the cameras are turned off and they’re not allowed to make any audio recordings. So tell me the truth so I can help you,” said Sullivan.
“The only thing I know is that they arrested me for the murder of my wife—in a month from now,” Peter answered.
“What? You? When you and your wife are like two peas in a pod?” Sullivan responded with a smile.
“Yes, Ashly and I laughed at it first too, but then they put the handcuffs on me and brought me here,” Peter explained.
“Okay, so before I call the detectives in, is there anything else you need to tell me?” Sullivan asked Peter seriously.
“No, nothing that I know of, or what evidence they supposedly have,” Peter replied.
“Good. Best if you just tell the truth when they ask questions, and I’ll deal with disproving their evidence in court,” Sullivan advised.
“What kind of evidence? They can’t possibly have any,” Peter responded.
“If they’re arresting you, they must have something. But anyway, I’ll go get them now,” said Sullivan.
Chapter 3
Now Peter and Sullivan were sitting on one side of the interrogation table and on the other side were the two detectives. There was also an audio recording device on the table.
Thompson pressed the record button and began: “I advise you that this interrogation is being recorded via video,” he said while pointing to the camera mounted in the top right corner of the room behind him, “and audio. Do you understand that, Dr. Peter Wheller?”
Peter looked questioningly at Sullivan, who nodded, and then said: “Yes, I understand.”
“For the record, this is the beginning of the interrogation of Dr. Peter Wheller. It is January 28th, 2027. The time is 2:23 PM. Present are Dr. Peter Wheller and his attorney…” as Thompson looked inquiringly at Sullivan, he took a business card out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and slid it over to Thompson. Thompson picked it up and began to read: “Dr. Sullivan Roberts. The interrogation is conducted by Detective Samuel Thompson and Detective Susan Turner.”
As Thompson paused, Sullivan asked: “What exactly are you accusing my client of, and what evidence do you have?”
“If you’re asking,”… Thompson pulled two A4-sized printed pictures from a folder in front of him and placed them so Peter and Sullivan could see them. “What do you say, Dr. Wheller, who is the woman in these two photos?”
The photos showed Peter with a blonde woman. One was in front of a fancy restaurant named “Beaulieu” and the other was in front of a hotel room or apartment door with the number 119. In both photos, they were seen talking, but because the pictures were taken from a side angle from a certain distance, you couldn’t recognize the mood on their faces. Especially not the woman’s, as she was turned slightly away in both.
“No idea,” was Peter’s answer.
“What date are the pictures supposed to be from?” Sullivan asked right afterward.
“These are pictures from two weeks ago, according to the attached report. More precisely…,” Thompson pulled out a sheet of paper from the folder, searched for the entry, and then read aloud: “From January 12th. The picture in front of the restaurant at 1:32 PM and the one in front of the hotel or apartment door at 2:13 PM. Were you in Boston that day?”
“January 12th? Let me think,” said Peter, furrowing his brow.
“January 12th was a Tuesday, maybe that helps you,” Thompson added.
Peter cleared his throat and then admitted: “Yes, on the 12th I was in Boston. I just remembered I had my monthly reading at the university. That was from 10:20 AM to 11:10 AM. Then I went to the train station, but unfortunately missed the 11:50 AM train, so I had to wait for the next one at 2:40 PM.”
“What did you do in the meantime? Did you meet with the woman in the photo?” Thompson asked sternly.
“No, like I said, I don’t know this woman. I spent the whole time in a café near the station, had a bite to eat, and read a book,” Peter replied.
“Then there must be people there who can confirm that?” Thompson pressed again.
Peter made a gesture of innocence with his hands and slightly shook his head before countering: “Yes, certainly. The waitress and the cook, as well as other guests who came and went. But it was my first time in that café. So I wonder whether those people would even remember my face.”
“We’ll check that, but basically, you don’t really have an alibi for the time… let’s say from 11:30 AM to 2:40 PM?” Thompson stated.
Now Sullivan intervened in a lawyerly tone: “You can’t say that. Dr. Wheller just gave you an alibi. Besides, what does it even mean that he talked to this woman?”
“The motive for the murder of his wife. It suggests the possibility of an affair,” countered Thompson.
“Two photos where they are clearly just talking are supposed to prove an affair? Are there any pictures showing Dr. Wheller in an unmistakable pose with this woman, for example in bed?” Sullivan replied.
“No, there are not. But why do these conversations happen in front of a fancy restaurant and a hotel room or apartment door? And then there’s this very weak and unconvincing alibi,” Thompson countered.
“What do you mean by unconvincing alibi? It’s your job to verify it first,” Sullivan said in an accusatory tone.
But Thompson was undeterred and continued: “Well, we’ll see. Let’s move to the next piece of evidence.” With that, he pulled another document from the folder in front of him and placed it so Peter and Sullivan could see it.
“What’s this supposed to be?” Sullivan asked.
“A purchase contract for a motor yacht signed by Dr. Wheller,” Thompson replied.
Sullivan looked at Peter, who at first had a confused expression and then suddenly smiled amusedly before saying: “What would I do with a motor yacht when I get seasick the moment I step on a boat?”
“Is this your signature or not?” Thompson asked.
Peter looked closer and responded: “Hmm, yes, it does look like my signature, but I didn’t buy a boat. When is this supposed to have happened?”
“Three and a half months ago, when you were in Miami. Were you in Miami from October 19th to 22nd last year or not?” Thompson answered and asked.
“Yes, I was in Miami with my wife in October, and I believe it was from the 19th to the 22nd, but I didn’t buy a boat. I was invited by the mayor of Miami for a long weekend because he wanted to personally thank me that, due to my invention, the serious crime rate in his city had dropped to nearly 0%,” Peter answered.
“And there was a party at the ‘Miami City Hall’ right by one of Miami’s largest yacht harbors, wasn’t there?” Thompson asked triumphantly. He then pulled out another photo, this time showing Peter together with Ashley and the mayor at this party.
“Yes, there was that party, but what are you getting at?” Peter replied and asked.
“That party was on October 20th and the yacht purchase contract is also dated October 20th. Don’t you have anything else to say about that?” Thompson said, pointing to the date on the contract.
“I think it was the 20th, but like I said, I didn’t buy a yacht that day or evening,” Peter replied, paused to think, then continued: “Hmm, that evening some guests and also a few staff members approached me and asked for an autograph. The mayor had thrown the party in my honor. So people knew who I was. Maybe someone took advantage of that and faked my signature. I can’t explain how else it ended up on this contract.”
“Yeah, sure, someone hands you a purchase contract and you sign it without knowing what it is?” Thompson retorted sarcastically.
“No, of course not. I don’t know how they did it. I’m just saying I signed many autographs that evening and someone could’ve exploited that,” Peter defended himself. Sullivan then jumped in again, sharply saying to Thompson: “Detective Thompson, I don’t like your tone. And I ask you, why is it so important whether my client owns this yacht?”
“On this motor yacht, Dr. Wheller murders his wife on March 12th!” Thompson replied, pulling out three more photos and laying them out one by one in front of them.
“What are we looking at?” Sullivan asked.
“The first photo shows the lower part of a fire extinguisher, and as you can see, there’s blood and hair stuck on the edge. Blood and hair, and as the forensic report shows, also skin particles from your wife, Dr. Wheller! And only your fingerprints are on this extinguisher,” Thompson replied.
Peter now looked worried. He knew he would never do something like that to his wife, but someone apparently would.
Thompson, who saw Peter’s expression as a sign of success—thinking he’d cracked him—enthusiastically continued: “The second picture shows your wife’s blood on the floor of the yacht, and the third shows three smeared bloody partial prints of her fingers on the starboard side, which are a bit smudged because she fell or jumped into the water.”
Peter now had to hold back tears, even though, luckily, it hadn’t happened yet. One thing he noticed, though, was that the blood pool wasn’t that big. And another thing struck him: Thompson and his partner hadn’t brought a laptop or iPad into the interrogation room, so now it was his turn to ask questions: “Is there no video footage of the crime?”
“No, it wasn’t sent by our colleagues from the future,” Turner answered this time, who had remained silent until now.
Peter had the feeling that even Turner found that strange, and he asked with some tension and hope: “Are there any photos of my wife’s corpse?”
“According to the attached report, her body hasn’t been found yet—which doesn’t mean it won’t be. Our colleagues probably already sent us the case file to prevent it from getting that far and to save your wife from you,” Thompson replied sarcastically.
“Detective, I’ve already told you once that I don’t like your tone,” Sullivan chimed in again, then continued: “If there’s no video recording of the alleged murder, then why did you even arrest my client?”
“The law doesn’t necessarily say there has to be a video. It only mentions sufficient evidence,” Thompson countered.
Then Peter joined in again and asked: “Have you had cases before where there wasn’t a video?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. According to the prosecutor, the evidence we have is enough to hold you in custody,” Thompson replied.
Peter looked at Sullivan, who, after a short glance at Thompson and Turner, said: “Can you leave me alone with my client now? And please turn off the video and audio recording.”
Thompson switched off the audio recording and left the room with Turner without saying another word.
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