The screech of tires, the dull thud, and then the sickening silence that followed were etched into Arthur’s memory like a brand. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that he had just hit someone. His phone, which had momentarily distracted him, lay shattered on the passenger seat. Panic, cold and absolute, seized him.
He looked around. The street was deserted. It was late, past midnight, in a forgotten industrial stretch of the city. No witnesses. He could barely breathe. He knew he should call for help, but the image of his thriving legal practice, his perfect family, his impeccable reputation, flashed before his eyes. All of it, gone, in a single, careless moment.
He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The victim, a figure huddled on the asphalt, wasn’t moving. Terror twisted his gut. “No. This can’t be happening”. He couldn’t go to prison. He wouldn’t.
A plan, born of desperation and the cunning honed by years in the courtroom, began to form.
The first step was to ensure the victim, whoever they were, couldn’t contradict him. He pulled a heavy wrench from his trunk, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. He approached the still figure, his heart hammering. It was a homeless man, likely drunk, sleeping in the road. Arthur’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes, took a ragged breath, and with a terrible surge of adrenaline, he delivered a second, deliberate blow. The man’s body slumped further. Arthur checked for a pulse. Nothing.
“God forgive me”. He had crossed a line, one he never imagined himself capable of. But now, there was no turning back.
He drove away, his mind racing. He parked his car in a remote garage he owned, then walked home, rehearsing his alibi. His wife was out of town. He had a key to his neighbor’s house for emergencies – a perfect opportunity. He would claim he had been there, checking on their pipes, as they were prone to freezing. He even had an old, broken pipe in his garage he could “find” and swap out.
But the real challenge lay in the forensics. His car, a custom-painted dark grey luxury sedan, was distinctive. He knew the police would be looking for paint transfer, tire marks, and any debris.
Arthur spent the next 48 hours meticulously fabricating his evidence.
First, the car. He drove it to a shady body shop an hour out of the city, claiming he’d hit a deer. He paid cash, no questions asked, to have the front bumper replaced and the custom paint job perfectly matched. He even had a fake deer hair sample, bought online, to plant if needed.
Next, the alibi. He set up a series of texts with his neighbor, subtly implying he would check their house that specific night. He then accessed their home security system – he had helped them install it and knew the backdoor codes. He downloaded a snippet of footage from a previous evening, one where he was clearly visible, walking around the house. He expertly doctored the timestamp, using sophisticated software he’d once used to prepare digital evidence for a complex fraud case. He ensured the metadata aligned. He even left a small, insignificant note on their kitchen counter about the “pipe issue,” dated for the night of the incident.
The police investigation began slowly. The victim, Elias Vance, a known transient, had no family, no digital footprint. It was a cold case, but a diligent young detective, Miller, was assigned to it.
Weeks turned into months. Arthur lived a dual life – the respected lawyer by day, the terrified murderer by night, haunted by the image of Elias Vance. His fabricated evidence sat, pristine and perfect, ready to be deployed.
Then came the summons. A DNA sample from a stray hair, found near the scene, had led them to Arthur’s car model. A rare type of paint chip had been found on Elias Vance’s tattered jacket – a match for Arthur’s custom grey.
The tribunal was a preliminary hearing, to determine if there was enough evidence to proceed to trial. Arthur, maintaining his composure, represented himself.
He presented his “evidence”:
1. The Alibi: The text messages with his neighbor, the note on the counter, and the expertly doctored security footage from his neighbor’s house, showing him inside at the exact time of the incident. He explained that his wife was away, and he was doing them a favour.
2. The Car Repairs: He produced the genuine receipt from the body shop for the “deer” damage, complete with the deer hair sample. He even had a small, framed photo of his car with a slight dent from a “previous” minor fender bender, hinting at its general susceptibility to “accidents.”
3. The Pipe: The old, corroded pipe, which he claimed to have replaced at his neighbour’s, complete with purchase receipts from a plumbing supply store for the “new” one (bought days after the incident).
Detective Miller, while suspicious, couldn’t break the alibi. The security footage, in particular, was convincing. The timestamps, the metadata – it all checked out. The prosecution, facing a meticulously constructed alibi and seemingly legitimate car repairs, hesitated.
Arthur, sitting in the polished courtroom, felt a surge of triumph. He had done it. He had outsmarted them all. The judge, after reviewing the evidence, stated that while there was circumstantial evidence, the strength of the defendant’s alibi and the lack of conclusive forensic links (thanks to the quick repairs) made it difficult to proceed. The case was put on hold, effectively shelved due to insufficient evidence.
Arthur walked out of the courthouse, a free man. The relief was intoxicating, then quickly replaced by a profound emptiness. He had won, but at what cost? He had murdered a man, then manipulated the very system he swore to uphold.
Days bled into weeks, and the initial euphoria faded, replaced by an insidious, gnawing guilt. Every shadow seemed to hold Elias Vance’s crumpled form. Every siren sent a jolt of panic through him. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat properly. He started drinking heavily. His perfect life began to crumble from the inside out, not because of the law, but because of his own tormented conscience.
One night, drunk and broken, he found himself staring at the old, broken pipe he had used as a prop. He remembered the feel of the wrench in his hand, the terrible silence. He picked up his phone, his fingers hovering over the police emergency number. The weight of his deception, of Elias Vance’s life, became unbearable.
He called Detective Miller, whose card he had kept. “Detective,” he slurred, “It was me. I hit him. And I… I fabricated the evidence. All of it.”
The tribunal would reconvene, but this time, the evidence would be Arthur’s own confession, born not of external discovery, but of an internal collapse. He had succeeded in misleading the court, but he could not mislead himself. The fabrication had saved him from prison, but it had trapped him in a deeper, more agonizing hell.