The Crime of My Life

A short story by Gregg Olsen

Book ideas are born in any number of ways. Some come to authors in a burst of happenstance and brilliance. Some come in the throes of a good dream. A few, I’m told, come from God. I have never been so lucky. My books have always been born of the truth. I am a writer of True Crime, a much-maligned genre, but one in which I felt I could stake a claim for a career. Or something that resembled a career. It seemed that there were a million stories out there that – given some shaping and research – that could make for interesting reading.

The ideas come from television, prisoners who write me, fans who show up a book signings (though I can’t say I have enough of those to provide much of a stockpile) and, of course, newspapers.

The Crime of My Life is different. This is a story hatched of my own experiences; my own life.

About a year ago my wife, Valerie, retrieved a carton under our bed amid rolls of Christmas wrapping paper and white and brown tufts of dog hair. She set the box with its ill-fitting, strapped down lid next to the computer where I did most of my writing. She smiled reluctantly and said only three words.

“Honey, it’s time.”

I understood what she meant. I knew it even if she had said nothing. I had tried to avoid the idea of telling the story contained in the beat up box. I had resisted it for all the right reasons, though deep down I knew it was beyond my ability to do so. Beyond my need. Beyond the necessity of supporting my family.