Tag: murder

Fiction: Relic

Posted on by bryon

“Behold, the symbol of our faith and the focus of our works.”

The priest opened the small, sturdy wooden box. The interior was lined with bubble wrap, and the relic lay on a thick velvet cloth. The relic gleamed as the priest held it up in the fading light of the sunset. The members of the small congregation stared at the relic, their eyes filled with longing.

“Be of strong faith and good cheer,” the priest intoned, “in the certain hope that our efforts will bring about the Second Coming of the Power that will light our way once more.”

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Fiction: Playing for Keeps

Posted on by bryon

“Two million dollars,” Fisher said, handing over the backpacks.

“Briefcases are traditional,” Panchera said, frowning.

“I had backpacks.”

Fisher waited with forced patience as Panchera unzipped the overstuffed purple backpack and checked the stacks of currency. One of his men opened the orange backpack and did the same.

“While you’re counting to two million,” Fisher said, “maybe you could bring my sister out.”

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Fiction: Politeness

Posted on by bryon

On such a warm, beautiful spring day, Cal didn’t care to be cooped up in his office one minute more than necessary. A vendor provided a couple of hot dogs and a cold drink, and Cal found an empty park bench and made himself at home. He used his left hand for his meal and held his smartphone in his right hand, checking his messages.

As Cal was halfway through his second hot dog, he suddenly found a gun in his face. The young man wielding the gun snatched Cal’s phone and ran off with it, shouting, “Thanks, man!”

With his newly free hand, Cal reached into his jacket. He yanked out his revolver and fired two shots. The thief spilled to the ground, still clutching the phone.

“You’re welcome,” Cal yelled.

Dad was right, he thought. “An armed society is a polite society.”

Fiction: Hippocratic Oaf

Posted on by bryon

Shawn began a lap around the hotel’s pool. He wore shorts, sandals, a tank top, and a white lab coat with the name Dr. Kemann stitched underneath the hotel’s name and logo.

This was one of his favorite parts of his most excellent life in Ecuador. He had spotted a nubile young blonde on the other side of the pool. She was sunning herself and was a scant few centimeters of fabric shy of getting an all-over tan. Kemann would go over to her, introduce himself, caution her to take care in the sun, offer to apply more medically thorough sunscreen, and — if history repeated itself — end up in her bed that evening.

The beautiful young woman, and more than a hundred others before her, was why he had become a hotel doctor in the tropics.

As he approached her, the pager in his lab coat pocket chirped at him. He frowned; this was no time for some guest to have indigestion. Still, such interruptions ensured his continued employment.

The little screen said merely “Urgente.”

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Fiction: Almanacs

Posted on by bryon

Roy saw the new Chaffinch’s Almanacs sitting near the cash register. He paid for the odds and ends he was getting at the hardware store and plucked two of the free almanacs from the displays.

Chaffinch’s was the only almanac sexist enough to publish his and hers editions, in blue and pink covers. The women’s edition contained all sorts of stuff about that time of the month and children and homemaking that the men in Chaffinch’s target audience were certain they didn’t need to know.

Roy picked up a pink almanac for Enid so that if she saw him with his blue-covered almanac she couldn’t complain about his not getting her an almanac. Married life was full of little preemptory strikes like that, he mused.

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Fiction: We All Scream

Posted on by bryon

The digital clock slipped from 5:16 to 5:17, and I sighed. I sighed every day at that time, because in one minute – the clocks in the neighborhood were all synchronized – Mrs. Caperson would begin four minutes of scream therapy.

Four.

Minutes.

She had good lungs and a Teflon-coated throat. I couldn’t have done it, that’s for sure.

She had gone around to all the neighbors within earshot to say her therapist, Dr. Weingarten, recommended this practice for her nerves. We all wondered if the good doctor would recommend we scream back for our nerves, but I don’t know that anyone ever asked him. I didn’t anyway, that’s for sure.

Four minutes of synchronized screaming every day except holidays. Or maybe there was enough in-house noise on holidays we just couldn’t hear her. But that doesn’t seem very likely, considering Mrs. Caperson’s ability to attract attention.

And on account of her being a Caperson and all, none of the cops or the city fathers saw fit to tell her to put a sock in it. That’s where money gets you, especially if you’re thoughtful enough to live modestly in a middle-class neighborhood.

“One of these days,” I told Bud Forbish, the guy on the other side of us, “one of these days someone is going to kill that woman at precisely 5:17 p.m., and we won’t be any the wiser.”

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Fiction: This Diamond Ring

Posted on by bryon

Sandra tugged at her ring and eventually got it off of her finger. She threw it at Delbert, who lay wheezing softly on the living room floor. It missed his face but landed in plain sight.

“That little thing isn’t even worth trying to resell,” she growled.

He looked at the ring and remembered how gleeful he had been eighteen years before when he went to Kavalitz’ Jewelry and picked out the nicest wedding ring his budget could withstand. It would have to suffice; the matching engagement ring was far too expensive. Mr. Kavalitz assured Delbert he didn’t mind breaking up the set.

Delbert had taken Sandra out to dinner that night. After they both had declined the waitress’ offer of dessert, Delbert had reached into his suit pocket. “Perhaps I could interest you in this, though.” He opened the box and handed it to Sandra.

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Fiction: In Its Crib

Posted on by bryon

A man stood at the viewing window, pretending to be interested in all the newborns lying on display. He occasionally smiled at the nurse taking care of them.

He was interested in only one of the babies, though, and when the nurse was occupied with another child the man stared malevolently at the particular baby. He kept one hand in his jacket pocket, fondling the warm weapon there.

He suddenly felt the heat slipping out of his weapon, its titanium housing swiftly cooling. His shoulders sagged and he turned.

In the visitors’ waiting area sat another man, watching the first. The newcomer shook his head.

“Max, the Council said ‘no.’”

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Fiction: Canoe Trip

Posted on by bryon

“How did it go bad?” Kallack asked.

Pordman sighed.

“Dabbler and I were headed to the state lake. You know, deep water, real good fishing. Planned to go out just after nightfall. All of a sudden, there’s a roadblock dead ahead and more cops than I’ve ever seen — in front of us, to the sides and outta nowhere behind us. I tell Dabbler to stay cool, but Dabbler didn’t know what cool meant or we wouldn’t have been going to the lake in the first place.

“I stop the car. It’s either that or plow into a couple of big cop SUVs, you know. Dabbler jumps out of the car and starts running. I turned away because I knew what was going to happen, and sure enough, a few gun-filled seconds later he’s dead.

“I kept my hands on the steering wheel and waited. It didn’t take long, you know. But I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. The cops drag me out of the car and push me up against the side. That’s when I see what happened.”

“Yeah?” Kallack prompted.

“We had the canoe on top of the car, upside-down like you carry them, you know. And her body was stuffed under the seats and her arms and legs were strapped in place with bungee straps. Well the hooks were just some cheap plastic and one of them broke, you know, and — we couldn’t hear it over the radio — her hand was flopping in the breeze under the canoe. Some driver behind us must’ve called the cops.”

“Rough,” another lifer said.

“Yeah. Dumb ol’ Dabbler bought the stupid things. I’da never bought cheap crap like that. You just can’t get a job done without quality stuff, you know?”

Fiction: Keeping Cool

Posted on by bryon

“OK, Mr. Avers,” said Detective Curtis. “Let me make sure I’ve got your story straight. You got here a little after 1 p.m. and had been working on the central air unit in the basement for about half an hour when you heard the shots.”

“That’s right,” Avers agreed.

“You waited several minutes and when you didn’t hear anything else, you came upstairs and looked around.”

“Yeah. Maybe I should have come up sooner, but I was afraid.”

“Afraid isn’t a bad thing when you hear gunshots, Mr. Avers,” the detective told him. “Then you looked around and found the bodies in the living room and you called the police on your cell phone.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Curtis tipped his head a bit as he looked at the clipboard. “Then you went back downstairs and completed your work on the central air unit, after which you gave an officer your statement.”

Avers nodded in agreement.

“Mr. Avers … I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why did you continue to work on the unit when the people who hired you were dead in the living room? I mean, you’re not likely to get paid for it.”

Avers shrugged. “I never leave a job unfinished. I’ve got my pride, y’know? And besides … isn’t it about 101 in the shade out there?”

“Yeah, it’s a scorcher, all right.”

Avers motioned toward the living room. Curtis looked around the corner where the bodies were lying in blood. It was about 75 degrees in the house.

“Aren’t you glad I kept working?” Avers asked.

“That’s all I need for now, Mr. Avers. Thank you for your help,” Curtis said. He extended a hand to the repairman. “And yes, thank you very much. I guess we’re both making the best of a bad job.”

“Life’s all about keeping cool, Detective,” Avers said. “You can see in there what happens when you don’t.”