The Consultant (a short story)

3rd Place Winner in the Fictional Short Story Category of the 2017 Dallas Business Council for the Arts On My Own Time Literary Contest

By Michael Morgan

Copyright 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

“I don’t know what to think J,” Demarcus sagged back on the couch, whisky untouched in his tumbler.

A Pawn advanced across the board. “Pawn to G3,” intoned the feminine voice of Jeremiah’s AI opponent.

“What’s so hard about it?” Jeremiah asked without looking up from the game as the AI’s Queen slid across to threaten his Rook. “A shot up body is nothing unusual in the Islands.”

Demarcus raised his glass and sipped, “It’s not the body. It’s the way he died. This guy wasn’t connected. He didn’t bang. Nothing. Just a guy who went to work and went home. Why would three dudes show up at his house and cap him?”

“Why three? Jeremiah moved his Rook one square.

“I told you the coroner pulled three different kinds of bullets out of him. Who’s gonna bring three guns to shoot one person?” Demarcus put his glass down.

“How many time was he shot?” Jeremiah moved again.

Demarcus looked puzzled, “Eleven.”

“And how many different types of bullets?” Jeremiah’s Rook fell to a Bishop.

Frustration crept into Demarcus’ voice as he read from his notebook, “I told you, three kinds of bullets. Three nines, three thirty-twos, and the rest were thirty-eights. “

Jeremiah shut off the game and faced the detective, “Any of those bullets have marks on them?”

“Ballistics isn’t back yet,” Demarcus admitted.

Jeremiah shook his head, “They won’t find anything. Those slugs will be perfectly smooth.”

“How do you know?” Demarcus addressed his glass again.

“Let me take another couple of guesses before I tell you. First, you found little bits of paper scattered around the body.” Jeremiah nodded slowly, “And most of those bullets keyholed.”

“Only one hit straight on. The rest hit all kinds of ways. How did you know about the paper?” Jeremiah held up his hand stopping Demarcus.

“One more guess. All of the bullet paths will indicate a single shooter,” Jeremiah looked at Demarcus for confirmation. At Demarcus’s nod, he continued, “You’re looking for a pair of forty-four or forty-five caliber revolvers. The perp will have some paper in his place that will match the paper fragments found at the scene. Look for paper cut into strips about three quarters of an inch to an inch and an eighth wide.”

“What the hell does paper have to do with this?” Demarcus demanded.

“Don’t swear. It makes you sound less intelligent.” Jeremiah warned.

“Screw you,” Demarcus replied.

Jeremiah continued, “Your killer knows some things. He doesn’t care about leaving a body, and he wants to throw off the investigation he knows is coming. His weapons are probably registered to him, so he got a handful of black market ammunition in calibers different from his weapon’s real caliber, and wrapped strips of paper around the cartridges to make them big enough to fit into the chambers of his gun. Then he knocks on his victim’s door, and shoots him.”

“At that distance the bullets would be accurate enough to do the job,” Demarcus nodded in understanding.

“Since they are smaller than the barrel, the bullets have no rifling marks to ID the weapon. The paper fragments were caused by the explosion of the gunpowder.” Jeremiah finished.

“A professional hit,” Demarcus surmised.

Jeremiah shook his head, “Possible. Personally, I would look for someone with a grudge and a lot of old books. Crime novels from the 1940s.”

“Why old books?” Demarcus looked puzzled.

Jeremiah smiled at his friend, “An educated man knows things, but he often lacks the direct personal experience that prevents him from making simple mistakes a person with direct experience would never think to write down because he does not make those mistakes.”

Demarcus picked up his tumbler and sipped, “Ok Yoda, you want to put that in English? What kind of mistakes?”

“Revolvers leave bullets, but no shell casings. Bangers don’t care about shell casings, so it’s not gang related. A professional would have used a shotgun. A big revolver is hard to conceal, so your suspect would be carrying a package, or wearing a coat. It’s a hundred degrees out, so people will remember some big sweaty dude in a winter coat,” Jeremiah explained.

“You’re sure it’s a dude?” Demarcus looked dubious.

Jeremiah gave him a look, “Large caliber revolvers typically hold between five and eight rounds. If you man was shot eleven times, the perp had two guns, or he took the time to reload. Unless you forgot to tell me the victim was shot while he was on the floor, we have a shooter with a gun in each hand.”

A knock and the door opened. The portly man on the other side stepped into the room.  “Jeremiah, Demarcus,“ he nodded to each in turn. “Thank you so much for your assistance. Our writers really appreciate your brainstorming this through for us, and I’m sure our viewers will be blown away next season. Your checks are waiting at the receptionist.”

As they walked down the hall Demarcus put his arm around Jeremiah’s shoulders, “Man, I told you this was a sweet treat!”

Jeremiah nodded, “I’ll admit, it is not what I expected to be doing after twenty years on the street.”

Advertisements

The Kirbybrook Siege – 3

The Kirbybrook Siege is part of the “Yojimbo” series of short stories and novels.

 

— 3 —

            A car horn jerked Adam from sleep. The room was dark except where the glare of headlights leaked through the mini-blinds next to the front door. He rose stretching out the cramp in his neck, and hurried to the door. The keys jangled as he fumbled them into the lock. The horn blared again as the deadbolt turned over, and he jerked the door open.

“What happened to you?!” his wife demanded through the driver’s side window.

“Fell asleep,” Adam answered. When he got to the car, he could tell his wife was on the ragged edge of a meltdown, “Are you both OK?”

“No! We’re not OK!” Carrie screamed at him. “Some asshole sideswiped the car and kept going!”

Adam help up his hand. “Stop. Are either of your injured?” he asked quietly leaning into the window to receive a thumbs-up from his daughter in the passenger seat. Adam nodded in return. He turned back to his wife, “Hon, I know you had a rough time. My road home was no better, and I’m really afraid it is not going to get better soon.”

“Like ‘One Second After’ bad?” asked Melody.

Adam shrugged, “Don’t know kiddo. The cars are working, so I don’t think it’s a deliberate EMP. Maybe a Carrington event, but there’s no way to tell. Let me get the garage door, and we can go inside.” He raised the door and stood aside as Carrie pulled inside. Raising the hatchback, he had a sudden thought, “I need to go to the grocery store. They’ll be out of stuff as soon as the panic starts.”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Carrie was obviously on the ragged edge. “Here’s a clue Mr. Prepper. No power! Everything between Mel’s school and here is pitch black. Just car headlights. No power anywhere!”

Adam chewed the inside of his lip. “Alright, let’s get inside and get the house locked up. We’ll see how things are tomorrow.”

“What about school?” Mel asked. “I’ve got homework to do.”

Adam reached down, and pulled one of the dimly glowing LED lamps out of the ground next to the driveway. “Wipe this off, and pull out a few more. We can put them up in the house for tonight.”

“Oh joy,” Mel snarked, “I get to go blind playing Abraham Lincoln. Should I write my essay on a shovel?”

Adam gave her a sour look, “If the radio and TV stations aren’t back on in the morning, you won’t be going to school anyway. You can write your paper during the day.”

The Kirbybrook Siege

by Michael Morgan

All rights reserved

Authors Note: The Kirbybrook Siege is part of the “Yojimbo” series of short stories and novels. I will be posting future installments as time permits and based on reader feedback, so please leave some comments.

 

—  1 —

            “Still watching those guys making out in the park?” Bill’s sudden words jerked Adam out of his reverie. He turned away from the window, feeling guilty, but not sure why.

“Huh?! No, I… just lost in thought,” Adam finished lamely in the face of Bill’s grin.

“Not like I can blame you,” Bill said. His grin vanished, “They’re about to take the phone’s offline, so they are letting everyone go home.”

Adam glanced at his dark monitors, and shrugged, “Curse of the modern age. No power, no work.”

“Now the bad news,” Bill scratched his nose. “The generators are running out of fuel, so they’re shutting down everything. A/C, elevators, all of it. The last elevator rides are reserved for those on the ADA list. You get to walk down. Sorry, man.”

“Seventeen floors of stairs,” Adam thought. “At least it’s not a damned fire drill.” He stood up, and grabbed his hat. The cowboy hat had appeared after his hair finally committed suicide. Now it was like a part of him. “Come in tomorrow, or wait for someone to call after power is back on?”

Bill shrugged, “Wish I knew. Cell service is out. My phone is working, but I can’t get any service. Just be ready to get back to work when you get the word. Take care going home.”

“You too,” Adam watched Bill lurch down the hall. His arthritic knees bought him a ride down the elevator today, but watching him tough his way through the pain every day, did not make Adam envious. “Just have to hope the car starts,” he thought as he tapped his pocket to make sure his keys were there. Walking back up seventeen floors would be a bitch.

— 2 —

            “Crap!” The garage door refused to open when Adam clicked the remote. Twenty-four miles between the office and home, and it had taken three and a half hours. Every traffic light was blinking red. Between boiling road-ragers, and people too stupid to handle a blinking red light, it was a miracle he had made it home at all. The radio was nothing but static from one end of the dial to the other. People on the streets alternated looking at their phones, and asking each other for news.

Adam pulled into the driveway of the house he had lived in for the past seventeen years. Nothing luxurious, but it was paid for, and large enough to cover his collection of “stuff” as George Carlin would have called it. The mailbox was empty when he checked. “I guess it probably would be, considering the power at the office had stopped around 8:30,” he thought as he locked the little door again.

The door opened, and the inside air was a little cooler than the Texas summer outside. He quickly closed the door to keep it that way. The normal drone of electronics was deafening in its absence. “Hello,” he called to the strangely silent interior. No answer.

He glanced at the table where his wife normally left her purse. No purse. He went through the utility room and opened the interior door to the garage. No car. Nobody home.

Notes were normally left on the kitchen table. No note. His daughter’s book bag was nowhere to be seen. Pick up should have been at 4:00, so unless the school had gotten word out,

they are probably stuck in traffic. Give them another hour, and then…what? You really think you can find them yourself? He shook his head to clear the dark thoughts, and pulled the jug of bleach off the shelf of laundry products.

An hour later both tubs were as clean as he could get them and the water was barely trickling from the faucet. Both tubs were a bit over half-full. Enough water for a couple of days if they were careful. After that? It was not a comforting thought.

Best go put the car in the garage, he thought opening the utility room door, and flipping the switch for the lights out of habit. Ten minutes, and a fresh set of batteries for the flashlight later, the car was in the garage. Should find the keys to the garage door since the opener won’t work. Adam walked back into the house through the utility room checking his phone along the way. Still no signal and no WIFI. Phone back in the pocket, and Adam looked around his living room wondering what to do next. The clock on the mantle showed 7:42, Starting to get dark. Better find candles or something.