MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2)

by James Schannep

  He sprints away once more.

  • Check on Bertram.

  • Follow Viktor!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  On a Walkabout

  The night is warm and the city is loud, but alone with your thoughts, you feel cold and isolated from the world. That poor woman, gunned down in some back alley. You’d heard Brazil could be dangerous, but you’re in tourist Brazil, not the deep slums of some favela.

  Part of you wants to hop the next plane to the US, get in bed, and pretend tonight was just some distant nightmare. But another part of you—a part that scares you—is excited. What if it’s a serial killer, and you brushed into him? What if you had taken that gun and dealt some justice? What if this ride has only just begun?

  You loop back to your hostel just as the adrenaline finally wears off and a deep primal need for sleep sets in. Your feet guiding you on autopilot, you head up to your room, only to find the lights off and the beds empty. Your friends aren’t even here yet.

  Not giving it much thought, you lie down in your bed and close your eyes.

  • Fall deeply asleep.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  One More Easy Payday

  Looking forlorn, Viktor simply nods. With a hand on his pistol, he points to an ATM just down the street. You walk, nervous as to what you’re about to attempt, but trying your best to look nonchalant.

  A woman stands at the kiosk, three children in tow, and presently removes a large stack of bills from the machine. With nightfall approaching and the police soon to arrive, this might be your only chance. Viktor nods at you once more, uncertainty in those icy-blue eyes.

  He’s going to make you do it.

  You pull out the handgun, drag the slide back to chamber a round—more because of the intimidating sound it makes, not that you’d actually shoot the woman—and shout for her to give you the money. She speaks no English, but understands the pistol clearly enough and screams in terror.

  Viktor translates your threat, telling this mother to pay up in front of her children. She shakes her head and pleads with him, but now Viktor brandishes his own pistol, and, once he points it at the crying children, she complies.

  With her month’s paycheck in your hands, the woman tucks her children tight and escapes down an alley.

  “Think this will be enough?” you say, counting the money.

  Viktor looks extremely disturbed. Eyes skyward, he recites, “‘They shed the blood of innocents… and the land became polluted with blood.’”

  He’s almost on the verge of tears. You snap your fingers in front of his face. “Hey, hello in there! Remember Jane? C’mon, we’ve got a job to do.”

  “I don’t know your background, Tourist. But for me there is a clear line between revenge on criminals and becoming a criminal yourself.”

  Okay, so you just stole the bread money from a poor slum family with at least three young mouths to feed. This is clearly something he needs to come to terms with if you—

  “Pare aí mesmo!” comes a shout from down the road. Huh?

  Two uniformed policemen and one in plainclothes run toward you with weapons drawn.

  • Hands up!

  • Shoot first, questions later.

  • Take cover, but hold your ground.

  • Run! Take the alley your victims took.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Only Fools Rush In

  You bum-rush the computer terminal, slamming the technician out of the way, knocking the roller-chair wildly across the room, and shaking the computer desk. You plug the USB drive into the computer and as the “auto-play” window opens, you’re tackled and slammed to the ground by DSS agents.

  A stunt like that wasn’t smart, and now you’re in handcuffs. Due to your haste, the evidence will never see the light of day. Later, when Viktor is killed “making an attempt on the Ambassador’s life” and Jane mysteriously disappears, you’ll be tried and found guilty of treason. The rest of your life will not be pleasant.

  THE END

  The Other Guys

  The policeman scowls, looking you over. “You’re law enforcement?”

  “I didn’t say that, I said I’m working with law enforcement,” you say.

  “I need to call this in to my superior.”

  “Wait!” you cry.

  You’re about to try and talk your way out of it, but another cop walks over toward the barricade. “Hey, weren’t you at the station tonight? What are you doing here?”

  “See? I’m the—I’m the star witness!”

  The young man scratches his head while the first cop leans forward, looking toward the back of the house, and says, “What the hell is going on over there?”

  You see Viktor hanging out of the window, trying to push his way out. Apparently he’s finished his part of the bargain, so time to finish yours—distraction!

  • Kick the policeman in the groin and/or punch him in the face.

  • Sprint inside a random apartment. The police can’t follow without a warrant!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Overconfident

  Police brutality doesn’t hold the same meaning here as it does in the US. In Rio, it’s the name of what you just did by socking the cop in the nose and going for his nards. And the response? When the other policeman draws his handgun and shoots you, his actions will be not only justified, but he’ll be rewarded with praise. You don’t attack cops and get away with it; not here.

  Bang. Bang bang bang.

  THE END

  Pacification

  He sighs. “Fine, just stick close. If you get shot….” Danly shakes his head. “Don’t get shot, okay?”

  “You people are crazy,” Detective Muniz says, stepping out of the SUV and slipping on his black suit jacket over his purple shirt.

  You walk atop the dirty and dusty clutter of broken mortar, back out through the wall and into the populated area of the favela. You go past a “bike shop,” which has an odd amalgamation of old and repatched bicycles for sale. Best case, it’s a used shop. Most likely, they were all stolen. On the flat rooftop, laundry dries on wires under the hot summer sun.

  A woman with an exposed midriff and frayed cutoffs sees your group, panics, and turns away into one of the houses. In an alleyway between units, a group of young boys plays ping-pong on a homemade table. It’s an overturned door with a board propped up for a net. For paddles, they use pieces of tile. They wear Nike shorts and sandals and laugh, enjoying the game.

  Old men sit together in plastic chairs, listening to soccer on the radio. You nod toward them as you walk by; they stare back as if you just landed and stepped out of a UFO.

  “What—or who—are we looking for?” you ask.

  Muniz shrugs. “You’d have to ask boss-man here.”

  Agent Danly stays silent. Around a corner are four men in Kevlar vests—maybe it’s Elite Squad? They wear olive-green, short-sleeve, collared shirts adorned with unit patches and black tactical pants. They’re some sort of police or military, that’s for sure.

  “Maybe we should ask them?” you suggest.

  Looking to Danly, you notice the man is fuming. His face is red, and a large earthworm-like vein throbs on his forehead. He takes off his sunglasses, and you see his eyes are nearly bloodshot and are wet with anger.

  “You son of a bitch,” he says to Muniz through gritted teeth. “You took us to a pacified slum.”

  Muniz smiles. “Did I?”

  “What does that mean?” you ask.

  Danly looks at you, then back to Muniz. “You think I’m stupid, that I wouldn’t notice?”

  “I don’t know, boss-man. What did you want to do? Roll up in your big, bad truck and slap the druglords around with your dick? I did you a favor! They would eat you alive. But hey, we’re here—go ahead and ask around.”

  “What’s a pacified slum?” you ask again.

  “It’s a goddamned waste of time. It’s a favela without criminals,” Danly says. “In prep to host the World Cup and the Olympics,
they went through and cracked down on the high-visibility slums.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Not when we’re here to talk with criminals, fucktard. They’ll reclaim this area in a couple of years anyway. We drove all the way out here for nothing.”

  Muniz looks at his watch. “Yeah, we’d better head back. It’s getting late.”

  “Okay,” Danly says, his rage soaked into an eerie calm. “Let’s head back.”

  • Return to the Station.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Padded Ninjas

  In combat, there is no “rock, paper, scissors.” There is only knife beats fist, gun beats knife, the end. So when Agent Bertram points his assault rifle at the farm crew and demands in Portuguese that they drop their machetes, they comply without hesitation. These are low-wage workers and they have no stake in the Sugar King’s security.

  When Bertram demands they disrobe, however, all eyes go to Maria. Good Catholic men such as these have their modesties, and disrobing in front of a young Brazilian woman is a bridge too far.

  “We’ll wait outside,” she says, placing a hand on your shoulder.

  “No, you won’t,” Agent Bertram says. “There should be a locker room inside.”

  He’s right and the men change while Agent Bertram watches to make sure no one has a cell phone or triggers a silent alarm. A bit paranoid, perhaps, but caution is the better part of valor, as they say.

  The agent escorts the men through the annex to a room with large double doors, pulling them open to reveal a cafeteria.

  “Perfect,” Bertram says.

  He ushers the cane cutters into the room, assuaging their fears in Portuguese, and assuring them that everything will be fine if they stay in here until morning. Once the men are inside and the doors swing closed, Bertram removes a pair of handcuffs from his vest and cuffs the door handles to one another, effectively locking the farm workers inside.

  “What about windows?” you ask.

  “Locks only stop honest men, Hotshot. This is a mental barrier. They’ll heat up some coffee, eat, and eventually fall asleep. C’mon, time to suit up.”

  * * *

  The three of you don sweaty, grimy, stinky cane cutter uniforms. The padding is thick, meant to protect the wearer during cutting duty and from snakebites, but that also means the uniform is hot and stuffy.

  It’s hard to breathe with a turtleneck up over your nose, but it’s the only way to blend in. The cutters use them in the field to protect against aspirating fertilizers and pesticides, but it should work just as well to protect your identity. Your breath leaves condensation on the mask, mingling with whatever residue was already there.

  Bertram left his assault rifle in the locker room (and you left your shotgun), but the agent still has his service pistol concealed under the disguise. Maria gave you one of her revolvers, which presently rests coolly against your skin.

  You walk toward a uniformed security guard, the first you’ve seen since entering the main house through the side door. Moment of truth: time to test your disguise. He’s an “official” hired gun (unlike the grileiros from outside, who aren’t officially on Mateo Ferro’s payroll) and the man looks up briefly, but then goes back to playing Angry Birds on his iPad.

  It worked! Ruse successful! You resist the urge to give your companions a high-five, but the smile hidden beneath your mask disappears when a voice booms out in Portuguese from around the corner. You creep forward to catch a better look.

  “The Sugar King,” Maria says breathlessly.

  There before you stands a large, middle-aged Brazilian man on the telephone. Neither tall nor fat per se, but thick-limbed and possessing a sort of magnetic gravity you can’t quite place. His full face is clean-shaven and has deep creases where a stark glower now finds perch. His eyes are dark brown, with an intense intelligence.

  The man wears tight blue jeans tucked into black cowboy boots, dusty and grey with age. He wears a blue workshirt and an orange scarf tied loosely about his neck. Not exactly how you’d picture a billionaire. His short, jet-black hair is slicked back and neatly arranged in such a way that you can be certain he has a comb tucked in his pocket.

  “He’s asking someone the status of ‘their problem,’” Bertram whispers. “He’s probably too smart to go into details over the phone, but we might get lucky.”

  The man slams the phone against the receiver, then turns to you. His eyes dart from the hulking Bertram, to the petite Maria, to you. The three of you stick out like sore thumbs. Not too many Americans or women on the farmhand payroll.

  “Guardas!” he shouts.

  Security is on you in an instant, forcibly patting you down and taking your weapons. Maria gets thrown to the floor as she tries to brandish hers.

  “So you’re the ones causing all the trouble,” the man says in English.

  “Agent David Bertram, Diplomatic Security Service,” your partner replies, fearsome gravity in his words. “Order your men to stand down, right now.”

  “An American federal agent? So far from home?”

  “Order your men to stand down!”

  “No, I don’t think I will,” the man grins. “You’re inside my plantation, without proper clearance. Isn’t that correct, Agent…Bertram, is it?”

  Bertram gulps hard, doubt flowing into his hard eyes.

  “That is what I thought, but don’t worry yourselves. You three will be my guests. I offer you no ill will; I don’t even know what brings you here, dressing up in costumes like this,” he laughs. “Such theatricality! Change into something presentable, and then we can talk like civilized men. There is no need to come barging onto my property.”

  Not much of a choice here…

  • Get back into normal clothes.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Pays Off

  You tuck into the same alley where the mother fled with her children, shielding yourself and peering out behind your pistol at the cops. Viktor uses the ATM for cover in a similar way. The cops continue to shout, guns drawn down on you, but you don’t budge.

  Once they get close enough, you actually recognize the plainclothes policeman—it’s Detective Lucio Muniz, the bleach-blond policeman who interviewed you on the night you were detained. Is he the one you’re going to bribe?

  “You?” he says.

  “We’re looking for the truth,” you say coolly. “If you can help us, we can help you.”

  “You’re the ones that called?”

  Viktor nods.

  Detective Muniz smiles and holsters his handgun. “Well, then, we’re all friends here.”

  He waves the other cops down and they become calm with understanding. You put away your weapon and so does Viktor.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Muniz says. “What information would you like to buy?”

  “The murder I stumbled upon, what do you know?” you ask.

  “More than you could imagine,” he smirks.

  Viktor steps forward. “Do you know who’s responsible? Who the killer is?”

  Muniz carefully considers the question. Seeing him waver, you flash the wad of money you pilfered from the ATM.

  “Okay, I’m a fair man. And if you know my reputation, you know that I do what I’m paid to do, and I do it well. I do know who’s responsible, and since you’re a paying customer…” he smiles with a cocky confidence.

  You hand over the cash.

  “You’ve heard of the Shadow Chiefs? You know which favela they control?”

  Viktor nods.

  “Good. They’re the ones who did it. We don’t have a name, but we know it was their enforcers. Word has it someone high up—one of their colonels—ordered the hit.” He looks through the wad of bills. “Meu Deus… Look for someone named Falador. He’s our informant there, he’ll talk.”

  “Thank you,” you say.

  “No, thank you,” Muniz says, waving the bills. Then to Viktor, he adds, “And if you give me that watch, I’ll forget I saw the pair of yo
u when I meet up with the American agents.”

  Viktor looks at the watch for a long moment. He sighs. “Please, my Jane gave me this.”

  “I doubt she’ll mind.”

  While he looks at you, he knows it’s for the best. With great pain, Viktor gives the watch away.

  “C’mon, let’s go find Falador.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” Detective Muniz says.

  • Go to the favela controlled by the Shadow Chiefs.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Pedestrian

  You jog toward the plantation, racing against the waning light and the thick black clouds overhead. Drops of water start to fall and a deluge is surely imminent. A pair of headlights illuminate the sugarcane so that shadows seem to reach out at you, much like in a haunted forest.

  The three of you rush to the side of the road and hide in the crop. It works, and a jeep rushes past you. You start back toward the road, but something squirms over your feet. Something alive. Maria puts out a hand to still you as another set of headlights appear around the bend.

  You hold your breath and look down: It’s a gigantic frog, six inches across, thick and covered in warty globules of skin. There are a dozen toads at least, most likely fleeing from the fires.

  A pickup truck rushes by. After it’s out of view, you let out your breath.

  “Don’t touch,” Maria says. “The skin has venom.”

  “Great,” you say, and rub your shoe against the dirt.

  “Cane toads,” Bertram says.

  Maria stops, unloads one of her revolvers, and crouches down. She strokes the bullets against the backs of the frogs, coating their tips in venom. “I’ll catch up,” she says.

  “That’s fucked up,” Bertram mumbles, shaking his head.