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

by James Schannep

  You continue down the road, the sprinkles of rain giving way to heavy droplets. Soon, Maria catches up and the plantation comes into view.

  • To the plantation!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Petrol-fied

  Though it’s getting later in the afternoon, both companies are able to meet with you. Bertram drops you off and tells you to have your contact’s secretary call him when you’re ready to be picked up.

  Before you sits a tower of a building—the biggest in the area—with an impressive mirrored façade that launches into the sky at a dizzying, convex angle. It’s almost like an optical illusion, but no, the building really is slanted.

  With the possible exception of its neighbor two doors down (which pushes away from the street like an exponential curve), or perhaps the bank behind you (whose name is carved into the first four stories like a boastful monolith), the Petrobras building is the most eye-catching sight around for miles. The point being, it’s not what you’d expect from a government building. It may be state-supported, but this is surely no post office.

  Once inside, there’s a young man immediately ready to greet you. He’s either an intern or an extremely junior staffer, but either way, you’re bombarded with the pungent energy of youth. His silver nametag is inscribed with the name Matias Azvedo, which he says to you, with his hand extended.

  He nods at your own introduction with a practiced smile. “You’ll have to forgive me, my notes don’t have anything but your name. You’re here with….?”

  Thinking quickly, you say:

  • “The New York Times. You’re prepared to answer a few questions?”

  • “I represent your top shareholders in the US. Just a few concerns for you to address…”

  • “I’m a fixer. The CEO tasked me to come in and get a few things straight.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Picked

  Despite Tinho’s objections and some sort of “you’ll be sorry” warning (to you, or to her?) you’re off with the young woman, riding on a city bus toward the dump site. She identifies herself simply as Isis (pronounced eee-sis) and through Viktor’s translation you learn that she’s employed as one of Brazil’s “pickers”—a profession in which she spends her days wading through landfills, sifting through the garbage to remove recyclable materials for resale.

  “She says the body was found last night, but the police haven’t come by to take it away. It’s probably still early enough that we can get a good look at it before they arrive,” Viktor says.

  Soon the bus drops you off. You’re greeted with a cyclone of birds circling above a great mountain of trash. The landfill is massive, the fetid mounds similar in scale to ski resort slopes. A hundred workers roam the trash heap, looking for diamonds in the rough.

  “Be careful of drug needles,” Viktor warns.

  The smell is, of course, pervasive and overwhelming, but eventually you don’t notice it anymore. You’re not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Even the shrill squawks of the birds fade into the background. Isis explains that 9,000 tons of refuse arrive daily and, along with her fellow workers, she’s able to reclaim 200 tons of recyclable material each and every day. The reclaimed garbage is the equivalent mass to all of the trash in a 400,000-person city, she says as a point of pride.

  “This is a good job?” you ask. It’s intended as an aside to Viktor, but he translates it to her before you can stop him.

  “It’s better than the other job a favela offers a woman,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  He shoots you a look. “What do you think?”

  Without further explanation, she leads you to the body. This area of the landfill has been all but abandoned by the pickers; most of them have already seen the twisted limbs coming from the trash and stay clear, waiting for the police to arrive.

  She points to the corpse but will go no further. You can see that none of the pickers want to be near the body, but they’re not particularly terrified by its presence, either. They simply go about their job, pretending that nothing has happened. Pretending that this spot doesn’t exist.

  “Do you often find…bodies here?” you ask.

  Viktor translates, gets an answer, then says, “When there are wars between the favela gangs, yes, quite often. These last few months the factions have been united against the police and their pacification efforts, so people have enjoyed a period of relative safety.”

  You nod and continue toward the body without Isis. When you arrive, you’re in for a shock. A gray hand reaches up to the sky to a salvation that will never come. Viktor sweeps the refuse away, revealing the face. You cover your mouth—it’s not Jane Nightingale; it’s not even a woman. The man lying there before you, pale and anemic, looks up with dead eyes.

  And you recognize him.

  “I guess ‘dead American’ wasn’t specific enough,” Viktor sighs. “I don’t know what I expected to find. Jane is in the morgue, the police saw to that the night you stumbled upon her.”

  “I know this guy.”

  “What? Who is it?”

  “I saw him at the police station the night they brought me in. He looked like he’d been crying. I think he was looking for someone.” You strain to think, trying to remember through the blur of events. “He spoke English, so he caught my eye. It reminded me that my friends would be worried about me, and now…here he is.”

  “You’re certain?”

  You nod.

  “Come on, the police will arrive soon. Ready to get off this trash heap?”

  “Where will we go?”

  “Well, I have an idea, but it’s dangerous. Each favela has at least one cop on the payroll. We find out which gang holds territory over the crime scene, then we find out which cop they’re paying off, and we bribe him for information.”

  “How do we find that out?” you ask.

  “I’m sure someone here knows, or at least knows where we should ask. Or we can contact that ‘other’ type of woman who works the favelas. Paying off cops is part of their business insurance.”

  • “Okay, let’s go to the cathouse. Has to be cleaner than here.”

  • “We’re already here. Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Predator

  Agent Bertram grits his teeth and moves toward the Man in Black. Bertram shoots blindly into the jungle with his assault rifle, releasing a bullet every other second, hoping to flush out the man or maybe strike him, with pure luck. It’s possible; the greenery is thin and the bullets penetrate deep.

  After about thirty paces in, Bertram stops, pops out the rifle’s magazine and slaps in a fresh one. “Come on out, you son of a bitch! We’re right here!” he shouts.

  The jungle is silent, as if in fearful awe of this man and his weapon.

  Then, with a hot explosion, a bullet burrows deep into your chest. You fall onto your back, are forced to look up, and there he is, the Man in Black, perched high up in a tree. One smoking pistol is aimed at you and another bears down right on Agent Bertram. With three shots, the DSS agent is dead on the jungle floor.

  The assassin rappels down from the tree. You look up in terror, and with no other option, you raise your hands. Maybe since you’re unarmed, he won’t kill you?

  Nope.

  The man’s eyes, working independently, like a chameleon’s, take in your supplication and Bertram’s prone position on the ground at the same time. He raises one handgun toward you and fires.

  THE END

  Pressroom

  When you arrive, you see a young man wearing a navy-blue shirt with yellow block letters, much like the “EVENT STAFF” shirts you’d see in the United States. This one reads, “PESSOAL,” and you can be fairly certain it means the same thing.

  “I am sorry, authorized personnel only,” the young man says in English.

  Oh, boy…This must be it! You remove the USB, hold it up, and in your most professional, do-not-trifle-with-me tone, you say, “I need t
o load this onto the projector before the ceremony begins.”

  “May I see your press pass?”

  “No, you may not. I’ll show it to you after. We literally have about three minutes until showtime. If you want to get paid for this event, you’ll open that door!”

  “I am sorry…” he begins, but then the door opens.

  From inside, the Rio Chief of Police steps out.

  “It’s okay,” he says to the doorman, then turns to you and says, “We’ve been expecting you.”

  He pushes the door fully open and you see Ambassador Mays, Governor Ferro—the man known as “The Sugar King”—and several armed men pointing sub-machineguns at Jane and Viktor. Your heart falls into your stomach.

  “Please, come in,” the Police Chief says.

  The door closes behind you as you enter. Despair washes over you, and you know from the very core of your being that you are in deep, deep trouble.

  “You must be the American traitor I’ve heard so much about,” Ambassador Mays says. “You really spoiled everything from the get-go, you know that?”

  “I’d say it’s you and your cronies who’ve tried to spoil things for the rest of the world,” you say, feeling that you haven’t much to lose.

  The Ambassador laughs along with his cronies.

  “Things are not so simple,” he says. “If the good doctor here would have just sold us his invention, all of this could have been avoided. It’s not that we don’t like progress; we really do, whether you believe it or not, but there’s a natural way to these things. You can’t just go flipping the social order overnight. Do you know what the world would be like if suddenly everyone were rich? If no one had to worry about where their next meal came from or how their kids would get to school, or hell, if you never had to want for anything ever again? The population would simply revolt. No one would work; there’d be chaos in the streets. Anarchy, that’s what I’m talking about here. The people need order.”

  “Bullshit,” you say.

  “How do you think men like us get to our positions?” the Police Chief asks. “Through hard work, yes, but through understanding the hearts of men and how society functions. In the areas I control, crime is nearly zero. It’s safety that we offer.”

  “In exchange for freedom?”

  Governor Ferro sighs. “We don’t expect you to understand, but it’s been this way as long as there has been civilization. The Greek symbol for fascism was a bundle of sticks. One could be broken, but there is strength in unity.”

  “But toss a match on the bundle and watch as the whole thing comes ablaze,” you say. “Toss a match on a single stick, and the others are safe. You’re breeding extremism, not safety. Look around; you have three innocent people at gunpoint.”

  “Fire is a natural cleansing agent. It purifies,” the Ambassador says.

  “So, what, now you’re a fascist?”

  He shakes his head. “We’re businessmen.”

  At this, all three men smile, like a trio of schoolboys about to pull some prank.

  “Then let us do business now!” Viktor protests, moving forward. “Let the others go; this is between you and me.”

  “It’s too late for that,” the Sugar King says.

  “I know you will kill me, and take my patents for your own, but please—I beg of you—let my Jane go.”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” Ambassador Mays says. “We’ve won. We have everything we need, and now we can tie up the loose ends. It’s over; you’ve lost.”

  Viktor’s composure disappears. His face flushes red and spittle flies from his mouth as he yells a string of Portuguese curse words. He rushes forward, only to be detained by the guardsmen. He’s all tendon-strained muscle.

  “Cachoro!” He screams, “You are an evil man! You are merda. Caganita!”

  The Ambassador takes a step forward. “No, I’m just a man.” He pauses, putting a hand inside his suit jacket before continuing, “Sometimes I’m nice, and sometimes I’m not; just like any man. Look, I can be nice—”

  Ambassador Mays removes a handgun.

  “You said she has nothing to do with this?” With cold indifference, as if he were merely crushing a spider, he shoots Jane in the head. “Now she’s no longer involved. See how nice I am?”

  You can barely hear the Ambassador over Viktor’s guttural scream. The doctor falls to the floor, cradling Jane, her blood spilling out over him.

  “On to business, then,” the Governor says to one of the armed guards. “Bring me his book-bag.”

  “Wait—It could be dangerous. Let the Tourist do it,” the Police Chief says.

  The Ambassador puts away his handgun. “Good idea. Show us what’s in the bag.”

  Viktor’s jaw quivers, but he manages to whisper, “Remember ‘Manhattan’? Do it.”

  You reach into the bag, removing one of the tiny bombs…Do you remember how to use the device?

  • Left, Left, Left.

  • Left, Left, Right.

  • Left, Right, Right.

  • Left, Right, Left.

  • Right, Right, Right.

  • Right, Right, Left.

  • Right, Left, Left.

  • Right, Left, Right.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Prey

  Figuring bullets to be more dangerous than fangs, you run into the marsh. The anaconda is nowhere to be seen. Somehow, the entire length of its gigantic body has been submerged in the translucent, tea-colored water.

  Avoiding the exact spot where you saw the snake, you run into the sludge, sending spray everywhere and feeling much like a wildebeest rushing into the jaws of death on a nature program. Isn’t this exactly the kind of cue a predator picks up on?

  Bertram is right behind you, sending out warning shots back into the trees as you cross the clearing. Maybe the anaconda is frightened by the bullets? Maybe it’s not hiding, waiting to strike and constrict you? Or, maybe you’ll make it across safely?

  Miraculously, you do. As you step onto high ground and into the jungle, a wave of relief washes over you. Now you pray that the snake might make a meal of this assassin and take care of your problems for you, Deus ex Machina style.

  Another hundred yards and the jungle gives way to an enormous agricultural field, where sugarcane stalks tower nearly twenty feet high. You must be getting close to the plantation. The stalks of the plant are segmented like bamboo and grow out in thick bunches from the ground. They’re spaced about two feet apart, which gives you just enough room to run into the field.

  Agent Bertram’s satellite phone rings.

  “Damn. They know I’m in the field; they wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency.”

  • “Call them back when we get somewhere safe.”

  • “Go for it, I’ll cover you. Give me that pistol.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Private Quarters

  Viktor shows you to your cabin, then bids you adeus. The interior is small and windowless, with a pair of twin beds stacked like bunkbeds and bolted to the wall. There’s a chamber pot in the corner (gross) and a curtained partition leading to a single-stall shower, such as you might find at a military deployment base. A pair of plastic-wrapped flip-flops wait by the shower—the height of luxury and hygiene.

  It’s been a long time since you’ve showered, and it’s tempting. Then again, so is that bed. Who knows when will be the next time you’ll have an opportunity for either?

  • Shower first, then bed.

  • Bed, zzzzzz.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Professor Exposition

  “Okay, then, here goes. I’m at the forefront of a new technology. I never thought it would be dangerous, but I’ll explain that too. First, the discovery. I’ve potentially cracked the world-wide energy crisis, and I don’t say that lightly. I’m sure you’ve heard of alternative fuels—biodiesel and their ilk. Many have thought ethanol was the wave of the future, but ultimately the conversion of corn or sugarcane has proven too costly and not
abundant enough a resource to completely overtake fossil fuels.”

  He begins pacing across the hilltop, lost in his own thoughts, pontificating like a mad scientist explaining his foolproof plan to the captive hero. “With my revolutionary methods, I was going to show the world something truly novel. Save for—I don’t know—cold fusion, there’s nothing that would change the world like this. I have perfected…” he pauses, his arms raised theatrically like an orchestra conductor’s, “Cellulosic ethanol.”

  You blink. “What?”

  He shakes his head. “Not to drag you into the specifics of the science, but the long and short of it is this. With corn or sugarcane, you must use the nutrient-rich parts of the plant; that is to say, the part normally used for food. I found a way to use the waste as the basis for ethanol, and at an efficiency four-thousand percent more effective than gasoline! Do you know what that means?”

  Trying to wrap your head around what he’s saying and where he’s going, you answer, “The end of fossil fuels?”

  “Yes! And so much more than that. If we can grow plants to use their waste for fuel, what can we then use the main plant for?”

  You shrug.

  “Food! The end of world hunger! The end of deforestation! This new technology will be the marriage of environmentalism and commerce, thus quelling the feud between their two houses. We could use land unsuitable for crops—prairie grass, even—as fuel. We could recycle and pulp paper to power our autos! Any organic plant matter. I was going to be the next Edison, the next Tesla, and the next Henry Ford all rolled into one, except with clean, renewable energy.”

  “So you were going to be a billionaire, and someone wanted the technology for themselves, is that it?”

  “Not remotely. This day and age, you don’t steal technology, you race to invest in it.”