The Bullet Theory

by Sonya Jesus

  Dreadful jokes about mathematics and quantum theories, when I have a murder to solve and an innocent woman to liberate, stall my brilliance. I’ve been sitting on a few more solved cases, and despite the risks in delivery at the moment, I’m going to deliver all of them. An advantageous strategy.

  Thanks to Coralee’s very public announcement, which directly followed Bitten’s flame-worthy outburst, the focus is all on the culprit, who the police think they have in custody. Granted, environmental factors have changed as well as stressors, but they may not have statistical consequences in my study. Perhaps a delay will occur, but it doesn’t matter.

  The mere delivery of a bullet will get attention and give the nurse’s defense attorney enough cause to have her freed. If I’m lucky, another revenge will come to fruition. Distraction, so I can reach my newest target.

  Based on my studies, most people kill within twenty-four hours of receiving the bullet. Some in very creative ways and others in stupid, blatant ways. There may be a delay here thanks to news coverage, but I highly doubt it.

  Just like I doubted Kace and Eleanor were trapping me. The pain is far too real in Eleanor, and the damage grief has caused on their relationship isn’t fake. Before today, I would have even said they’d surpass this. Eleanor and Kace complement each other; they fit together and are more in tune with each other than they think.

  But the true test to their strength will come after the opportunity for revenge. Will she take it and risk losing him?

  I speculate it depends on who the killer is. I’ll be here to help them through the aftermath, but I still intend to use leverage as a safety precaution.

  After speaking with Kace on the phone, I’m left to wonder why the police have not announced the suspect in custody. As much as I try to shrug off the flutters of jealousy, someone else taking the credit for my hard-earned study prickles my nerves. These people have closure because of me—because I solved the unsolvable.

  Not her.

  So, I will set the record straight. She can’t deliver bullets if she’s locked up.

  Contrary to what many believe, The Bullet Man doesn’t create murderers, he identifies them in the population. Unsolved murders have been closed due to my interest—to my dedicated time.

  Thus, I’m a bit unnerved by the idea of the wrong person getting the credit. On the way over here, I could not take my mind off the nurse, or Dalton trying to pin attempted murder on her.

  Intervention is the only solution. The bullet messages—as the media calls them—will be all over the news by tomorrow, and Eleanor will be getting one too.

  My computer comes to life with a flick of a mouse, and I log in to the encrypted system to check my emails.

  There, flagged in red, is the email with the ballistic fingerprinting results for the weapon responsible for taking Tyler’s life. Mentally, I prepare myself for the probability of inconclusive results. These are preliminary stages of the software which reports back a suspect or list of suspects with numerical percentages. It will pull up similar fingerprints, which will narrow down the lot number or batch of the guns. Sometimes, firearm usage can change the fingerprint, but our software can calculate for these natural changes and simulate how many times the weapon has been fired.

  Before distributing the bullet message, I assure myself of the assailant’s culpability by various investigative techniques, and if I can find no evidence, then a bullet message is never created. Engraving the name on metal adds a certain artistic touch to my job. The engraving process soothes me, providing me with a sense of completion.

  After opening the email, I scroll to the accuracy percentage of the first name and realize that the whole list has the same accuracy.

  The gun that fired and killed Eleanor’s unborn infant belonged to someone at the precinct.

  And I suspected who.

  A few hours later, I’m in my car with a camera, staking out the precinct on the corner of Asher and Viconte, a couple streets over from Lehigh. The building blends in with the busy city streets as buses come and go, cars parked at running meters, while others are double-parked with someone in them; just waiting for an officer to tap on their window and tell them to move.

  There’s a public middle school two blocks over, and at this hour, most of the people double-parked are waiting on the kids, which gives me some wiggle room.

  Not many cops are standing outside, or near the parking lot between the buildings, and most of the spots for the squad cars are full. Four o’clock shift change. Considering the precinct is busy with the possible Bullet Woman, there’s a lot of debriefing to be done.

  Reporters have caught wind something is up; some of the local news channels are set up on the street and all across mid-Lehigh. One reporter sits on the roof of her van, with a finger in her ear and a phone in her hand.

  Within a half hour, more reporters are stationed on the sidewalk, and the captain comes out, followed by some people in suits. The parking lot door swings open. Civilian-dressed cops, who I assume are no longer on duty, trickle out with Kace at the head.

  Kace, his partner, and a few others who didn’t get in their cars, round the street to watch the captain deliver his speech. I tune in to the live streaming on the major news outlet to hear an update on the suspect.

  Reporters still refer to the suspect as male, so I assume the police are trying to keep everything under wraps.

  Kace remains outside, keeping the reporters from entering the precinct. Occasionally, he speaks to some, initiating the conversation, which strikes me as odd. If they are hiding something, why deliberately engage?

  I snap a few photos. Eventually, two uniformed officers replace him, and he disappears through the doors.

  Kace exits the parking lot building entrance, carrying a large bag, and enters his car. I start my engine and wait until he turns left, away from all the commotion on the street, before I follow him at a distance. His first stop is at the corner store where he comes out with two grocery bags, he then pulls through the drive-thru of the local fast food place.

  Two drinks are given to him on a drink tray.

  His third stop for the night is at a home, about eight blocks away from his own. He parks in the brightly illuminated driveway and takes the drinks and bags of food with him to the door. With full hands, he opts for using his boot to knock.

  To avoid being spotted, I pull into the dark house across from him and turn off my lights while using the mirrors to watch.

  Long blonde hair. That’s all I see.

  Her arms wrap around him, and she buries her face into the crook of his neck. I snap pictures through my window as he, despite his full hands, returns the embrace.

  A very familiar embrace from the looks of it.

  I shut the window and turn around. By the time I check, they had disappeared into the house. No other lights are turned on, so I wait about five minutes before I pull out of the driveway to get myself some dinner and use the restroom. I’m going to see if there’s a fourth stop, but my gut’s telling me there isn’t.

  When I return to the street about thirty minutes later, I park my car between all the other vehicles stationed for the night and watch through the window. The curtain is pulled back, and the blinds are up, revealing the connection between both people just sitting on a couch, much too close to each other.

  Just before midnight, he comes out and grabs the bags, including his duffle bag.

  He’s staying the night. It doesn’t surprise me.

  But there’s nothing else I need here.

  12

  Delivery

  Eleanor Devero

  The fucking door.

  Oh, my God. Shut up! I groan as I trip over the nearly empty bottle of tequila on the floor and the crumpled covers. I haven’t had a drink in eleven months, and my body is reminding me why liquor is the root of evil.

  I think I’m going to puke.

  Ding. Dong.

  “Who is it?” I stumble my way to the door as the high-pitched dinging
reverberates in my head and slashes my ears. “What time is it?” I glance through the small glass window of the door to find a husky woman standing on my front step, wearing a padded black vest and a pink flannel shirt underneath it.

  I swing the door open. “What?”

  Her gaze immediately drops to my legs—my bare legs. I need to start sleeping in pants. At least I have on underwear, I think to myself as I rest my head on the door. “Date night with tequila,” I offer an excuse, even though she doesn’t deserve one.

  She eyes me curiously, a coy smirk on her face as she shifts her gait and hooks her finger through the waistband of her loose-fitting jeans. “Lucky tequila,” she mumbles under her breath and widens her smile.

  I restrain from tugging on the hem of my T-shirt, even though my fingers itch for a modicum of modesty. “It’s too early in the morning to get hit on.”

  She’s momentarily surprised by my reaction, but quickly recovers, and narrows her eyes at me. A half-hearted smile, unbalanced to her right, is currently plastered on her face, while her eyes look over my shoulder, as if she expected company.

  Sorry, lady. My fiancé didn’t come home last night.

  “Sorry,” she offers unapologetically.

  I wave a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it.” Though, by the frequent glances inside my house, she’s no doubt edging for an invitation. It continues to amaze me how much information our body gives away without us knowing. I straighten up, blocking her view. “Can I help you?”

  Her lustful thoughts clear, and her brain focuses back on her mission. There has to be a reason for her standing on my steps. She reaches into her back pocket. “Does Tyler Dalton live here?”

  Tyler. My heart pounds out of my chest. The name sobers me up a bit, and I scan up and down the street for anything suspicious. “Who’s asking?”

  From her large back pocket, she pulls out a small wrapped box and hands it to me. The card she retrieves from her other pocket has “Happy Birthday, Tyler” written on the front.

  “What day is it?” I ask the stranger.

  She furrows her brows but answers, “Eleventh.”

  My due date. In the right world, Tyler would have been two months old today. “Who gave this to you?” I swallow the thick ball at the bottom of my throat—the one blocking my ability to breathe and think properly.

  “I don’t know, lady. It’s a messenger service.”

  “A messenger service?” I echo back.

  The Bullet Man found me.

  “Money-Life? Accepted the gig, at like three, after the club,” she adds and heads down the steps, wanting to get away. She knows something, or sees something, or… “I got to go. I have another delivery to pick up.”

  Before she can escape my eyesight, I unwrap the gift to pull out a black velvet box—a ring box, except inside there’s a bullet with something written on it.

  Oh, my God. The blood rushes through my veins so fast, my fingers tremble. Like a gong and mallet, every glance at the bullet strikes my heart, percussing through my insides and blooming within me. My pulse echoes, almost painfully. By the time I shut and lock the door, my ears ache at the steady onslaught of sound.

  My muscles give out.

  If not for the door at my back, I would’ve collapsed from my weakness. Instead, I slide down to the floor, cradling the small box between my shivering hands.

  I hesitate to touch the bullet.

  The cop in me wants to get gloves and advise the authorities, but she’s easily trumped by the mother—the grieving mother. The mother who has spent her time obsessing over killing the person on this bullet.

  My gun. Kace had put my gun away with fear I’d do something to myself, but I know the combination. It’s always the same combination: our supposed wedding date. With no strength, I crawl myself back into the living room, toward the desk, and extend the last drawer, retrieving the black metal box.

  I unlock it and make sure my firearm is still there and loaded.

  In my hands, I hold the name of the person who murdered my son, and on the ground beside me is the weapon I will shoot the killer with.

  I take one long, deep breath and pluck the bullet from its velvet holding, tilting it horizontally to read the two words written on there.

  Your Precinct.

  “What?” I shout and kick the metal box with my bare foot. Numbness dulls the pain radiating through my big toe. “What the fuck is this?” My foot throbs, but the rage in my veins throbs harder.

  The card! I frantically look around the living room for the card before finding my strength and rushing toward the door. There, on the ground where I had fallen, is the white envelope with Tyler’s name on it.

  I swoop it up and tear it open. No words had been written, but printed out copies of photographs had been tucked inside.

  Broken. Betrayal. Bombed in the heart.

  Tears fall from my eyes, splotching the cardstock, and for a minute, my world crumples again—explodes. It shatters in front of me, but it’s quickly replaced with the murderous rage inside me.

  It trickles out of my pores and glides over my skin, taking control of my feet, hands, mouth, nose, and eyes—all my senses preen on one thing and one thing only: answers.

  And I knew exactly where to start, thanks to the Bullet Man.

  I arrive at the precinct, where I used to work, and leave my car double-parked on the busy road. I didn’t give a flying fuck if I got ticketed, or towed, or caused an accident. I was going to get arrested for murder or die avenging my son. Either way, parking doesn’t really make much difference when you have nothing left to lose.

  Reporters stand outside the precinct, some looking disheveled and not well-rested. Maybe they recognize me, or maybe they can feel the anger emitting off of me because they part for me to pass.

  I swing the door open, accidentally smacking the cameraman’s face with it.

  His howls and shouts die down when the door closes behind me. The large lobby of the precinct is busy. Too many uniformed cops stand around me, each of them a suspect.

  Your precinct.

  It takes a significant amount of energy to reclaim my body back from my primal instinct. Without tipping anyone off, I stealthily cut toward the stairs, carrying the bullet and the proof in my purse.

  Cap’s office has large floor-to-ceiling windows that give him a direct look at the floor below. His blinds are down, but I’d drag him out of whatever meeting he had.

  For once, my son was going to be more important to him than anything else. This had been my home once. Now, I was ready to burn it down if I had to.

  When passing the cheating asshole’s door, I consider taking the sticky notes in my bag and writing out, “You’re a cheating bastard” letter by letter, and tell Kace where to shove his firsts, seconds, and any other number that follows.

  He can go fuck himself.

  I don’t bother knocking. The captain’s door is always open, so I swing it back calmly. Cap’s sitting at his desk, Kace sits in front of him. Both of them look at me with slack jaws and wide-eyes.

  “Get out!” I hiss, not at all calmly, my fixated glare aimed at Kace. The items in my purse won’t let me forget his lying ass.

  Kace furrows his brow and stands up, chancing an approach when everything about my body emits warning signs.

  I’m hyperaware of them, and to emphasize them, I narrow my eyes to nearly thin slants and cross my arms tightly. “If I were you, I’d make yourself scarce.”

  I touch my necklace, the one with a snipped piece of Tyler’s hair.

  Kace’s eyes are drawn to the movement. “What are you doing here, Eleanor? I specifically told you to stay the fuck home.”

  “To be frank, I could give two shits about what you want or say.”

  No doubt using his detective skills to figure out I know about his cheating, he bows his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “How did you find out about the—”

  “Shut up!” I growl at him and step aside, hinting his
presence is not required. “I need to talk to Cap.”

  Kace steps forward. “Eleanor, you need to calm—”

  The captain clears his throat and calmly nods his head. “We were just talking about you, Eleanor.”

  “Talking, huh?” I pass my ex, take a seat on one of the chairs in front of Cap’s desk, and put my purse in the other, on top of Kace’s phone.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means your lips are better skilled in other things.” I may be jumping to conclusions, but those images of him did not lie. I sure as fuck didn’t have blonde hair.

  All this time, I’d been so blind to the tells. Before Nolan, he was barely home, he didn’t kiss me much, and he was always on his phone. These last ten days flash before my eyes, revealing signs I quickly shut down. “I said, take your lying ass and get out.”

  Confusion hits first and then a slight lean back on his heels. “What are you talking about, Elle?”

  I’m not interested in his words, just his movements, so I wink at him and shrug, purposely instigating a fight. “With all the bullshit coming out of your mouth, I’m surprised your breath doesn’t stink.”

  He steps forward with a locked jaw. “Elle,” he clips loudly and looks at Cap, who has not said a word. “This is not the place to talk about what happened at home.”

  “Nothing important happened,” I throw back at him.

  His lips drop to my mouth with a pinched expression.

  Good. I’ve got his attention. I reach into my purse and pull out a little black box. He immediately checks my hand for my ring. It’s still there, but not for long.

  I place the box on the captain’s desk and push it in his direction while looking at Kace. “Get out, Kace. I need to talk to Cap about the Bullet Man case.”

  Kace shakes his head and glances at Cap for help. “I told you she knew we picked up the suspect. It’s all over the fucking news.”

  I had not. TV-time was not on my agenda yesterday. I spent all fucking afternoon going through Kace’s files, looking for any clue as to who the Bullet Man was, and instead, the Bullet Man found me.