The Second Mystery Megapack

by Ron Goulart

  I glanced at Lester Henry ruefully.

  “And I suspected you—a little!” I exclaimed apologetically.

  “Oh, that’s all right, Carter,” he replied, with a smile; “that only made the case more interesting.”

  MORE ALLISONS THAN I KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH, by Michael Hemmingson

  I

  I didn’t intend to murder Allison Benning twice; she was having a flashback of something that happened in Afghanistan or Iraq and she went crazy on me; it was a heat-of-the-moment action, and I believe it could be classified as self-defense. You would have to know the full story, which I am prepared to tell.

  I met Allison seven weeks ago at my friend Wendy’s birthday party. She had just turned 30 and was ambiguous about this milestone age. “So many candles on the cake,” she laughed sarcastically, but I could hear her thoughts: I haven’t accomplished enough yet, I haven’t done enough yet, I haven’t put my mark on the world. I knew because I had the same thoughts, five months ago, when I turned 33.

  Allison was the sister of one of Wendy’s friends. She claimed she was dragged to this party, her sister insisted she get out and meet new people. She had just returned from two tours in the Middle East, stationed both in Afghanistan and Iraq. She was Army.

  I was taken with her. She was tall, fit, with piercing blue eyes and a pointed jaw. Blonde hair pulled back in a tail. She had the best posture I had ever seen on a woman, and I knew that was the Army. She was 27.

  She gave me her number and I played the rules and waited three days to call her. “Took your time, Mr. Thompson,” she said. She agreed to meet me for dinner that night.

  We had Italian in a small cozy joint I knew in West Hollywood. I told her I was a screen and TV writer, that I had two independent films under my belt and had sold a pilot that never made it test on the air.

  “They paid you for it,” she said, “but it was never shown?”

  “Paid well,” I said; “that’s the nature of the business.”

  “Tell me. I have no idea how it works.”

  I was more than pleased to talk about my world. “Every year the networks and cables buy, say, 80-100 TV ideas. You go in and pitch the idea, write a 3-4-page proposal, what they call a leave behind. If the execs like it, they buy it, you write the pilot before Christmas. Over the holidays, these execs read the 80-100 pilots they bought anywhere from $50-100,000 each, and decide which ones to go forward with and shoot the test pilot. Which will be, say, 18 or 20. These get shot, using non-union actors, and go through meetings, and more meetings, and focus groups, and more meetings, then focus groups, then screenings by Madison Avenue suits, and more meetings. The ad guys determine what kind of ads they may sell to match a show, based on what they think the mass public out there wants to watch when they sit in from of the glass teat. Perhaps 8 or 10 of these will get lucky, the pilot re-shot with union actors, a few known faces and names, and then aired. Numbers of viewers and audience reaction are analyzed. Of those 8 or ten, one or two will make it to a full season and go on to season two.”

  “How far did yours go?”

  “Focus groups. Two million spent, down the drain.”

  “Seems like a waste of money.”

  “Like I said, nature of the business.”

  “I don’t know why my sister wanted to get into the business. She’s a costumer, like your friend Wendy, but she really wants to be a producer of some sort. Doesn’t everyone want to be in the entertainment biz here in L.A.?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not me.”

  “I bet you have some great stories of your Army service that would make a good show,” I said, my head going to story production and life exploitation.

  “Not really,” she said with a smile. “I saw no action. I was behind the scenes.”

  “You’re still a hero.”

  “Oh, please,” she laughed, “do you really think a line like that will get me into bed?”

  She was in my bed on the third date, like the rules dictate. She liked it vigorous and rough, the way I suspected a solider would.

  “Hold me until I sleep,” she said.

  She didn’t sleep well. She tossed, turned, and hit me in the face, and screamed out a set of numbers that didn’t make sense.

  “I’m sorry,” she told me.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I lied when I said I didn’t see any action,” she said. “I was in some pretty hairy battles and lost some close friends in my unit. I was taken hostage for three days by insurgents and a Delta Team rescued us.”

  “Wow,” was all I could say.

  “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “My eyes?”

  “You’re writing a pilot for a TV show.”

  She had me.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “It might make an interesting program.”

  I kept seeing her. I enjoyed the rough sex, bruises and scratches and bitten lips. Each time we got together, she opened up more, felt comfortable enough to tell me about seeing her friends killed when they drove over improvised explosive devices or their HumVees were hit with RPGs. She told me how many enemy combatants she had shot and killed, and how they had roughed her up while she was a prisoner, and came close to being gang raped if the Deltas had not burst in.

  “I’m thinking of en-enlisting for a third tour,” she said. “My sister will freak out, but I’m serious.”

  “Why? After all that happened…”

  “Because it’s real over there,” she said seriously. “Is it ‘real’ here in Los Angeles? Hollywood? It’s all make-believe; it’s all bullshit illusion, people living fantasies and virtual lives. I don’t want that. I grew up here, I know that life and it’s not for me. I don’t know what I want, but I never felt more alive in war than I ever have. Here, it is all ‘reel’ spelled like the spool is moving pictures.”

  Yet three weeks later, she informed me that she was now having second thoughts about re-enlisting because she was officially in love with my sorry dreamer’s ass. I didn’t know how to respond to that; you never do when someone says, “I love you,” and you do not love them back. “No need to answer, TV boy,” she said, fingers on my lower lip, “what I feel has nothing to do with what you feel, and I can wait.” Wait for what? I was fond of her, she was great to talk to and have sex with, but I had only known her for seven weeks and I was more occupied with getting a staff writer’s job on a new hit science-fiction show than getting involved; if I landed the job, I wouldn’t have the free time to see her as I did as an unemployed writer.

  Then we had our first big fight. It was about a camping trip she and her sister had planned, a week in Big Bear; her sister was bringing her fiancé and Allison wanted to know if I would join them.

  “A week?” I said. “A weekend, maybe, but Allison, I’m sorry, I can’t do a whole week out of the city.”

  She wasn’t pleased with my response. “Why not?”

  “I can be called into a meeting last minute,” I told her. “I have pitches out there, I’m up for this staff position. I have to be in the city.”

  “Company town,” she said with distaste.

  “You know how it is. Look, I’ll go two days, Saturday and Sunday…”

  “And leave me alone with my sister and her future husband?”

  “The best I can do.”

  “Is it because of what I said?” she asked. “Confessing I love you?”

  “What? No.”

  “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “See what?”

  “I don’t expect you to love me back yet, but I expect you not to lie to me and pull bullshit!”

  “Allison,” I said, and then I got it: her flattened palm into my nose. I felt the blood flow. I don’t know what happened; it was in her eyes: she was not the same person, she was a mad woman, or a solider, and she had a serious intent to hurt me. She used whatever hand-to-hand combat training she had been given and did some serious damage to my body, hiding her hands and feet, kickin
g and punching and chopping and screaming, calling me every name in the book. “Kidnap and torture me?!?” she yelled, and I felt a rub crack as I went to the ground. She was not here in Los Angeles; she was somewhere back in the Middle East, reliving a moment of violence, and I was not the guy she was dating but an insurgent who had to be taken down.

  And down I went.

  II

  I woke up in my bed and every inch of my body hurt, like Godzilla had stepped on me a few times, treating me like Little Tokyo. She must have put me in bed after she knocked me out. I could hear her in the living room, pacing about, talking to herself.

  I reached under the bed, where I kept a .38 snub nose in a shoebox for intruders. There are a lot of criminals in Los Angeles. I checked the chamber and made sure the six rounds were there. I had been on the firing range, and my Dad had taught me how to shoot.

  I limped to the living room, wondering if she had broken my foot. Determination and self-preservation kept me moving.

  She stopped pacing when she saw me. “Oh, God, Brad,” she said. “I’m so sorry what I did. I don’t know what happened—I snapped, and…”

  She saw the gun I was pointing at her.

  “Brad?”

  “Get out of my apartment,” I said as calmly as I could.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Get out of my home, and get the hell out of my life, you psychopathic bitch.”

  Her eyes became hard. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I don’t know what happened to you,” I said, “but you’re nuts, and I want nothing of it. Look what you did to me.”

  She stepped forward. “I can explain.”

  I didn’t give her a chance. I fired three times, all in her chest.

  III

  I poured myself three shots of vodka. I wasn’t aware of the pain in my body now that I head a dead body to contend with.

  I considered what to do. Call the cops, would they believe me? Solider goes crazy, uses the karate chops, I had to shoot her. Or would I get fifteen years for manslaughter? I had plans, dreams, schemes. Even if the D.A. agreed it was self-defense, the scandal would ruin me; no studio wanted to hire a writer who shot a woman, justified or not.

  I used to surf in Malibu when I first moved to Los Angeles. I still had two boards, and two surfboard bags. Allison fit into of the bags; I had to bend her body some, using gloves on my hand; I got her in there, zipped the bag up, carried the bag over my shoulder down to the garage and placed her in the trunk.

  No one saw me.

  I had no idea what I would say if anyone did.

  IV

  I drove toward Malibu. It was past midnight. I kept to the speed limit. I stopped off at a canyon on the way. No one was on the road. I parked, opened the trunk, and dumped her body into the canyon.

  Driving home, I went through my story for when Wendy reported to the cops her sister was missing more than 24 hours.

  “I was expecting her to come by,” I would say, “and she never did.”

  “No, everything was going great.”

  “We panned a weekend trip with her sister and fiancé.”

  “I’m really worried about her.”

  “Did you ask the Army? Maybe she went back…”

  And when someone found the body…?

  I couldn’t think that far.

  V

  I slept for two days; then met my agent for lunch. He had a meeting set up for me with Harold Croker, head of a new cable station looking for quality material. “Get your best pitches ready,” said agent. Normally, I would have been excited but the only thing on my mind was Allison Bennings’ body: when they would find it, what I would say when the cops came around.

  But there were no cops for now, and what I found strange was that Wendy had not called or come around asking where her sister was.

  I found out why when I got home.

  Allison was there.

  She was cooking dinner, some sort of stuffed bell pepper. She had opened a bottle of wine.

  “Bet you didn’t know I was an awesome cook,” she said. “I thought I’d make us something special for our two month anniversary.”

  She looked fine: no gun shot wounds, no bruises from being tossed into a canyon. She was more chipper than she usually was, the Allison I had known. It was obvious I had no idea who this woman was. I killed her again when she slept, after we had made curious tender love, no rough stuff. I took a pillow, put it over her face, pulled the trigger twice. I used the second surfboard bag and did the same as before: bundled her into it, took her to the canyon, tossed her down. “Let’s see you climb back up with two bullets in your brain,” I muttered into the darkness of the earth.

  VI

  The next day she called and asked if I had a sleeping bag for our trip to Big Bear. “I have an extra, and a tent, if you need it. I’ll come by at seven, okay? I have a surprise for you. I want to cook you dinner. Well I guess it won’t be a surprise now, huh? See you then, Brad. Love ya!”

  I didn’t even contemplate how weird this was getting. All I knew was that I was going to get it right; I was going to kill her for good this time. I would put six bullets into her body, then reload the pistol and put six more into her carcass. I would chop off her head and bury it in the desert and put her body in a different canyon.

  It was five o’clock and I heard someone opening the door to my apartment. She had gotten in before; she must have made a copy of my key. Why was she here early? No matter, I would kill her now rather than later.

  A middle-aged man with a bald head, wearing a military uniform, stood at the opened door and smiled at me.

  “Hello, Mr. Thompson.”

  I pointed the gun at him.

  “No need for that, Mr. Thompson.”

  Someone was behind me. Before I could turn, I felt a needle pierce my neck and my knees gave way, I felt like jelly and I laughed at the man’s bald head and asked, “Where did all your hair go?”

  VII

  I came to sitting on the living room couch, still smiling. The man in the uniform sat across from me, and another bald man, twice the size and half the age as the uniform guy and wearing a dark sweater and black jeans, stood to the right of me, a syringe in his hand. He was waiting.

  “How do you feel, Mr. Thompson?” asked the man in the uniform.

  “Strangely pretty good. This is some happy drug you gave me.” I felt calm, at ease, wanted to giggle.

  “We gave you something to relax you, and so that your mind will be more receptive to what I am about to say.”

  “Lay it on me, General Feel Good,” I said and giggled.

  “That would be Colonel, son,” he said, serious. “You murdered one of our operatives, two units destroyed in fact. Allison seemed to be happy dating you. So what happened? Are you a serial killer and our file on you was all wrong?”

  “She’s the nutcase,” I said. “She snapped on me; acting like she was back in the Middle East and I was the enemy. She beat the crap out of me. I thought she was going to snap for good and do me in, so I protected myself.”

  “Hmm. What triggered her alter?”

  “Her what?”

  “What made her violent?”

  “We had an argument. Nothing big, but she wigged out.”

  “She’s a trained killer. A weapon.”

  “And I was sleeping with her,” I said, finding it funny.

  “Here’s the situation, son: Allison Bennings was created by me and my team. We took a young enlistee and played with the wetware and made us what they call a ‘super solider.’ But losing such a unit, all that money and time and training put in, well, we had to ensure the weapon would remain intact should something unfortunate happen. So we cloned her, her and many others. Whenever one unit is terminated, a new one is automatically switched on. The memories of the dead one get transferred to the new one. I won’t go into all the details of this technology because you’d need s clearance I couldn’t get, and you wouldn’t understand it.
Hell, I barely do myself. All I know is that you killed two Allison units and they were replaced. We can’t afford you killing a third, the one heading over here at seven.”

  “I almost believe you,” I said.

  “You got any other explanation why the woman you murdered keeps coming back?”

  “Y’got me there. Say,” I giggled, “aren’t you telling me top secret stuff? You’re not going to kill me now, or wipe my memory are you?”

  “What good would that do? You became part of an experiment, Mr. Thompson. We wanted to see if our super soldiers could re-integrate themselves back into society. After all the programming, training and experience could the originals or copies return to their old lives, or become civilians? We were pleased about the relationship, and that she had fallen in love, because it looked like it would be a success: she would return to civilian life, but always be ready to go on a mission if we needed her…or her clone.

  “So, instead of terminating your function, Mr. Thompson, I want to make you a deal you cannot refuse, and the drugs we put in you should make the deal sound feasible and sweet, You will continue your relationship with Allison Benning, You will refrain from any arguments that will trigger her alter—the super solider as it were. You will make her happy, marry her perhaps, have children.”

  “That’s asking a lot,” I said. “Am I supposed to do it as a patriotic duty?”

  “Not at all; we will give you something in return. Something that you desire more than anything else.”

  “Yeah? What? Strawberry ice cream? ’Cause I’d sure love me some right now.” Giggles giggles ha ha. What the hell had they given me?

  “In a days you have a meeting with Harold Croker, a powerful new player in Tinsel Town, and one of ours. On your desk you will find a proposal for a new TV show. A TV show that will get the green light and be a hit. A TV show that will make you rich and allow you to create more TV shows down the line—an important executive producer and showrunner, with his beautiful wife Allison at his side.”

  “And if I reject that life?”