15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  “No, I have a safety deposit box,” I said, producing my key and placing it on the desk.

  “I see,” she said.

  She looked a little nervous. I started to pay more attention to my surroundings, looking around, trying to grasp my situation. The walls of the bank looked dry and pasty. It was in need of a paint job. The teller at the cashier desk seemed bored. The woman I was dealing with looked just as bored, but there was something else to it. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.

  I turned my head and saw a guy in the line give me a look. He was flicking through his smart phone, and the sight of me startled him a little. I then looked back at the woman behind the desk. She was holding my key. She looked happy, and I then decided that I was too wired. I was looking into everything in such detail that I was highly suspicious of everyone. I heard no alarms, so I made the decision to go for my safety deposit box and get this ordeal over with. Too much worrying was causing my brain to frazzle.

  “Right this way,” the woman said.

  I followed her, still keeping an eye on everything. The security camera propped up in the corner turned a little. I didn’t know if it was all in my mind, but it did in fact look like everybody was paying attention to me. But in the same light, everyone was acting normal. So I let it go.

  The woman took me down a long corridor that led off from the teller desks. We came to a vault-like door that had iron bars on it, resembling a prison door to a cell. There was a guard standing next to it. He nodded at her, and she nodded back. Common courtesy, I guess.

  She turned around and smiled, handing me back the key.

  “Safety deposit box number eighteen, first row,” she said, pointing at the boxes behind the guard.

  “Okay, thank you so much,” I said.

  “Will you be needing some privacy?” the guard asked out of the blue.

  “No handguns in my box, so feel free to stick around.”

  The guard gave me a look and then broke out into a smile.

  “Nice to know,” he replied.

  I walked into the vault, key in hand, reaching for my safety deposit box.

  Twenty-Six

  I set the safety deposit box down on the big metal table that spanned the width of the room, right in the center. The sheen from the artificial lights above my head reflected off its surface. I saw my own face staring back at me as I undid the lid and looked inside my box.

  I felt uneasy; I tilted my head a little and noticed the big guard had left his post. I had told him that I wouldn’t need any privacy, but he had disappeared anyway. I guess that was when the first alarm bell went off in my head. I looked up at the bright fluorescent lights shining down on me. The whiteness caused spots of black and orange to form in my vision. I shook my head and noticed a red dot in the corner of the room. It was coming from a security camera propped up at an angle, staring directly at me. It was watching my every move, like a hawk. That was the second alarm bell that sounded off in my head. It sounded like a foghorn coming from an industrial ship sailing into port. I looked back down at my safety deposit box.

  Everything seemed to fizzle into one. My mind started to collect the pieces of puzzle that seemed to make up my current predicament. Everything felt as if it was slipping away from me. I grabbed the stack of money I had in the box. It was a cool ten thousand dollars, all in hundreds. I liked C-notes. They were clean and easily portable. It had taken me a while to amass ten grand, but I wanted the money to be easily carried. I figured that one day, having a stash of cash would come in handy. I just didn’t know what I’d need it for. Not even in my wildest dreams did I think I’d need it on the run.

  I grabbed my passport, which I also kept in the security deposit box, and then closed the lid. I didn’t bother putting the box back. It had nothing else in it. I left the key there and ran out of the prison-like vault. I made a left and noticed that the line of people standing at the teller’s desk was now longer. Morning rush hour was upon us. I had to get out of the bank fast and attempt to get to safety.

  The customer service woman was standing behind her desk, watching me jog down the hall.

  “In a hurry?” she asked, giving me a big fake smile.

  “Yeah, going to miss my ten o’clock appointment,” I replied, knowing fully well that I had never been involved in any appointments in my life. It made me sound important, though, which gave me a reason to be running in a crowded bank. The woman smiled and wished me a good morning. I did the same and got out of the bank as fast as my feet would take me.

  I got outside. The early morning sun hit my face, nearly blinding me. I ran back up to the newspaper vending machine and put another quarter in. It was risky leaving my firearm in a newspaper machine, but I figured that walking into a bank with a loaded police-issue weapon would cause some fuss. Lucky for me, hardly anyone bought newspapers anymore. Not when all the information was available online. I grabbed my gun and slid it up my sleeve. It was now concealed, and hopefully would remain that way.

  I was just about to turn around when I heard somebody walk up behind me and tap me on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, you going to take all damn day? Get your paper already and move on! Some people have a train to catch.”

  I turned around and saw an old lady staring up at me. She was at least ninety years old, maybe even one hundred. She had a mean attitude to her, one that I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. Even with my concealed weapon, I wouldn’t be a match for a pissed-off granny.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” I said.

  Her face went red. “You didn’t even get a paper!” she said, pushing past me.

  In my haste I had forgotten to grab one, only getting my piece.

  “Move out the way,” she said, putting her quarter in and grabbing the Times.

  I stood there like an idiot for a second or two, and watched the world go about its daily business. I hadn’t had much time to watch others do their thing, and it surprised me how full of ourselves we had become. I could tell that I wasn’t the only person in South Central to be focusing on my problems. People were barging past others. Some were arguing with each other, while others were walking and texting, not showing any consideration to other the pedestrians.

  I realized that people were all in their own bubble, succumbing to their own worlds. I thought I had a good reason to be in my own head, after all the crap I’d been through over the last twenty-four hours, but then I realized if I was to make it through this, I’d have to be more wary of others. I couldn’t let my thoughts distract me from the world, or the world could stumble into me and bring my life to a halt.

  I walked away from the newspaper vending machine with two things on my mind.

  I have to blend in. I have to disappear.

  Twenty-Seven

  Disappearing was of the utmost importance to me. I realized I was a sitting duck if I remained in South Central, or even Los Angeles. I was walking down Hyde Park, pondering my options. My current situation didn’t allow me much time to ponder much, but what came to me as my last resort was a trip across the border. I thought about it for a long while, making that same mistake I’d vowed not to make again. I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. If I had been, then maybe I wouldn’t have been pondering a border jump — I would have just done it as soon as possible.

  I continued to walk down Hyde Park Boulevard with nothing but thoughts on my mind and my hands in my pockets. I could feel the sensation of cold emanating from the steely metal of the handgun up my sleeve. It made me feel flushed. I knew that if I was caught with a police-issue firearm, I’d be off to Supermax, where I’d spend the rest of my life behind bars. What scared me most about that thought was the possibility that my life was truly never ending. I could be locked up for eternity, like El Diablo himself deep in the depths of hell.

  I continued to stroll down the street, my mind racing with conclusions that made no sense. I decided I needed a rest of some sort. Since acquiring my newfound ability to live with no pulse,
I noticed I hadn’t needed to take a piss, eat, or crap. I was either running on fumes or didn’t need nourishment. I suppose eating should have been the last thing on my mind, but oddly enough, I was sort of curious to see what I needed to do to sustain my life – if I needed to do anything at all, that is.

  I came across a bus stop on West 67th Street and decided to take a seat. The stop was empty, not a single soul in sight. I sat there for ten minutes, watching and waiting. The timetable said the bus would be no longer than eight minutes. Those eight minutes felt like hours as the hot L.A. midday sun baked down on my face. The heat coming from the passing traffic seemed to suffocate me. I sat there, wishing I had the ability to sweat. Strangely enough, even though the rest of L.A. was sweltering in obscene heat and rank body odor, I was as dry as a bone. My mouth felt blistered and coarse, but for some unknown reason, the craving of water was far from my mind. It was as if I didn’t need the stuff. My curiosity continued to toll on my brain as I sat waiting for the tardy bus.

  After a ten-minute wait, the bus showed up, only two minutes past the posted schedule. I got up and stood straight. I wanted to seem normal and natural. It didn’t occur to me that many people had seen my face that morning. I didn’t know it, but the feds had released a news story about me. It was a bogus one, but nonetheless, it still carried weight.

  I just didn’t know how much of that weight was about to come tumbling onto me like stack of bricks. I was in for the toughest day of my life. And there I was, thinking it was all about to go my way.

  I walked onto the bus. I paid my fare and sat at the back. Unbeknownst to me, I was minutes away from finding out that I was wanted for murder.

  Twenty-Eight

  I got off the bus on Alameda Street. I noticed a small diner on the corner. It looked rundown and out of place, in the sense that a diner like that shouldn’t be in an industrialized area. It was rundown on the inside but boasted being the “number one place for milkshakes in South Central.”

  It was obviously hard to believe such a claim, seeing that South Central offered a lot of good food. At least the claim wasn’t “the best coffee in the world,” or I’d be inclined to say something.

  I crossed the busy street, jaywalking like nobody’s business, and reached the entrance to the shoddy-looking diner. I went up a few baby steps and pushed on the flimsy front door. It creaked a little as I did so, then stepped into the compact diner to the smell of warm milk and strawberries.

  “Yum,” I uttered under my breath.

  I closed the door behind me and walked up to the counter. The floor was awfully sticky, and I didn’t want to think about what was caked on it. I rang a little bell on the counter, and a plump woman walked through some beads, wearing a smile on her face. Her cheeks were flushed red with what I could only describe as “fat person’s joy face.”

  “Why, hello, young man!” she said, almost proclaiming it.

  I did a double take and looked around the diner. It was empty. I was the only person who’d decided to take advantage of South Central’s best milkshake, it appeared.

  “Hi, there. I’d like one of those award-winning milkshakes please,” I said, beaming a smile back at the plump woman behind the greasy counter.

  “Sure thing, honey. Just sit your tush on one of those chairs over there, and I’ll get to making you one!”

  I didn’t bother telling her that she’d forgotten to ask me which flavor, but I decided to roll with it and see what came to my table. I wanted something to eat, so I asked for a grilled cheese sandwich. Remember, I was trying to see what effects eating and drinking had on my newfound self. I wondered if my stomach even worked, let alone was able to digest and extract nutrients. I’d know for sure in about six minutes when I’d be chowing down on some greasy toasted sandwiches.

  “That’ll be ten dollars, sweetheart,” the plump woman said.

  If only she knew how un-sweet my heart actually was. I thought of it more as a bitter heart. A heart that only ever stopped me from living my life to the fullest.

  “Thanks, darling,” I said, realizing how stupid I felt uttering the word “darling.” I think that was the first time I ever said it…and the last. The woman blushed and gave me back my change.

  I went over to the empty allotment of chairs and tables, all skewed at different angles in the back of the cramped diner. I saw a few salt and pepper shakers turned on their sides, spilling their contents, along with a Heinz bottle of ketchup half leaking on another.

  “My type of eating,” I said, sitting down and noticing the microscopic granules of sugar coating my table’s surface.

  “You want the TV on, sweetie?” I heard the woman say from afar. She must have been in the back. I figured that was where the kitchen ought to be.

  “Yeah, if it isn’t much trouble, ma’am,” I said, half shouting, which felt weird, considering the context of what I was saying.

  I saw the TV she was talking about sitting high on a stack of chairs in the corner. It amused me that this certain diner couldn’t even be bothered to spare one of their many empty tables and devote it as a stand for the small rickety old tube.

  I sat in my chair and cradled the back of my head with my hands. I yawned, which surprised me. I shouldn’t need to sleep, right? Well, apparently my brain had different ideas. I guess this whole thing was a learning curve. I wanted to know more about my ailments, but I’d have to figure them out for myself.

  The TV zapped on, and the news was playing in the background. I didn’t pay it too much attention because something else outside had caught my eye. Across the street I saw a huge eighteen-wheeler pull into what looked like a truck stop. I looked on in wonder, imagining the sort of cover riding in the back of a truck would bring. I could get to Mexico in relative safety if I convinced one of the drivers to stow me away. Some cold hard cash wouldn’t go amiss in my mission to convince somebody to let me ride along with them.

  I saw another truck leaving the stop and watched it sound off its horn to the others. A fat man stood on the corner, waving it off, holding a clipboard. I sat there wondering what I’d have to do to get on one those trucks. Would I have to pay money, or would they just flat out refuse to let me on the rig? I decided that I’d find out after sampling my milkshake.

  The woman came to my table, holding a greasy-looking metal tray. She was a pro at holding it; it rested on her left forearm while she placed the contents of the tray on my table with her right hand. She gave me a smile and turned to the TV. What she said next surprised me and brought me out of that bubble I promised myself I’d get out of.

  “Tut, tut,” she said. “This world is full of nothing but heathens. I mean, who would do such a thing?” she added, walking off and whistling a familiar country tune.

  I turned my attention to the TV and slurped on the straw in my milkshake. I was just about to take a bite out of my toasted sandwich when I dropped the greasy snack back on the plate with a splat.

  “Shit…oh, fuck….” I said, starting to feel the inevitable panic that had surrounded me since yesterday.

  On the TV the news was still showing. I couldn’t hear what the anchorwoman was saying, but I got the gist of the story from the scrolling “breaking news” graphic that kept lapping the bottom half of the screen.

  It read: Young Olympic Hopeful Fakes His Own Death and Murders Best Friend & Best Friend’s Mother.

  I stood up in shock, my eyes not leaving the space between the TV screen and the frame that surrounded it. The window behind the TV glared the sun’s beam into my eye. I moved closer to the box and sat down on another chair, closer to the tube. I turned the dial up ever so slightly. I could now hear what was being said.

  My picture appeared over the right shoulder of the reporter.

  “Breaking news now coming from South L.A. An Olympic hopeful who apparently faked his own death two days ago, has gone on a killing spree that has left two people dead and a police officer in the hospital. This story breaks just hours after we reported that Derr
ick James Smith collapsed at a pre-marathon run a few days ago. Sources close to the FBI say that Derrick was able to fake his own death by lowering his heartbeat to a near-undetectable rate, fooling the doctors into thinking he was deceased.”

  I sat up, the chair squawking under my sudden movement.

  “Joining us now is Professor Martell Mathews, who has studied the human heart for nearly four decades. Is it possible for somebody to fake their own death by slowing their heart rate?”

  I coughed involuntarily. I was aghast at what I was watching, my legs feeling shaky. I saw the camera pan from the anchorwoman to a man in a suit with a beard and glasses. He was sitting next to the woman and looked very smug. I wanted to punch the crap out of him at the very first sight of the man. I figured he was part of this whole conspiracy. Why on earth would the police lie? To save their own asses? What was the point in telling people I’d faked my own death?

  “It is absolutely possible to slow the heart down to a near-death state. Many illusionists have used that ability to entertain the masses for years. Do I believe that Derrick James Smith is an illusionist? No, I don’t. Do I think he’s a murderer? Absolutely I do.”

  “Fuck off, I am,” I said under my breath. I heard some rustling behind me. I turned to see the plump woman hard at work in the back, fixing something up. I knew I had to make a break for it. If she saw my face on the TV, then I’d be screwed. The LAPD was notorious for being aggressive, and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be faking my way out of cuffs.

  I felt as if I had to get as much information as possible regarding what they were saying about me. I told myself that I could afford one or two more minutes. I had to know what else they were lying about.

  “What proof has the FBI released to confirm that it is indeed Derrick James Smith?” the anchorwoman asked. The doctor smiled, as if they hadn’t rehearsed this before. I could tell they were setting something up, trying to make it look dramatic.