15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  ‘My name is Samantha.’

  ‘I’m Roxanne…Sorry about not asking sooner.’

  ‘Oh it’s okay, considering our circumstances, I don’t blame you one bit. I didn’t even ask you what your name was.’

  ‘True…As bad as each other I guess.’

  The two girls laugh and then suddenly stop as they realise where they are. It’s like they had forgotten for that brief moment in time. They felt as if everything was normal and then reality came crashing back down and hit them like a ton of bricks. It came in the form of the Machete Man yawning on his stool. The fear that ran through both of them at that minute was unexplainable. They had nearly waited long enough for the killer to fall asleep and suddenly they found themselves laughing and joking. He could be waking up because of their giddy slip up and all that effort would have been for nothing. Thankfully the Machete Man remained in a deep sleep. Even the bottle of Rum slipping out of his relaxed grip and hitting the floor didn’t do much in the way of waking the sleeping menace. The two girls sigh in relief. They wanted the man to be in a deep sleep that way Roxanne could finish sharpening her makeshift shank. It was nearly done.

  ‘Just one more minute and we are ready,’ Roxanne says quietly while Samantha keeps a close eye on the killer a few yards to the right of their cell.

  A few minutes of silence go by; the only audible sounds are the heavy abrasive breathing of the Machete Man and the light rubbing sound of the shank on the floor. Finally, the knife is ready. The tip of it curves at a crude angle much like the points of winkle pickers. Roxanne silently gets up off the floor and quietly makes her way towards the rickety bed that’s attached to the wall. She gets in and puts the covers over her. She holds the knife close to her chest like a knight would hold his sword before entering battle. She believes this is going to work, it has to work.

  Right on cue, Samantha starts to sing extremely loud. It doesn’t take long for the Machete Man to stop snoring. His loud breathing is replaced by the sounds of Samantha hitting a few dreadful high notes. She hears the Machete Man get up from his stool, the bulk of his weight lifting off the wooden chair cracks through the hallway and echoes off the walls of their cell. Samantha’s singing grows louder as Roxanne hears the Machete man tap on the metal bars.

  ‘Shut the hell up or I’ll make you,’ the simpleton says as he struggles to be heard over the loud voice of Samantha. The next thing Roxanne hears is the jangling of keys and then the sound of the locks turning. The door slides open and the heavy footsteps of the Machete Man creak through the cell. Samantha’s singing is starting to get quieter as the huge bulking man comes closer. Roxanne opens her eyes and quickly rips the wool bedding off her. Her eyes are met with a shard of light that’s surrounding the shadowy figure of the Machete Man. She makes her move and springboards herself off the bed. Her arm is raised as she grips the shank and extends it deep into her target. She hears the singing stop and feels the hard plastic hit his neck. It goes in easily enough and comes out easier. Her face is covered in blood as she hangs onto his neck while striking him with her knife. She keeps stabbing him. Each time the Machete Man screams louder in pain. His screams turn to gargling sounds as he goes down onto one knee. Samantha looks on in dismay as she watches her cellmate hack at the man’s neck. After another barrage of strikes, the man falls flat onto his stomach. Roxanne’s arms are still gripping him as she frees herself from his deadweight. She looks at the stunned and shocked Samantha. Roxanne looks down at the lifeless corpse that’s oozing blood. She struggles to turn him around.

  ‘Help me turn him onto his back,’ she says

  The two girls struggle some more for a few moments and then succeed. They are met with a grim image as she sees the extent of his wounds. A few hundred holes adorned his face and neck. The Machete Man’s eyes are still open but show no signs of life. Roxanne grips her shank one more time and slits his throat, just to make sure.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she says while trying to catch her breath.

  Thirty Four

  ‘On three…One…Two…Three,’ says Frank as he hits the enforcer into the depot door. It crashes open and flies off its hinges. Frank is the first through.

  The rest follow as they trample through the wooden splinter and shards of glass on the floor. The commotion is overwhelming as Frank hears the sound of tear gas and smoke popping through the building. The other teams have made their strategic entrances. He can hear the officers apprehend some people. No gun shots yet. Just smoke. Frank tries to make his way through the thick bellowing cloud of dust and smoke. He can hear his men behind him. The radio chatter is going off the hook. He can hear multiple calls of hostiles spotted followed by the call sign of them being apprehended. Finally, Frank reaches the depot’s center and is met by a shocking sight. Only two men are handcuffed. He takes his gasmask off and tries to catch some fresh air. He sees the mayor standing next to the two apprehended men. He goes over to the Mayor.

  ‘Mr Mayor….What are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s about time you assholes showed up. I’ve been here for nearly thirty minutes. Me and Humphries put these two pricks in cuffs as soon as we got here. There was no need to blow the damn place apart. The doorbell works just fine!’

  Frank looks on in confusion. He sees the officers with the same expression on their faces.

  ‘What do you mean sir; I don’t understand….What’s going on here?’

  ‘Humphries rang me and told me he found the guy who kidnaped my daughter…’

  ‘Your daughter was kidnapped? Why the hell didn’t you contact the police?’

  ‘I was going to but Humphries wanted to deal with it. We were just about to sort something out and you guys came crashing through here.’

  ‘We came here because we suspect one of our own officers is being kept here against his will’

  ‘Your right…The same guy who kidnapped my daughter also had your officer tortured. He’s fine though…A few burns to his legs and a couple of fractured ribs. He’ll live.’

  Frank cannot believe what he his hearing.

  ‘Where is Detective Mullins?’

  ‘In the basement…A few of your men went down there with Humphries to retrieve him.’

  Frank’s radio goes off.

  ‘We’ve found Mullins. He’s a bit banged up, but he’ll live. EMT’s say he’s not critical but will obviously be taken to hospital…Over’

  Frank looks around the chaotic depot and sees the two cuffed men lying on their fronts.

  ‘What about those two,’ he says while pointing at the two men.

  ‘Oh, those are the guys who held Mullins as a hostage. They were also involved with the kidnapping of my daughter and the other girls’

  Frank’s eyes light up.

  ‘The other girls?’

  Suddenly Humphries touches Frank on the shoulder.

  ‘Yes, let me explain,’ the soft talking business man says.

  Humphries goes onto explain the mystery of the missing girls that turned up in Christmas boxes all over Boston in the past twenty four hours and how he had saved them from people traffickers to employ them in his cleaning business.

  ‘So Antonio went behind your back and sold these girls to some nut job?’

  ‘Yes exactly. I wanted to give these girls a shot at life in America. I already had their work visas ready and was renting out my eastside apartment building for them. They were going to become a vital part of my business and a major part of my heart. It has always been a dream of mine to employ people in desperate situations. I succeeded until my closest associate decided that it wasn’t in the company’s best interest and we would lose too much money. What he didn’t know was that the Mayor had loved the idea behind it and would publicly endorse a charitable cause to get more homeless employed and housed. He was willing to help with the costs and thought the public would love the idea behind it.’

  Frank found the excuses and facts that both the Mayor and Humphries were giving hard to swallow, but i
t seemed plausible enough. He was more interested in finding the rest of the girls.

  ‘Did Antonio give up the location of the killer and the missing girls?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s down the road in one of my old warehouses. It’s only a five minute walk.’

  ‘What about Antonio? Where the hell is he?’

  Humphries smiles.

  ‘I have no idea…Maybe he will show up one day…’

  Frank laughs.

  ‘I doubt it…Well we better pay this warehouse a little visit,’ says Frank as he signals his men into formation.

  Thirty Five

  One Hour Later:

  ‘You didn’t find one survivor?’ Asks Shaw as he sips his coffee and looks at the tired and burnt out McKenzie across his desk.

  ‘Apart from the two girls we found near the exit of the sewer system. They were trying to escape. They thought we were backup for the killer.’

  ‘Mullins is going to be fine then?’

  ‘Yeah, the two pricks that held him hostage are going down for a long time. Mullin’s received some pretty bad burns on his legs but the doctors said he will walk again; it just might take a few months of resting. By the way the Mayor is ecstatic at the quick nature of us finding his daughter.’

  ‘Oh, so one of them was the Mayor’s daughter Samantha?’

  ‘Yep and you won’t believe who the other one was…’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You remember telling me about that woman who was coming over to talk to you about her girl that went missing four years ago?’

  Shaw’s face whitens.

  ‘Mrs Ledger?’

  ‘Yeah, we found her daughter!’

  ‘Oh my god! That’s terrific!’

  ‘Yeah it sure is and the best part is she was the one who ended up killing the bastard. She’s safe and sound with her mum and dad. I guess that book she is writing may turn into quite an engrossing read now all the parts of the puzzle have been solved.’

  Shaw smiles once more.

  ‘Well done Frank. You sure are a life saver. You deserve to go home and rest up. You look tired. I’ll do your paperwork for you, it’s the least I can do.’

  ‘Oh wow, thanks boss. I guess I should save people more often!’

  Shaw laughs as he shakes his head in pure disbelief.

  ‘Well it beats you killing everyone now doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose’

  ‘Now get going McKenzie…That’s an order.’

  Frank shakes his boss’s hand and walks out of the Chief's office. He is met with a roomful of officers clapping and cheering him on for a job well done. It turns out that it may be a happy Christmas for Frank after all.

  Thirty Six

  Ten minutes later:

  Frank makes his way to his Ford Capri. The dark parking lot is another reminder of the cold outside. He feels happy that he packed a coat in his trunk. He flicks the automatic switch on his key and pops the trunk open. He sees his coat and reaches for it. Underneath the coat is a bloodied machete. He smiles as he runs his finger across the blade. The voices in his head return.

  ‘FRESH….AND JUICY,’ the voice snarls

  He shakes his head as if he is trying to get rid of the voices. He puts his coat on, and hovers over the trunk for a little while longer, staring at the machete as he does so.

  ‘TOUCH IT’

  He continues to stare. He shakes himself out of the trance and reaches into his trouser pocket to grab his pills. He opens the lid and tilts his head back, swallowing a few pills. He chucks the now empty pill container into the trunk. He shuts it and moves towards the driver’s door. He opens it and steps in, quickly shutting out the cold from the outside. He adjusts the mirror in his car and takes a moment to stare into his eyes.

  ‘A KILLER’S EYES’

  He turns to look at the large book placed on the passenger’s seat. It looks old and worn in appearance. He smiles as he reaches out and touches its crusty rim.

  ‘A KILLER’S DIARY’

  Frank grins as he looks back at his reflection in the rear view mirror.

  ‘A KILLER’S SMILE,’ Says the voice

  ‘Maybe….’ Frank says out loud.

  He turns the ignition and lights the car park up with his halogen beaming headlights. He swerves backwards and screeches out of the parking lot.

  ‘Maybe’ He repeats once more as he turns on the radio and blasts some Metallica on his ride home.

  A Killer Christmas

  The Man in the Shadows

  A short

  There was a man in the shadows on the Eve of Christmas 2013. He was waiting for somebody, somebody he once loved dearly. He was patiently sat on a bench overlooking the crowded car park of a mall. The mall in question was a rundown piece of crap that he didn’t feel too kindly towards. Maybe it was the aesthetics of the building, or maybe it was the smell of joy that stank the place out. What he was sure about however was the distain he had for the damn place. He couldn’t stand being next to it, let alone sitting within its joyous boundaries.

  He had been sat on the bench overlooking the mall for a few hours. He knew the person he was waiting for would be at the mall. He knew all too well the person that had betrayed him would be blissfully unaware of their fate. He knew they didn’t suspect a thing, for if they did, they would be quaking in their boots with the pain that was surly going to grip at their lifeless corpse come the end of the night.

  Alistair sat on the bench clenching his 40oz bottle. He decided that it would be amusing to him to be a stereotype on such a stereotypical night that was the Eve of Christmas. He decided to wrap his bottle of alcohol up in a paper bag. He wanted to look like the down and out homeless man that frequently appeared in so many Hollywood Christmas tales. The sort of man that raved and ranted at passer-by’s.

  The sort of man that clenched his fist at the skateboarding kids that rode past at a blistering speed. Alistair was surly the sort of man that fitted that bill. He fitted it well, and embellished his new found role.

  “Go fuck yourselves,” he said as a couple holding hands walked on by, giving them the stink eye. “Go fuck yourselves you worthless pieces of shits,” he said.

  The couple pretended to not hear the obscenities that were being hurled towards them. They just walked on and ignored the seemingly incoherent man on the bench.

  Alistair was wrapped up warm in a grey fleece. He had a beanie hat on that tilted to the right side a little. His five o’clock shadow had turned into what could only be described as a “can’t be bothered beard”.

  He sat himself up straight and tipped the bottle into his mouth. The brown liquid drenched his face and clung onto the sides of his lips as he downed the whole bottle. He then threw the paper bag containing the empty bottle into the bushes that lay in front of him. He heard the bottle crack and he himself cracked a smile.

  “Fuckers,” he spewed in a drunken tone.

  The beam of a car’s headlights hit the bush in which he had thrown the bottle in and then disappeared. He had managed to see the shattered glass that now plastered the pavement. He nodded his head in delight.

  “That’s right. I own this fucking bench,” he said in amusement.

  Some time passed and he had fallen asleep. It was the sort of sleep that was inconsistent. He had opened his eyes many times and saw the world move in slow-motion as he tried to keep his eyes open. For some reason he was feeling rather faint. It must have been the alcohol, or maybe that artery in his head had finally exploded. He was certain he had something wrong with him, but all the tests in the world versus all the second opinions had told him differently.

  “They don’t know what they are talking about…Fucking quacks,” he muttered.

  He had closed his eyes once again, this time succumbing to his need for sleep. Possible brain aneurism or not, he needed some shut eye. Suddenly he heard a voice beside him. He then felt the bench he was sitting on flex a little, as if someone had sat down next to him. He opened his eyes and craned his hea
d to his left. He didn’t see anyone, but then he heard the voice again. The voice was near silent and possessed a certain magical tone. He narrowed his eyes down and saw a small boy sitting next to him. The magical voice belonged to him. He was staring at Alistair with an intent look of curiosity on his face.

  “Mister, are you okay?” he asked.

  Alistair didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He was sure his drunkenness was impairing his ability to tell the difference between reality and the haziness of his drunken predicament.

  “Excuse me?” he finally said. The little boy looked at him with a blank expression. His hazelnut eyes penetrated deep into Alistair’s soul. He could not help but think the boy reminded him of his son. His estranged son, his once precious boy.

  “You seem awfully sad Mister,” the boy exclaimed.

  Alistair nodded.

  “I am,” he said. He felt a strong bond with the boy sitting next to him. So much so, he felt the need to brush his shoulder against him to check if he was real. He did it in a way that wouldn’t freak the boy out. He knew what times he lived in, and wouldn’t want the boy to think he was a weirdo.

  Sick, sick world, he thought to himself.

  “Why are you so glum?” the boy asked.

  Alistair gulped as he tried to sit himself up a little from his slouched position. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, and he certainly didn’t want anyone interrupting his conversation with his new friend. There was just something about the boy that Alistair liked. Was it his kindness? He sure didn’t know, but he liked talking to him. Even if it was strange and out of the ordinary. He felt lonely. He felt as if the world had done him wrong. Maybe the boy could see that. Maybe he wasn’t alone in all of this.