15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

“Fancy suits…fancy cars…this is turning out to be one fancy murder,” he said, swigging the last bit of his coffee as he looked intently at Ray.

  “I wouldn’t call it fancy, sir. Unnecessary, maybe.”

  The officer looked dumbfounded at Ray’s intelligence. From the look in his eyes, he was expecting a no good redneck homeless man in the interview chair, not a well-spoken, articulated gentleman of the streets. It was obvious to Ray that his intelligence was annoying the hell out of the officer.

  “Look Mr Watkins. I don’t know what your deal is but if you don’t stop being patronizing in my interrogation room, then I am afraid I will have to terminate the conversation and send you back to the gutters. Now get to telling me what I want to know.”

  Ray shook his head. His one gold tooth shone through a forced smile he found himself wearing. The smile was originating from the sheer asshole-ness of the officer interviewing him. In all his life, Ray had never been so offended by “the good guys”. In his previous experience, uniformed officers on the streets were caring. Sure you got some bad apples, but most of them would stop by and check up on him from time to time. Ray hadn’t expected any different in the precinct, after all that’s why he went to the police straight away. If he knew that a brick wall of bullshit was going to be put up in front of him, he would have probably skipped town and hidden out until the heat died down.

  “Mr Watkins, could you please answer my questions?” Asked the detective, interrupting his trail of thought.

  “I’ve told you everything I know sir. I cannot change what happened. I wish I could, but what I saw was what happened. Now I am sorry if I don’t fit “Model Witness” model number one. I can’t change what I am or where I live. Those are circumstances that far outreach my ability to implement anything of worth. If I could, I would. Don’t you think I’d prefer to have a job? Don’t you think I’d prefer to have a wife, some kids and a home? Don’t you think I have cried myself to sleep many a time because of my bad luck? I can’t change being broke. I can’t change being “that homeless guy”, just like I can’t change seeing what I saw. Now if you forgive me for my outburst, it would be nice. If not, merry Christmas, and I hope you catch the bad guys. I have already told you everything I know, and even offered showing you the scene of the crime. I take it you’ll be able to find it just fine. I’m going now, maybe catch a turkey dinner at the shelter,” Ray said as he got up to a visibly stunned detective.

  The detective shook his head in defeat. “We appreciate your time sir and I apologise if I came across as harsh. Its Christmas day now,” the detective said, looking at his watch. “Maybe you should get to a shelter. I’ll ring up a guy I know, sort you out with a few days R&R. Think of it as an apology. The case will be investigated and you will most likely be asked to attend a court date. You are okay with that right?”

  Ray nodded.

  “Good. You want me to give you a ride to the shelter?”

  “I’ll be fine sir. Just don’t forget about me. I don’t want to be sitting around, waiting for death to find me.”

  The detective looked confused.

  “You’ll be fine. You have nothing to be worried about. The shelter is a safe place. So is the courtroom.”

  Ray nodded his head and started to tap his right pinkie on the cold metal table. He felt uneasy and frightened. He wasn’t sure if the feeling would ever surpass; maybe when it was all over. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so scared.

  “I know. I’ll be fine,” he said, reassuring himself some as he got up and shook the officer’s hand.

  Ray felt a tad uneasy on his feet when he rose. It was as if the ground beneath him was teetering to the left and then to the right like he was on a boat making its way through some high winds and aggressive tides. He took a few deep breaths in and found his balance. He smiled at the detective and was let out of the interview room. Upon leaving the dark and dingy room, he was met with a ghost like atmosphere in the precinct. It was as if the only people present in the building were him and the detective as they walked towards the exit. Everyone must have gone home for Christmas, everyone but him and the detective. After a short walk they reached the reception area. The walls were whitewashed and smelt of clean sterile bleach. He looked at the exit and felt his heart race a little. Safety was about to be lost and the outside was about to become his life once again. No more bleach cleaned walls, just grainy brick and dirty sidewalks was all he could look forward to. He wondered what the shelter would be like. He wasn’t going to get his hopes up, after all he had been to shelters before, and they were not exactly the Ritz when it came to luxury.

  “Stay safe,” the detective said as he waved Ray off.

  The detective didn’t stick around. He was gone through the door they had just came through. All that remained was Ray and the exit. Ray clenched his fist tight and pushed the precinct exit open. He was met with a sunny sky and some cold wind. He smiled at the bright blue sky and felt happy. It was rare for Christmas to be marked with such a blue sky, even if the cold that accompanied it was below zero.

  He took a few steps forward and walked down the slope. He didn’t take his eyes off the sky, he was mesmerised by it. Something had caught his eye for a split second and he finally took his glare off the beauty above him and levelled his vision in front of him. Propped up on the kerb was a car, its engine was running and the window was winding down. At first he didn’t recognise the car and then he did. The car was an Audi and the passenger had his hand out of the window. He was holding a pistol, and before Ray could run back in, two shots had connected to his chest and head. Ray’s vision went black and the car sped off.

  Minutes followed and the detective that had interviewed him had rushed out to Ray’s aid. There was nothing he could do. By the time the paramedics arrived, Boston had lost another person at Christmas. Some were murdered, others were forgotten. All of them were innocent. And all of them would be investigated by Boston’s finest.

  ***

  Thirty Five Minutes later….

  Frank McKenzie woke up to the sound of his cell phone blaring off. He shot up and grabbed his cell. He flipped it open and answered it. By the time he had said hello, he had already managed to light a cigarette up. That was the by-product of years of practice.

  “You got Frank…”

  “Frank, you need to come in. It’s been one hell of a night. I have three cases that are wide open and none of the others can make it. It’s between you and Santiago I’m afraid. Heads or tails,” the voice said.

  “Heads,” Frank replied.

  “Looks like you lose. Get your butt in before nine and you might be able to get home in time for New Year’s Eve.”

  Frank started to laugh as he dragged on his cigarette.

  “It’s Christmas day for fuck sake. I’ll be dammed if I don’t get home in the next few hours,” he replied.

  “Well, I think you’ll find that hard. There’s been a double murder-suicide down the Southside mall, a drug’s bust that makes Scarface look like small fry and a drive by shooting on a police witness outside the precinct. It’s going to be a busy couple of hours for you Detective McKenzie.”

  Frank stubbed his cigarette out on the ashtray beside his bed. It was half finished but he had to put some clothes on. By the time he had his jeans and shirt on, he was half way out of the door.

  “Tell me again why I do this job? Not even on Christmas do the murders cease. Why don’t these assholes take a holiday or something?”

  Frank could hear some faint sniggering on the other end of the line.

  “Okay, I get it. Don’t whine it’s my job, blah blah blah.”

  “Yes Frank, it’s our job to bring these bastards to justice. Just think what the families will be going through on this day. It tough all round.”

  “Yeah, you’re telling me. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  Frank hung up the cell and opened his apartment door. He knew today was going to be a long day. He knew that not even Christmas could stop the
wheels turning on everything that was wrong with society. Not even Jolly Saint Nick could stop the carnage. Only one man could clean it up and that one man was making his was down to the police station.

  “Merry Christmas Frank,” he said to himself as he left his apartment that cold Christmas morning.

  Plenty of Pain

  One

  They say that pain is all in the mind, a byproduct of brainwaves and electrical charges going off simultaneously in your head. They say pain can be overcome. Tell that to the guy I’m torturing right now….

  I grabbed his middle finger and slid the blade underneath his dirty fingernail. I could feel the dirt scrape against the cuticle as I did so. It made me smile. Didn’t his mom ever tell him to clean under his finger nails? My mom did. Hell, my school would check under my nails before every lesson. They’d line us up and check that we were presentable. It didn’t matter that the school we went to was a piece-of-shit dumpster. It mattered that we were clean enough to attend, or we’d be experiencing after-school detention.

  Truth is, I was used to being the only kid in trouble. I was used to being made a fuss over. “You should really sort yourself out, Frank,” they would say.

  Look at me now. All sorted out.

  “Please don’t kill me — I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just stop hurting me! I can’t concentrate with all the pain,” the guy said as he looked up at me, his eyes all glazed over, bracing a look of sorrow in them as if I was supposed to give a shit.

  “I’ll stop when I’m bored,” I said.

  With that, I struck him in the face with a closed fist. I could feel his teeth colliding with my battered knuckles. They made a popping sound as a few broke away from the gum line and fell out of his mouth. I looked down at my fist, still clenched up as if I was expecting some resistance. I saw one of his teeth embedded in my knuckle. I smiled.

  “Dentists aren’t cheap,” I said as I hit him again. The impact of the punch made the embedded tooth disappear, and, judging by his facial expression, it must have hurt.

  “Please, I’m begging you,” he said, tears running down his beaten-up face.

  The light fixture above his head, which consisted of a light bulb on a dangly wire, swung from left to right, making the mood and atmosphere in the room to my liking.

  “Tell me what I want to know, or I’m going to shove some pincers in your mouth and finish off your teeth.”

  He didn’t reply; he just continued to weep. I had had enough. It was getting late. I looked at the time.

  “Eleven thirty-five p.m.,” I said to myself.

  Suddenly there was some noise near the fire exit. The derelict building I was in was secure enough, or so I had thought. I heard a charge of explosives go off. The door flew off its hinges. By the time the smoke had cleared, I was being greeted by the Boston PD special entry unit. They had their machine guns pointed at me, and then they lowered them. A look of dismay arose on the lead man’s face as he caught a glimpse of the tied-up man behind me. He shook his head in disappointment.

  “What the hell is this, Frank? I thought you said you were going to restrain the perp, not beat the shit out of him,” the lead Specials guy said as he took off his helmet. “Someone get him out of here. Clean him up and take him to the damn hospital before he bleeds to death,” he added.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a lighter and some smokes.

  “Care to explain yourself?” he said as I lit up and puffed away on that blissful smoke I so craved.

  “I was making sure I got some information from him, ya know, initiative,” I said, coughing up half a lung. My fitness sure wasn’t what it used to be.

  “By beating the shit out of him? How is that showing initiative?”

  “You need to break a few eggs to make an omelet,” I replied.

  “Not when the omelet is only wanted for drug trafficking. You didn’t need to give him a new face,” the Special said as he walked past me and watched as his team helped up the struggling criminal I had just detained.

  “So why turn up in all that gear? You obviously thought he was dangerous enough to bring the Specials on board,” I said.

  “No, Frank,” he said as he turned back around. “We just thought you were dangerous enough to warrant such a response.”

  Two

  The man with the red sombrero walked into the Lucky Eleven café in downtown Boston. He could smell the fresh coffee granules as he walked through the big wide wooden doors. The aroma made him smile. It brought him back to his childhood. Papa had always smoked the coffee beans in the pot long before pouring it. It was a tradition in his house. Coffee was never instant; it was always savored and prepared to great length. It was something that the man with the red sombrero cherished, something that he held close to his beating heart.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the woman behind the big oak counter asked.

  “Oh, yes, dear. I would kill for a cup of your finest right about now,” he said, smiling away at the pretty woman. She, too, returned a smile. It was a pleasant exchange. He was a good-looking man, and she was a better-looking woman. He had more than a few years on her, but even in his forties, there was no denying his ability to pull off the “sexy Hispanic gentleman” look.

  “How do you like your coffee?” she asked.

  The man with the sombrero showed some more of his perfect teeth. His black hair was poking through the side of his hat, showing that he had a full head of hair. He gently put his hand on the counter, leaning on it like a carefree cowboy. He tipped his hat a little, as if the nonexistent sun was in his eyes.

  “I’ll have it how I like my women. With a little spice,” he said.

  She blushed a little and got to making him a favorite of the establishment. She poured out some hot Moroccan coffee into a tiny espresso cup. She added some spice mix, which consisted of saffron and, for a little extra kick, Tabasco.

  “Perfect,” the man said.

  “Four dollars, ninety-five cents, please.”

  He handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Keep the change. For you only. Not the shop,” he said.

  The woman looked delighted. She had never received a fifteen-dollar tip for a cup of coffee.

  “Why, thank you, sir,” she said.

  “No problem, honey,” the man said, taking his coffee from the counter and strolling over to an empty seat.

  The whole café was pretty much empty. He was the only customer there, apart from a busy-looking businessman who was sitting at a table in the front. He looked like he was flustered, going through various files on his table. The man with the hat watched on, intrigued. He liked looking at people when they didn’t know they had an audience. It was something he had practiced a lot.

  The businessman continued to look flustered. The man with the hat downed his coffee and waited. He was fiddling with a sugar packet as he looked around the café in anticipation. It was then that he looked at the clock.

  “Twelve a.m.,” he whispered.

  He stopped fiddling with the sugar packet and stretched his arms out wide. No one was paying attention. The girl at the counter was reading a book. The sounds of country-western music were droning on in the background, coming from an old-looking radio on the wall. He diverted his attention back to the businessman. He, too, was too busy to notice the man in the sombrero.

  “Twelve oh one a.m.,” the man with the hat said as he got up and sighed. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun with a silencer attached. He turned slightly and faced the counter. The woman didn’t see it coming. He pressed the trigger two times. Two muffled gunshots went off. They sounded like clicks of a pen. Two holes emerged on the back of the book the lady was reading. Behind the book, a bloodied face held the last words on the page as she slumped down behind the counter. The man with the hat paced toward the table where the businessman was sitting. He hadn’t even noticed the man in the hat. He was too busy trying to put his life together. And then “The Mexican” had entered his li
fe, holding a gun to his head.

  “Move, and I’ll kill you here,” the man with the hat said as the businessman turned his head in shock to see the sombrero-wearing man holding a gun.

  “What? I don’t understand. What’s going on?” the businessman asked.

  “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

  Three

  I wasn’t in the mood for a debriefing. As far as I was concerned, they could have stuck the whole case up their ass. It was getting tiring now. All of the politics that came with being a detective. It wasn’t really my scene. I preferred being out on the streets, bringing the scum to justice. I hated all the office work that went with it.

  The forms, the calls from headquarters. The lawsuits. The bitchy HR personnel. The idiot chief of police and his goons of merry men. It was ridiculous, and I had had enough. Maybe it was time I quit. Maybe I could get some private security work. Yeah. That would be great. Private. No eyes prying on my every move.

  “They don’t care!” the voice said.

  “Fuck sake,” I muttered.

  I slid back in my office chair and opened my top drawer. I searched for my pill container. I found it. I immediately popped two pills into my mouth. My condition makes me edgy. It makes me off kilter a bit. I need the pills to stay balanced. Or the voices will become plenty and frequent.

  “Borderline schizophrenia” is what they diagnosed me with. I just think it’s a personality trait of mine trying to break through. You know — the bad stuff you try to bury deep in your subconscious. For some people, that works, but for me, I get feedback in the form of intrusive thoughts.

  “They don’t give a shit.”

  It takes a while for the voices to succumb to the pills. Sometimes the prescribed pills don’t work, and I often need to find another source of calm. But that’s a whole different kettle of fish there.

  “Frank, in my office now,” I heard a real voice say.

  I looked up and saw the ugly bastard who was my boss, Chief Shaw. He had a scowl on his face that fit my mood. I got up and brushed myself down.