Final Assignment
by Tom Gnagey
© 2010
2,900 words
It had been a contest.
It had been my livelihood.
I had been very good at the contest.
It had been a very good livelihood.
There were unmistakably evil people in the world whose openly demonstrated actions unequivocally defined them as such. It was the mission of my wealthy, unknown, benefactor to rid them from our midst.
There were two of us assassins. We each knew that much but didn’t know each other. The rules were simple. We would each receive a package at the outset of a new assignment – about one every two months. It would contain a photograph of someone and a single clue to the person’s identity – a work place, a hangout, a street often traveled. Never anything more specific than that. There was also a camera, which automatically time and date stamped each photo as it was taken. The assignment was always the same: Kill the target pictured. The contest was always the same: the one of us who completed the mission won and would receive a $100,000 wire transfer into our offshore account. (The loser received a copy of the picture the winner had taken of the dead target, which signaled the end of that assignment and thus their loss.) I didn’t win every contest but did command a twenty-four to twelve lead. Thirty-six of the city’s evilest people were dead, buried and – it was assumed by a grateful public – committed to hell. It had all begun six years ago that morning.
A new package arrived in the mail. In appearance it was identical to all that had come before – a box, five inches by six inches by three inches tall wrapped in brown paper, tied with brown twine, with stamps applied by hand. Long ago, I had established that the return address was nonexistent. In contents, however, was different. This time the single clue, always written on the back of the photo, began with the words, “Final Assignment – see later.” Rather than one, there were four photographs. The top one was of a distinguished looking old man in a judicial robe. Printed on its back – below the words revealed above – was the word ‘Director’, the term always used to sign our assignments. Odd. The second was of a man about my age – average in looks, fit, well dressed. On the back it was labeled ‘Agent ONE’. Very odd. The third photo was not of a person but of an office building. It was labeled, ‘Agent THREE’. A new player. A faceless player. I didn’t like any of that. I dealt down to the final picture that lay face down in the mix – Agent TWO was the label that looked up at me from its white backside. I turned it over. The blood drained from my head and I became faint. I sat. It was my picture. At the bottom of the stack there was a slip of paper cut the size of the photographs. It contained a hand printed message – clearly that of an aged person and clearly the promised, ‘see later’, addendum. I mumbled through it reading the words but not really stating them.
It read:
“Upon reflection I have come to realize that even the best of intentions can be evil at their roots. By doing what we have been doing we have defined ourselves as no better than the evil-doers we have removed. In this final assignment there are four possible targets. My initial intention was to have the three of us who have been so long involved as comrades in this mission be removed for our own evil deeds. But, you have both been loyal and efficient and have engaged each contest well. I have, therefore, arranged this final game. Which agent will be left? I have loaded the contest in favor of the new agent, believing the other three of us must die for what we have done. However, I have always prided myself on being fair, therefore I have included a clue as to Agent THREE’s identity. In all fairness I have given him or her a sizeable advantage since I do want the three of us to go out together. I assume there will be no problem with the perpetration of my own death. Prompt and painless, please. Submit the claim photographs to the address below for payment as before. Make whatever arrangements you may need to make regarding your estates.”
I studied the face of agent ONE. I may have seen it, though could not immediately place it. The building was also familiar. Downtown perhaps. It should be an easy find. How to locate number THREE within it would pose the larger problem. I assume Number ONE will go after THREE first, as would I. Self-protection would become our first priority. If THREE had been given an advantage it might be best if ONE and I teamed up. What a strange turn of events. We could split the kills for payment – one of us turn in THREE and the other the Director. But then what? Go our separate ways and resume the hunt or go our separate ways and end the contest. How could we trust each other in that? We couldn’t. The contest would continue. The full $300,000 would be a nice cushion for my retirement – that being the final contest. I wondered what ONE was thinking at that moment.
Being a target myself was unnerving but I supposed that went without saying. The marks I’ve taken out had an advantage in that way; they didn’t know, so had no anxiety about, the fate that was about to be theirs.
I heard the morning paper thump against the door – it was early. I found myself immediately more cautious than before and used care and cunning in retrieving it. Back inside, I sat at the kitchen table with coffee as I scanned the headlines. I was met with the totally unexpected – one hundred thousand dollars worth of the unexpended. The headline above the picture told the story – more to me than to most who read it I imagined.
“Judge Blackburn Found Dead By His Own Hand.”
It was clearly a picture of the Director – the same one I had just received so there could be no question. The old bird had killed himself. I guessed because he was feeling guilty about forcing me or Number ONE to do him in. That would be consistent with the new found guilt he revealed in his note. That changed the playing field as well as the stakes. I wondered, of course, if ONE had been responsible – staging it to appear like a suicide. I’d done such things many times myself. I would have to wait and see if I received a copy of a proof-of-kill photograph. It would arrive tomorrow if it were to arrive.
Which person should I identify first – Number ONE or Number THREE? I wanted both of them. I knew ONE’s skill and that if he decided to find THREE he would find THREE. I’d locate ONE first and see if we could make a deal. The Director clearly believed that THREE had the skill to take us both out. It might take both of us to get him. I believed that I knew ONE well enough to understand that would also be his take on it. Where had I seen that face? A bar? A café? On the sidewalk? Mass transit? That was it. The subway. He was often coming the up stairs as I was getting coffee from Mac at his cart up at street level. The gray temples and streak through his hair, the dark rimmed glasses, the dress shirt with the open collar under a sport coat. It was Number ONE.
If I figured him so quickly, it was a pretty sure bet he had figured or would soon figure me as well. I finished dressing and left my apartment through the rear door, something I never did. I turned west in the alley moving away from the subway entrance. I circled around the block behind my building – south, east, north, and then east along Maple to 6th Avenue. The entrance I sought was a block straight ahead. I usually had Mac refill my coffee cup at about seven forty. It was seven thirty-five. Despite the disruptions of the morning I was still on schedule.
ONE was a cagy, cool, dude; I’d give him that. There he was sipping coffee and making small tall with Mac. I reached under my coat and loosened my gun in its holster just in case. I approached the garish red and yellow cart at an easy stride. I offered my cup toward Mac. He poured. I handed over two dollar bills. He knew to keep the change.
How does one begin a conversation with the man who is soon to kill you if he can? As it turned out, I didn’t have to.
“Johnny Davis,” he said casually as if greeting an old friend. It hadn’t been a question.
“You have me at a disadvantage. I only know you as ONE.”
“He smiled straight ahead avoiding eye contact.”
“How about, Bill Smith?”
“Bill it is. We have an interesting situation.”
“We do. See the morning paper?”
“I removed it from under my arm and exposed the lead story.”
It had been my way of saying, ‘yes’ – proving it, perhaps.
He nodded and asked.
“Can we walk?”
“North?”
We turned and walked.
“Truce until THREE is dealt with?” he asked – suggested.
“I suppose our words of honor will suffice,” I said.
It had been more of a feeler than a question. He nodded. I nodded in return. The deal had been struck.
“No more ideas than I have, I assume,” I said trying to move rapidly into the planning stage.
“Our being here together pretty well guarantees that, I suppose.”
I nodded again, hoping his side vision picked it up. He nodded in return.
We came upon a harried mother with a baby in one arm and the hand of an uncooperative three year old lad in the other. She had dropped her purse. Bill bent down and retrieved it for her, extracting a lollypop from his pants pocket and offering it to the fully displeasured little boy. He looked at the mother for permission. She nodded and Bill unwrapped the goody while the lad held the stick tightly in his clutches. The mother expressed her appreciation. Bill made no comment. We moved on. I liked the man. I hated the idea of having to kill a person I liked.
“So?” he said – more probably asked.
“I have one idea,” I offered. “Assuming THREE can identify us, what if we occupy opposite sides of the lobby or entry area at his building, each keeping watch for anybody who takes an interest in the other of us. We can in that way get a line on him and figure strategy from there. He’s not likely to try anything upon first sight there in a busy lobby.”
“I know the building; it has a large lobby with open stairs to a 360 degree mezzanine. One of us up and one of us down should get us started.”
“Verifying the intentions of such a stalker may be difficult,” I cautioned.
“I have a plan. One of us forces our self on him – let him know that we know what he’s up to and offer to double team the third man with him. If he agrees we know we have our man.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“We know nothing and one of us has shown our hand. It is the essential risk we have to take I think.”
“I agree. When?”
“Nine thirty today?”
“Nine thirty today it is. We can watch for each other outside on the sidewalk, then enter separately.”
“I’ll take the upper,” he said. “You work the lobby.”
It had been carried out as if we had been partners for years. We knew each other’s minds. It was a strange bond – a bond clearly defined just for the short run. I must do my best to keep my feelings toward him neutral. This was an in-the-moment, cooperative, endeavor of necessity and dared become nothing more.
9:30
I approached 1000 Claiborne Avenue. Bill was reading the brass plaque beside the revolving doors. We connected across the twenty yards and he entered. I followed without breaking my pace. It was as described an open area with meeting rooms, elevator doors, and hallway entrances, peeking out from beneath the narrow, overhanging, mezzanine. Bill climbed the stairs immediately to the right of the entrance and remained near the top. I moved across the floor and took a seat in a reception area opposite him. I unfolded my paper and pretended to busy myself with it, able to keep watch on my colleague up above over the tops of my glasses. I figured it would be a day-long activity. Chance meetings without schedules were always drawn out affairs. I settled in wondering how it was that I had been set up as the obvious target. Of course THREE could, himself, be there on the floor with me perusing the second level deck. I disliked situations that were, from the outset, so ill defined. We had set no lunch break. There was a restaurant there. When the time came I would telegraph my move and go for a bite. Bill would follow I was sure.
Noon came and went. The tuna salad was okay. The lemonade was excellent. I couldn’t see what Bill ordered. He had taken a corner table to my middle of the room position. I stood and left money on the table to cover fare and tip. I turned to catch a glimpse of Bill. He twirled his index fingers in front of him. We were going to switch places. I headed up the stairs. Interestingly, I felt some relief at now being the watcher rather than the primary watchee, although truly we had no idea which was being which.
At shortly after two o’clock it dawned on me that the same woman had circled Bill on three successive occasions. She had stopped to use her powder – mirror – and was monitoring him over her shoulder. I took her picture with my lapel camera – top of the line, 40 X at that distance. I stretched; it was a time honored signal between such as the two of us. I fixed my gaze on her. He understood. I descended the stairs and made my way toward and past her. It involved my backing into to her. Later I would go through the wallet I had lifted from her purse. We left the building and met up again near Mac’s.
“Abby Blackburn,” I said beginning the search of the wallet. “The judge’s relative, do you suppose?”
Bill shrugged taking out the driver’s license.
“Different address, at least,” Ill noted. “Age thirty nine. Might be a daughter or niece. Pure speculation. Unnecessary. She’s spotted me so I suggest that you be the one who contacts her.”
“Fine. I’ve worked that ploy before.”
“Tomorrow morning,” Bill suggested.
I nodded. He continued.
“If she’s Number THREE, I’ll take her in the elevator – stiletto through the back into the heart. Dead before she hits the floor.”
Bill clearly knew his job. He hadn’t needed to inform me of his method. It seemed a bit reckless in fact.
We entered the lobby at eight. Bill took the same seat as he’d occupied the previous afternoon. I waited a few yards away. She arrived at 8:15 – almost too perfect. She hesitated, looked around, fixed her hair, and then made her way in his direction. I approached her.
“I believe you dropped this yesterday,” I said offering her the wallet. “ Blackburn, I see. Related to Judge Blackburn – the Director?”
That got her attention. She may have been an effective killing machine but it appeared she wasn’t well schooled in the art of deception. Surprise was written across her lovely face.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“We team up and take out Bill – number ONE – and split the hundred grand.”
“Then what; you and me?”
“Go our separate ways.”
“The contest continues, you mean?”
“Exactly. Just as it has for these six years.”
Bill approached us. An odd move I thought. He reached into his inside coat pocket. Surely he wasn’t going to kill her right there.
Out came a badge. A strange tactic I thought but I’d go along. Perhaps it was his way to get her into the elevator. I turned to leave. I was met by a badge in Blackburn’s hand. It was Bill who spoke.
“John Allen Davis, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder.”
Through the fog that soon overtook my mind I heard him reading me my rights.
“What’s going on?” I finally managed.
Bill’s answer was concise and complete.
“We have had Judge Blackburn under surveillance for months. His other assassin gave him up when we caught him in the act of murder. The newspaper you received this morning was one of a kind, printed for your eyes only. The Judge gave you to us. We couldn’t prove any murders at your hands so had to find a way to get you to incriminate yourself. Your confession – now on tape – to Officer Blackburn of your intent to kill me should be enough to silence your killing tools for the rest of your life.”
I had no real regrets about my past deeds. Oddly, however, I felt relieved.
************************************
The Perfect Crime?
A short story
by Tom Gnagey
© 2009
1,900 words
Bespectacled in thick lenses and thin wire rims, the small boned, pale skinned, Robert Bascum, PhD, was many things – bright, educated, creative, honest, hardworking, loyal. He was not a mean spirited person. He was not vengeful and had never in his fifty-two years ever intentionally hurt anyone. But right was right and wrong was wrong and Robert Bascum believed he had been wronged in the worst way.
He had worked as a lead research chemist for BHP Pharmaceuticals most of his adult life and had made a number of significant contributions. Several years earlier he had tendered his resignation. In an attempt to convince him to remain with BHP he was offered an unusual contract – one, which included a royalty clause. He was to receive one percent of all profits the company made from any of his subsequent discoveries that proved themselves successful in the market place. Because of that, he was persuaded to remain in the company’s employ.
The following year Bascum’s work led to a cure for a long elusive, serious, condition in the elderly and the product was soon profiting the company by many millions of dollars every quarter. It was a totally new approach to the problem from those methods his lab had previously been pursuing. Even so, because it was part of an ongoing project that predated his new contract, the company contended it didn’t qualify for the royalty. Bascum took the company to court. His suit was thrown out as frivolous by a judge who was widely suspected of being in the company’s pocket. Since it had not actually been heard, the judge deemed the suit not eligible for referral to a higher court.
Bascum was outraged and thoughtfully set about designing a plan to get him his due – no more and no less. Several months passed before it could be initiated – that required a specific, all quite random event with no actual connection to Bascum. At long last, there it was, a headline on page three of the local paper. John Jenkins, BHP employee, had been killed in an unexplained hunting accident. The wheels could begin turning.
At precisely nine o’clock a.m. he arrived at the office of Warren Wilson, the company CEO. The appointment had been made at Bascum’s insistence – most certainly nothing Wilson had wanted. It had been the phrase, “I may know something important about the death of John Jenkins,” that got him the scheduled five minute face to face meeting. A company attorney was present.
“So, let’s get this over with,” Wilson began, dispensing with formalities. “You know Mr. Bottoms from Legal.”
Bascum offered his hand. It was accepted with clear reluctance. They took seats – Wilson behind his fortress-like, dark, walnut, desk and the other two in chairs facing it. Bascum got to the point.
“I am here for the purpose of receiving the royalty money I, and most logically inclined honest people who know about the situation, believe BHP owes me.”
He put a finger to his lips, stifling Wilson’s impulse to reply. He continued.
“Each month on a day and time I specify you will pay me in cash an amount to be disclosed later. Unless you comply you may expect one employee to be killed each day that the payment is delayed.”
The attorney interrupted, sensing an early victory.
“Your threat – extortion if not terrorism – has been duly recorded as is everything that goes on across this desk. You have just sealed your own doom, doctor.”
“Well, no. That will not be the case. Let me continue and you will understand. I have prearranged for several killings to take place unless, daily, I take the required step or steps to stop them. If I am not free, I cannot, of course do that and innocent folks will die. Even killing me, you see, will not stop the first dozen or so executions because they are already set in motion – set in motion waiting for me to call each one off, at a specifically appointed time every day.”
“Are you saying you killed Jenkins?” the attorney asked.
“I don’t believe I said that.”
“But in your earlier phone call you implied . . .”
“I implied I had information about the death and I do – I can relate to you everything I read about it in the newspaper. Of course, I may well know more – perhaps even all the particulars. Or I may not. Let’s just leave it that your employee died and I have promised that others will also die if you don’t meet my requirements, which are outlined here in this document.”
He removed an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk to Wilson who opened it, read it, and handed it to the attorney.
“We should bring in the police immediately,” Wilson said.
The attorney shook his head and turned to Bascum.
“We will take your offer under consideration.”
“I disagree,” Wilson said. “Let’s just suppose we don’t pay and suppose somebody does get killed. We will have Bascum red-handed – we have his admission of guilt in advance. Otherwise he will take the company for millions.”
Bascum interrupted.
“And what if it is you, Sir, whose death I have already set in place as incident number one? Are you willing to give up your life in order to save the company that money and, perhaps, send me to death row?”
Wilson sat back in his chair. He glared at Bascum eventually averting his gaze toward the attorney.
“And, very likely,” Bascum continued, “the lead attorney that bilked me out of my due in the first place would also be in the first group – the group for which the deadly wheels have already been set in motion. And your crooked judge, too, I imagine . . . if I were guessing, you understand.”
“I’ll go into hiding,” Wilson said, “where you can’t possibly find me. I have such places that you could not know about and could never locate.”
“And remain there forever?” Bascam asked. “I doubt that.”
Bascum leaned forward in his seat effectively garnering the rapt attention of his little audience.
“What if I have already slipped you a significant dose of poison – an exotic variety that is impossible to detect – and you remain alive only because I am also seeing to it that you get just enough antidote each day to counteract it for the ensuing twenty-four hour period? Go into hiding and I would no longer be able to save your life each day. I assume you have been consuming your regular mid-morning Danish; or, of course, it may be in something different every day.”
Wilson’s ample jowls shook; his face turned red; he stood and began pacing.
“Say something useful, Bottoms. I pay you an exorbitant salary to handle things for us. Say something!”
“I’d rather not speak in front of Dr. Bascum.”
“He’ll just demand that we do speak in front of him so spit it out.”
“The doctor seems to have us over the proverbial barrel, Sir. At this juncture I can see no way out. If we ignore his threat one or both of us may die. We apparently have no way of knowing about the poison he has suggested. We should have tests run immediately in case it can be detected.”
Again Bascum interrupted.
“Oh, did I fail to mention that it may well have been a combination of three or more exotic poisons so if somehow one or even two are discovered the threat is really not reduced? Such poisons, you will recall, were the subject of my dissertation.”
“You are a clever man, I’ll give you that, Bascum,” Bottoms said. He began spinning possibilities aloud.
“We could pay you in numbered bills that you wouldn’t be able to spend, but then you’d just kill one of us off to make your point, wouldn’t you?”
Bascum made no response.
“We could threaten harm or death to somebody close or important to you, but my earlier vetting of you revealed you to be a loner with nobody special in your life.”
Still no response.
“We could abduct you and administer a truth inducing drug, but while we had you someone might be killed if it happened to take place during that time you needed to do whatever you do to call things off.”
Still nothing.
Wilson put his hands on the desk and leaned forward toward Bascum.
“I don’t believe a person like you is capable of doing such things. It’s all a bluff, that’s what I say.”
Bottoms shrugged, realizing it would be foolhardy to act on such an assumption regardless of how likely it might seem.
Bascum spoke as, with some flair, he brought his pocket watch into position for easy viewing.
“Call security at the judge’s courthouse. Just about now a rifle bullet will be breaking through the windshield of his parked car – breaking through on a trajectory that would kill anybody sitting in the driver’s seat.”
Bottoms made the call. He made the inquiry. His face flushed as he turned toward Wilson.
“It is as he said. Had the judge been sitting there . . .”
“As the judge does every afternoon at precisely 5:06,” Bascum interrupted.
“. . . he would have been killed.” Not unlike most attorneys, Bottoms had been moved to finish his statement.
Wilson sat down and gestured to Bottoms who returned the conversation to the point at hand.
“I see you have set tomorrow morning at this time for your first monthly payment of fifty thousand dollars to be transferred to you at the desk of the vice-president of First Federal Savings and Loan.”
“Correct. At some point, when my legitimate past earnings have been fulfilled, I will notify you to lower that amount to exactly what I am due on a quarterly bases from ongoing sales. I will require regular audit figures from an agency of my choosing.”
Corporate eyebrows were raised – partly in disbelief over the man’s apparent honesty and integrity, and partly in relief over the terms just revealed – terms, which suddenly seemed all quite fair and just.
The three men exchanged nods – an adequate substitute, Bascum surmised, for the traditional end-of-the-deal handshake. The little man had one more point to make.
“I have just one last suggestion – mandate, if you will. Do not let any of this go beyond the three of us because I am sure there are other clever individual’s out there who, upon hearing of the plan, would also be fully capable of making it work to their benefit – and whose scruples, unlike mine, would not prevent them from making unprecedented and unreasonable demands.
“Oh, and perhaps one more piece of evidence you should ponder,” he said getting to his feet. “Please, Mr. Wilson, stand aside from your desk – over here.”
Bascum pointed.
With undisguised irritation, Wilson moved; Bascum again consulted his watch, cutting the air with his open hand as if counting down to liftoff.
“Two… One… Zero!”
A slug broke through the window behind the CEO’s desk, penetrating the back of his chair and lodging in the wood on the desk front.
“It has been a good meeting, I think,” Bascum said smiling and nodding at the others.
He turned and left the room.
Had he formulated the perfect crime?
Deathbed Confession
A short story
by Tom Gnagey
© 2010
1,850 words
“I know you did it, Cole.”
“That’s what you’ve been telling me every day for seven months, Mac.”
It was the daily opening volley between the two old friends as Mac would enter Cole’s bar after his shift at the 42nd precinct where he had been a detective for two dozen years. To be precise it was Cole (short for Colby) Williams and Turlee MacConahey – he preferred to be called Mac. Local wags referred to them as Mac and Cheese. After that regular, genuinely contentious, initial exchange, the conversation moved on to other things more typical and comfortable between devoted friends.
The two couples – Mac and his wife Lucy, and Cole and his wife Martha – had been close since their high school years, despite Mac and Martha’s obvious, longstanding, dislike for each other. They played cards on Friday nights, enjoyed a breakfast buffet on Sunday mornings, and occasionally took in a play or movie together. Cole and Mac talked daily at the bar. The women had coffee at one kitchen or the other most every morning. Well, all that up until it came to an abrupt halt seven months prior to the writing of this account.
At that point, Cole’s wife, Martha, disappeared without a trace. Just days before, Lucy reported she had confided that she was frightened for her life. She said that Cole had suddenly become easily irritated and the slightest problem between them infuriated him. She feared he would become physically violent with her. He was large and strong. She was small and frail.
Lucy had passed on the information to Mac. With Cole’s history of a bad temper when younger, coupled with Mac’s perception that a person like Martha had to be making Cole’s life a living Hell, Mac became concerned. She was gone, however, before he had been able to look into it.
Mac’s precinct investigated but came up empty handed. No clues. No witnesses. No weapon. No body. A suspicious appearing new flowerbed in the Cole’s back yard was excavated but nothing was found – other than, oddly and unexplainably, the soil had been turned to a depth of nearly six feet. Cole contended – all quite implausibly – that he had never seen the flowerbed before. It had just appeared over night – the night Martha disappeared. Since it led nowhere the matter was dropped as was the investigation surrounding the third hand accusation against Cole by Mac via his wife, reportedly from Martha. Mac stated his suspicion that her ashes may have been mixed into the soil but at a ratio of one part ash to 1000 parts soil that also led to a dead-end.
Mac had always disliked Martha. She had been the know-it-all, tattletale, horn-rimmed wearing, vindictive, outspoken little girl all boys despise. Martha had always made it clear that she disliked Mac, the handsome, hardheaded, never-give-her-a-second-look best friend of her second choice boyfriend. Mac had never been able to figure what he saw in Martha let alone why he had married her. The two men had been closest friends since childhood. As an adult Mac had been a policeman first, a husband second, and a friend third. Lucy and Cole had learned to accept that. Each, privately, thought it odd Mac persisted in accusing his friend in Martha’s disappearance in the face of no viable evidence, but as Martha had observed early on, Mac was hardheaded. It had helped make him an excellent cop.
Cole seemed to have learned to live with that single source of strain between the two of them. Mac? Well, something was plainly still going on there. Perhaps he was overcompensating so his department would not think he was letting the friendship interfere with his objectivity. Perhaps he was, in a backhanded manner, commending Cole for having had the guts to do in the shrew that he knew had to be making his friend’s life miserable – although Cole had never openly indicated that. Mac looked at the record. Cole kept his life so full with the bar that he was only home to sleep. When he was there at other times he made sure friends were with them. Mac was certain Cole really hated his life, which translated, he believed, into really hating his wife. Even though she may have deserved her fate, Mac was a cop first.
Each afternoon as Mac would leave the bar he’d deliver his well practiced parting shot.
“I’ll get that confession on your death bed, you know. A good man always confesses on his death bed.”
Cole would raise his eyebrows and wave him out the door, shaking his head. The regular patrons – who always paused for the exchange – would chuckle and get back to whatever fully unimportant things they had been doing or chatting about.
Cole had always contended that there had been one other piece of information offered to him by an elderly neighbor woman – Darcy Levine – who lived across the street. At the outset he reported that Darcy had come to him the day after the disappearance and disclosed that in the wee hours of that morning she had seen a man moving in and out from the back yard to the alley. She couldn’t see behind the house from her bedroom window so didn’t actually witness what the figure was doing there. He – it – carried white plastic sacks from the side alley into the back yard. After several hours he dragged two gunnysacks from the lawn to the alley. She continued to watch for another hour but saw no more movement. At three a.m. she went back to bed. If her observations had been accurate, the sacks had to have been removed from the alley at some point before dawn when Cole reported the disappearance.
Cole contended that Darcy had witnessed the building of the new flowerbed – the bags bringing in the plants, the gunnysacks removing tools, drop cloths, and so forth, even perhaps his wife’s body. Mac had interviewed Darcy but nothing further came of it. He reported that with her cataracts she had such poor night vision she had been unable to see anything clearly enough to swear to its accuracy. The white sacks might have been shirttails. The gunnysacks, shadows. Several days later she had what the coroner termed an alcohol induced heart attack and died so that ended her role in the investigation.
Well, perhaps not. She had provided Cole with information he had not shared with the police. It was a clear and verifiable accusation. Darcy knew the villain. The question remains, had she accused Cole of the crime (perhaps resulting in her alcohol induced death) or somebody else?
At the bar, Mac and Cole mostly talked sports and politics. Occasionally they’d talk shop – Mac something about a case he was working and Cole, well, all Cole really knew about was mixing drinks. Mac had occasionally enlisted Cole’s assistance on cases when he suspected poisoned or spiked drinks might have contributed in some way. Cole took on each one as a personal challenge. He did any required research and several times provided case-breaking information – if not proof, at least helpful theories or possibilities. When the bar had been broken into and robbed, Mac had come to Cole’s assistance and soon had the culprits behind bars. Aside from that one, super touchy, element of their relationship they continued to be as close as when they had been skinny dipping ten year olds.
Cole had received bad news from his physician. It was his heart – a genetic condition inherited from his father who had gone to an early grave. It was unlikely he would live out the year. He kept it to himself. Cole had long been prepared for that news and recent symptoms confirmed to him that his days were numbered. The time had come for him to clear up the matter of his wife’s disappearance. He was a good man and would not let the facts in the matter – as he knew them – go with him to his grave.
Through the years, he had rehearsed it many times in his head. He was prepared to play it out to its necessary conclusion. As Mac had said, ‘Good men always make the deathbed confession.’
On Friday afternoon when Mac stopped in for his beer, things began with the usual banter, smiles, and chuckles. Mac slid onto his usual stool at the end of the counter. Cole drew the usual draft. Mac was a sipper and began the long road toward emptying the glass. Cole, in an unusual move, drew a glass for himself and matched his old friend sip for sip. Did he need to loosen his lips in order to move forward with his plan? Did he need the support of ‘liquid courage’ as he had been known to call it? Or, was it for him, perhaps, merely a symbolic final drink together? Mac took note but didn’t comment. It was a hot, August, afternoon and the weekend was upon them. Cole seemed to have trouble with weekends since his wife . . . left the scene. That could have explained it – just getting an early start on a lightly toasted weekend.
About three quarters of the way through the beer, Cole leaned on the bar and moved his head in close to Mac. Before he could begin speaking, Mac clutched at his chest and fell to the floor. Cole and several others were soon at his side. Another bartender called 9-1-1.
“Is it your heart?” Cole asked.
“Must be. . . Terrible pain. . . Hard to breath. . . Can’t focus my eyes. . . My strength is draining away. . . I’m dying, old friend. . . I’m sure of it. . . Something I must tell you. . . I have to go out with a clear conscious. . . I’m the one who killed your wife. . . She’s buried in a flower garden behind my house. . . I figured you’d just mess it up so I did it for you. . . I did it to free you. . . Unfortunately I also had to kill the old lady – one of your famous drink-based heart stoppers – when she threatened to finger me. . . The flower bed at your place was just a distraction to occupy the investigators while any real leads grew cold.”
He lapsed into unconsciousness and most certainly looked to be only moments from death. Cole smiled, took a mini-recorder from his vest pocket and clicked it off. He pulled Mac into a sitting position against the bar, opened a small flask, and forced the liquid down his throat. Within minutes Mac was awake. The pain was gone. His senses were clear. He looked up into Cole’s face, puzzled, as Cole spoke.
“You were wrong, Mac. I loved Martha with all my heart. You were the one who hated her. Remember that ‘good man deathbed thing’ you’ve always preached? You’re a good man, Mac, and you just proved your point.”
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