Murder Story

8/3/2019 Murder Story

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It was on a clear morning in the middle of July that a march had been organized to fight

for the rights of underprivileged workers in textile factories across the nation. From all over the

coastal city people gathered their signs, posters, and banners demanding higher wages and better

hours in an excess of colors and misspellings. In the city park men, women, and children united

together behind the leadership of a portly, red-faced man who stood atop a makeshift stage of

park benches and blocky garbage cans.

“We can no longer tolerate such deplorable work environments as these,” he yelled out

across the sea of upturned faces which roared their approval. “They can no longer subject us to

such dangers without even paying us enough for the necessities of life! ” The man brushed a lock

of lank red hair out of his eyes as he gestured toward a glass-fronted high rise abutting the park.

“There are the leaders of the industry in their cool offices! Let them tremble in fear of the power

of the people! Let their walls tremble with the force of our anger!”

The crowd roared as one with such a force that the great windows of the building did

indeed rattle in their fittings. In an office near the top floor, a man in a dark blue suit surveyed

the scene in the park laid out beneath him. He pushed a sleeve up to check the watch beneath

then looked back down at the gathering.

Below, the red-headed leader launched once more into a tirade against the elitist pigs but

no one in the crowd could hear him so caught up they were in screaming at the building. After a

few minutes, the noise of the crowd subsided enough for the man to be heard again. “We are

doing good here!” he yelled. “Truly with so-”

The man’s head ruptured and exploded over his stage. A second of silence suddenly

descended as his body crumpled into a garbage can then the crowd roared once more but this



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time in terror. The march devolved into a mad rush for perceived safety from whatever force had

killed the leader.

In the office near the top floor, the man in the blue suit smirked before turning away from

the window.

Nearly a mile away, atop one of the tallest buildings in the city, a man chuckled to

himself as he watched the panic through a high-powered scope. A brisk wind pulled at his short

blonde hair. He took pride in the fact that the wind hadn’t affected the shot. A cigarette rested

between his thin lips and he took a long drag of the spiced smoke into his lungs. The looks of

terror and the mindless tidal crush of unguided mob movement always reminded him why he

liked audiences. He only wished he could hear their screams; the chorus of panic warmed his

heart in a way few things could.

He watched for only a few moments before flicking a small switch on the side of the rifle.

He considered keeping the scope but decided against it. No evidence. After a few seconds, tiny

thermite charges ignited throughout the rifle. Once they finished burning, the rifle had been

reduced to an unrecognizable lump of melted metal. A shame. It was a good weapon. The man

kicked listlessly at the cooling mass as he considered where he might go for lunch.

“October tenth. Prisoner interview. Subject: Thomas Fisher. This is Doctor Martens. Say

‘Hello’ Thomas.”

“Hello.”

“I would like to continue our conversation from last session.”

“Have you ever killed a man?”

“I believe you were telling me about your employers.”



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“I asked you a question, doctor.”

“No, I can’t say that I have killed a man.”

“It’s not as hard as most people think . Sure there’s always a bit of hesitation with the first

one but if you’re getting paid enough, that’s not a problem.”

“Really? Did you hesitate the first time you killed a man?”

“I just said so, didn’t I?

“I suppose you did. Have you ever killed a woman?”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence. You have the files on me. You know what I’ve

done.”

“I want to hear your thoughts on the subject.”

“Your files are my thoughts on the subject. That’s the point of a confession, isn’t it?”

Thomas walked slowly down the dark street. Most businesses on the street had closed for

the night. A disheveled man in a torn and roughly patched brown overcoat slumped against a

lamp post. An empty bottle had rolled away from his hand and dropped into the dry gutter. He

snored lightly as Thomas walked up to him. Thomas slipped a hundred dollar bill into the hand

that had dropped the bottle.

“Enjoy, bucko,” he said as he continued to a bar further down the road. The old neon sign

sputtered and sparked out the name “Dave’s Pub” even though Dave had died years ago. The

inside of the bar reeked of cigarette smoke and spilled beer.

Two steps through the door a meaty hand pushed against Thomas’s chest. “Private party

tonight,” followed the gravelly voice of the bouncer.

“S’ok, Marty, I’m invited,” Thomas r eplied.



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Marty leaned forward a bit and took a closer look. “Oh, sorry, Tommy. Didn’t recognize

you.”

“No problem. Break your glasses again?”

“Yeah, some dumb drunk got a lucky shot in.”

Thomas chuckled and patted the big bouncer’s bicep as he walked into the bar proper .

“Don’t work too hard, Marty.”

Thomas lit a cigarette and looked around the barroom. It was completely empty of

clientele except for a single man sitting at the bar. His dark blue suit looked black in the dim red

lighting. He had a glass of some clear liquid in his hand. A full glass of beer was waiting on the

bar next to him. Thomas walked to the empty seat and sat next to the man.

“Very well done, sir,” the man said in a quiet voice. “I must say that I found it difficult to

believe what was said of you but I am convinced now. No one is brave enough to strike now.”

“I don’t care,” Thomas said as he eyed the beer. “You said you had another job.”

The man sniffed at the curt response and sipped his drink. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve got a job.

I think that the nature of the job requires that I explain some of the situation surrounding it.”

Thomas pushed the beer to the side and rested his elbow on the bar as he turned to face

the man. He blew a lungful of smoke into the side of the man’s head. “Does any part of this

explanation include dangers or problems I might face on the job?”

“Not exactly.” He coughed quietly.

“Then, again, I don’t care. Just give me the target and your first offer.”

The man turned to look at Thomas for the first time. His face narrowed from top to

bottom coming to a point at his chin. His eyebrows were thin and dark. Thomas did not like the

man’s face. “Fine. The target’s name is Alice Cummings.” He pulled a photograph out of the



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inner pocket of his suit jacket and set it on the bar next to Thomas’s hand. “We’ll talk money

after you accept the job.”

Thomas frowned at the man and picked up the picture. He drew in a breath of smoke as

he flipped it over to look at the person pictured and just as quickly coughed it out again as the

light caught the photo. “Are you fucking serious?” he said, slamming the picture down on the bar

top.

The man smiled thinly. “I was told that no target was an issue for you,” he said calmly.

“How much do you require for this job?”

Thomas looked down at the picture then back up at the man then back down at the

picture. He said nothing for a minute.

“How do you want it done?” he eventually asked in a subdued voice.

The man looked into his glass as he replied, “Public. Like the last one.”

Thomas shook his head slowly as he looked back up at the man once more. “100,000

dollars base plus expenses,” he said barely louder than a whisper.

The man clapped him amiably on the back. “Capital! I’ll wire the money to the same

account, shall I?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll send you the deeper details tomorrow.” The man stood up and began walking

out the bar.

Thomas caught his elbow as he passed. “Pay in advance,” he said quickly.

A muscle in the man’s jaw tightened. “Of course,” he said after a moment, brushing

Thomas’s hand off his suit. “A pleasure.”



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Thomas watched him leave then looked down at the picture. A little girl with brown

pigtails looked back at him with a toothy smile. Thomas picked up the glass and gulped half of

the dark beer in one go. “Shit,” he muttered.

“October fifteenth. Prisoner interview. Subject: Thomas Fisher. This is Doctor Martens.”

“Hello, doctor.”

“Hello, Thomas. What would you like to talk about today, Thomas?”

“I don’t think we have enough in common to hold a conver sation, doctor. Ask your

questions.”

“Alright. Perhaps you would like to tell me why you ended our interview so prematurely

during our last session.”

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Shame. Tell me, doctor, why do you have these interviews with me?”

“They are mandated by the state. I was assigned to you because your last name starts with

an F. I am here to gauge your mental health and to get you to talk about your crimes.”

“That’s very truthful, doctor.”

“I find that lying only makes subjects less willing to talk.”

“I see.”

“I have answered your questions, now will you answer one of mine?”

“Quid pro quo, is it? Alright, I’ll bite. What do you want to know?”

“How many people have you killed?”

“More than Manson, less than Bundy.”



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“That’s very vague.”

“So is my memory.”

Thomas sat on a cement bench across the street from Sunnyvale Elementary School. He

watched the bright yellow buses pull into the school’s parking lot and checked his watch. Ten

minutes. A warm breeze puffed across the lush grass fields surrounding the school building,

causing the swings in the playground to sway lazily. Thomas glanced up at a treehouse above

him that some family had conveniently built before moving away. He turned his gaze back to the

school.

“What are you doing?” Thomas asked. No one was near him.

“I’m doing my job,” he answered himself.

“You’re going to kill a little girl?”

“Seems that way.”

“A child. Is money really so important?”

“It’s not just money. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“As a maniac?”

“As a professional.”

Thomas shook his head and stood up. He began pacing around the bench. Cars and

minivans began to arrive in the school parking lot; people anticipating the imminent end of the

school day. Thomas checked his watch again. Five minutes.

“It’s not too late,” he said. “You can still walk away.”

Thomas snorted derisively. “And have someone gunning for me within the week.”



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Thomas hopped the small fence around the vacant house’s front lawn and climbed into

the treehouse. An old camp chair and a new, short-barreled rifle resting on a bipod were sitting

next to a crookedly cut window. A black silencer added some length to the barrel of the rifle. He

considered the possibility of returning the client’s money but realized that he did not know to

where he would return the money. The man initiated all contact and was waiting for Thomas to

finish the job.

“Just had to get the money in advance,” he muttered.

A bell rang clearly across the empty field and Thomas looked up in time to see a large set

of double doors spring open and a tide of children come streaming out. He sat in the small camp

chair and brought the rifle to his shoulder, looking through the cheap scope. His crosshairs

flickered from face to face as he watched children run out across the field or toward the waiting

vehicles in the parking lot. After what seemed like an impossible amount of children left the

building, his gaze alighted upon the familiar features of Alice Cummings.

She walked alone out into the field. Through a week of observation Thomas had learned

that she lived within walking distance and made the walk without friends every day. He took a

deep breath to steady himself then clicked the safety off as he lined up the shot.

“No,” he said, “I can’t do this.” He flicked the safety back on and leaned away from the

gun. He frowned, angered at his own indecision. Once more, he took the safety off and leaned

back down over the rifle. Again, he took a deep breath to steady his aim and slowly rested the

pad of his index finger on the trigger. Alice stopped halfway across the field and seemed to look

directly through the scope at Thomas.

“I’m sorry, Alice,” he said as he gently squeezed the trigger. The chorus of screams was

unusually high pitched and brought Thomas no joy.



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* * *

“October twentieth. Prisoner interview. Subject: Thomas Fisher. This is Doctor Martens.”

“Doctor.”

“Hello, Thomas. This will be our last session.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“I have been informed that the time of your execution has been set for tomorrow at

noon.”

“They tell me that, too, doctor. What exactly do you hope to accomplish here?”

“I was just wondering if you had anything you would like to get off your chest.”

“They already sent me a priest, doctor. Confessions do nothing for the soul.”

“Well then would you answer one final question for me?”

“Not including that one? Sure.”

“Do you regret any of your murders?”

“I’ve only murdered one person, doctor.”

“My records show-”

“Your records show that I’ve completed twenty-eight jobs. Only one of them was

murder.”

“I see. And do you regret it?”

“Everyone regrets murder, doctor.”

Murder Story

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