1992 – Why I Miss All The Best Parties

Standing over her body, he has no doubts that she was exsanguinated.  He’s seen it too many times.  He’s done it too many times.

There are no marks on her neck, but that’s common.  At least her assailant had that much decency.

A few interrogative touches later and the scene replays itself before him.  Images of a tall, unidentified man in a leather jacket.  Hunger while convincing her to open the door, traces of desire to flee the city on the doorknob from his escape.  A hint of regret, but not enough.  Impressions of fear on the item she used to defend herself.  A spent canister of pepper spray, useless for that purpose.  That would have to be destroyed.

When you want the job done right…

***

The pepper spray and a few similar incriminating items are all in a heavy duty trash bag now and ready for incineration.  All traces of blood wiped away, all signs of struggle removed.  Now came the closest thing to a hard part.

He pulls out his disposable Nokia, considers it briefly, and decides not to use it.  Whether he distrusts the new technology or simply prefers the old methods is unknown, possibly unknowable.  He puts it back in the pocket of his jumpsuit and extracts a small white handkerchief from a selection of colors.

He hefts her body in his arms, light from blood loss, and props it up in front of his by the picture window.  He waves the white handkerchief and ducks down.

The bullet rips through her head, splattering brains and what little blood is left.  By practice, by instinct, he lets go of the body a moment before the bullet hits.  The bullet passes through his right shoulder and embeds itself in the wall behind him.  The wound is an unfortunate necessity, but ballistics shouldn’t be able to tell.

He surveys the scene one last time.  Everything looks perfect except for the lack of blood splatter.  The head wound is ideal, but there should be blood everywhere.

I’m going to have to hit the hospital.

***

New Year Is Off To A Deadly Start

Chicago Tribune

January 02, 1993

The New Year was only minutes old when Joyce Foster made the sad discovery that a person is not safe from random gunfire even in her own living room.

The 28-year-old was killed as she stood near a window in a ninth floor apartment in a CHA high-rise building. The bullet, which ripped into her head, apparently was fired from the street, detectives said.

1962 - Do Me a Favor

Quickly, smartly, he moves through the city street.  The dead of night is never dead enough for some.  Even at this hour, Wacker is always alive.  He wears a dark, modern tux and a black overcoat.  A shadow in the shadow of the great Sears.

He reaches the ticket-taker.  He gives her his ticket.  She looks up from her book to chide him that he's too late for the performance, but somehow he senses her objection and folds a $100 bill in with the ticket.  She smiles and points him toward an usher but he is already moving.

He takes the marble steps two at a time.  He brushes past a plaque bearing many donors' names.  One of them was once his.

At the landing he approaches the door of a private box and enters.  Act III is just starting.  Perfect timing; Sparafucile's house.

If his target hears him coming, she doesn't show it.  He sits down just behind her and to her right.  "Your 20 scudi," he whispers, handing her an envelope.

She opens it just enough.  $10,000 and a photograph of Walter Kranz.  She smiles a morbid half-smile.

"It has to look like natural causes," he reminds her.

"No problem," she says.  "He's 80 years old and has leukemia.  I would think you could just leave well enough alone and time would do my job for you."

He makes no reply.

"Any last message for him?" she asks.

He pauses a moment, considering, and finally replies, "No psychics in my streets."

"I don't understand," she says and turns to question further but he is already opening the box curtain to leave.