The Dead End Game

Chapter 11

Getting away with murder in the twenty-first century was a good deal more difficult than it used to be, the longhaired man thought to himself. Just dropping a hair or leaving behind a dried piece of skin at a crime scene, almost certainly meant permanent government lodging--or for Texas residents, an evening on a comfy stainless steel table waiting for a governor's call that would never come. As the aging hippie sat in his rented sub-compact outside of the Normandy Chateau Apartments, he was thinking that his profession would have been so much easier just one hundred or even fifty years ago; before DNA matching and the other extraordinary advances in forensic investigation and technology. Reams of data could now be sifted from the constant trail of microscopic materials that most people unwittingly left everywhere they went.2

Luckily for him, society was more than happy to supply a determined and observant murderer with a wealth of information to help avoid detection. Nowadays criminal investigation movies, TV programs, and websites were researched and produced with remarkable detail and accuracy. All one had to do was to view cable TV for a few hours a week, or Google a few key words, and a collection of criminal knowledge could be assembled that would rival the Encyclopedia Britannica. This man had done just that over the past few years; in his computer at home was a decently written and meticulously researched book, which might well have been called “Assassination For Dummies”. But chances were that this book would never be displayed at the local mega-chain beside the latest Dan Brown or J.K Rowling offerings. 3

The Normandy Chateau Apartments were somewhat optimistically named, except for the “Apartments” part--a very grandiose label for a very shabby complex. The man slouched a little lower in the seat, the dark area on the street away from the sparse street lamps providing a good cover for his surveillance activities. The mark was due home soon. 4

The “mark”. William Rose shook his head. Nice little chestnut that, he thought. He was relatively new to this line of work, and still not quite comfortable with the vernacular. All he knew was what he had seen in movies or read in novels, and he didn’t really know anyone else that did what he did. Hired killers were not exactly the sort who organized clubs or associations; to date he had found no blogs related to the subject. Therefore, in his book a target was a “mark”, just like in old movies. Not very palatable, but he had to call them something.5

Not that he was really very comfortable with any aspect of what he did. That was an understatement. But like so many spouses in abusive relationships that were unable to leave, just like the child who was sexually abused by a trusted grown-up, he was trapped for the time being, and had to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 6

God, what a load of crap, Will thought. It was too easy to fall into that self-pitying rhetoric. He had made his choices, and he had to live with them. For now.7

A black Cadillac Escalade (17 MPG highway, 13 MPG city, Will thought randomly) slowed and turned into the entrance of the complex, seeming more than a little out of place among the more modest modes of transportation that lined the parking lot of the Chateau. Will shook his head. Idiot. When one sold drugs for a living, the last thing one wanted to do was stick out of one’s surroundings. Driving a fifty thousand dollar vehicle while living in a five hundred dollar a month apartment was bound to raise some questions down at the regional IRS office, or local police station—if they cared to look. But then some people just couldn’t help it, Will reckoned. 8

The Escalade whipped into a gap in front of chateau number nine hundred, taking up one-and-a-half spaces. A large balding man with a ponytail got out and bounded toward the apartment, with the arrogant stroll of someone who was used to getting his lunch money from the small nerdy kids in the boy’s room. He entered his domicile and switched on the TV, which cast an artificial light from the only window. 9

The apartments probably had been considered rather luxurious around forty years ago or so; the buildings were brick, each contained only four units, with attached garages underneath. But time marched on, even in the Normandy Chateau Apartment complex, and now they were just a refuge for those of more meager means and station. Except for the tenant in nine-oh-two. Apparently he was living slightly higher on the hog than the average Chateau occupant. That was, until tonight. 10

If the background report was accurate, and they always were, the mark would watch TV for an hour or so before dozing off in his Barcolounger. If all went well, it would be over in seventy minutes or so. Will turned the starter that coaxed the gerbils under the hood of his little car into action, unleashing the awesome power of his Aveo as it lurched into the street. He was heading for the movie theater a few blocks away, which he had scouted earlier while he was filching his new license plate. 11

He absently scratched his beard as he swung into the parking lot and drove around back to a remote corner. Will pulled into one of the last spaces next to an old Ford Fairlane, giving the gerbils a much-needed break. Putting his hands in the pockets of his field jacket, he sloughed off in the direction of the Chateau. Keeping his head down, he made decent time, and in just short of ten minutes he was entering the complex. 12

Will waited outside in the tall hedges until it was after midnight, sitting on the ground among the fallen needles. After making sure that things were as quiet as they seemed, he approached the door of nine-oh-two without seeing a soul. He marched up to the threshold and took a quick look around. Will welcomed the noise blaring from the TV that penetrated the cheap door of the apartment; this would make his entry easier. He removed his tools from the pocket of his field jacket, and went to work on the lock. He was hoping that Mr. Escalade hadn’t engaged the deadbolt; it would take away the element of surprise and make things messier. 13

Ten seconds later he gingerly turned the knob and eased the door open a crack, hoping that it wouldn’t protest by squealing. It didn’t, and he pulled the .22 caliber pistol with the homemade silencer from his inside pocket. He could see Ponytail through the opening in the door lying in the recliner with his head lolled to the side, apparently dozing. He scanned the opening and saw no chain, and heaved a sigh of relief. 14

Will purposefully pushed open the door, closed it behind him and strode over directly in front of the man, standing a few feet away. He deftly brought up the pistol to aim directly at the man’s heart; two muted spits echoed in the room, and then one more as he raised the gun to the man’s forehead. Not much blood spatter, that was good. He checked the man’s pulse and breath to make sure the job was finished, and as usual when he had time, looked intently at the man for a few moments—trying with all his might to see the difference between what he was a few seconds ago, and what he was now. 15

Death had always fascinated Will: Was there a soul involved that departed the earthly body at death, or was a man merely a machine that ceased to function at the moment of his demise and nothing more? As usual, that question went unanswered. Will had come to believe the latter, and also hoped it was so, for he was pretty sure that if there was such a thing as a soul, he knew where and to whom his belonged. But then, Will reasoned, a person didn’t have to look very far for Heaven or Hell; they were both right here on Earth. Every person chose one or the other each and every day. And again today, Will had made his choice.16

On the way to the airport, Will began throwing parts of the gun out of the window at intervals, wherever he passed over a river or marshy area, mostly scouted when he first arrived two days ago. He had already rammed a rat tail file down the barrel to make ballistics identification impossible, dumped his jacket and overalls in a Goodwill bin, slung the stolen license plate into a trash bin a few miles away, and disposed of the rubber gloves he had been wearing. He had melted them with a lighter, as the inside of the gloves would still contain his prints, while the outside of the gloves would reveal under analysis that they had recently discharged a firearm. The modern day murderer had to be ever vigilant and detail oriented if he were going to retain his freedom, Will thought sardonically. 17

In the airport restroom, a grungy longhaired man in jeans and a t-shirt disappeared into stall number four, never to reappear. Instead, a well-dressed and clean shaven business man emerged and walked briskly to his gate, where he boarded a redeye flight and immediately fell asleep in his seat. Sleeping men didn’t have to chitchat.18

The early spring storm tortured the outside of his bedroom window, but the tempest raging inside completely overwhelmed it. Agony. Anguish. Hopelessness. The ache was unbearable. The tears came in a constant stream of misery. He was curled up in the dark holding his knees to his chin and shaking his head as the sobs wracked his body. Why, why was he still here? Why didn’t he just end it? Oh God. So lonely. So tired. So empty. This may be the night. Yes, it would be the night. It was the night. He put the gun into his mouth and waited for the taste of sweet eternal darkness, for an end to the pain. The ache in the pit of his stomach was too deep, too cavernous, it couldn’t be satisfied. It would never go away. Why should he live with this? There was no hope, no future. It was better not to exist than to feel this emptiness. Just do it. He felt as if someone else were holding the gun and he was begging him or her to shoot. Tonight had to be the night.19

Will awoke in the morning on a pillow of dried sweat with the gun still in his mouth, the overpowering taste of metal filling all his thought. In revulsion, he pushed the gun away and got out of bed and into the bathroom to scrub his teeth with an odd mixture of disappointment and relief.