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I-SHIRLEY 24
i-shirley24Shirley parked her car a few meters from the crime scene and just looked. She knew everyone was waiting for her to throw more light on what had happened; the local police waiting to wrap everything up, the corona was waiting to transport the body for an autopsy, and the press waiting impatiently to get the story or a statement at the very least. The press might have been the reason she got held up in the car, but that wasn’t all. She couldn’t get herself to walk in the building and look at the bloody scene. The angel of death had a habit of making every subsequent murder more unbearable than the previous one. They thought killing a baby was the last line the bastard would, but no, he showed them he had no lines to cross; he did everything and anything he felt like doing.Shirley sighed when she realized she was tearing up. She wiped the edges of her eyes with her thumb.“I’m so sorry --- I’m so sorry…” She repeated; more tears filling up in her eyes.“I’m sorry for the pr
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I-SHIRLEYCHAPTER 25“Smell…? It smells like blood alright. What other smell are you looking for?” asked the Officer.“It does smell like blood, doesn’t it? Does not what we’re looking for.” Shirley answered.“Oh — then what exactly are you looking for?” He continued.“The smell of death itself; you get me?”“Not really, I don’t.”Shirley sighed and caressed her eyes.“When the angel of death visits, there’s this kind of scent that he leaves around the crime Scene. Not the scent of the dead bodies… he’s own kind of scent. Faint but noticeable by us, because we’ve been to all of his crime scenes.” Ackermann mouthed.The officer looked at Ackermann for a while, Ackermann looked back… And then the officer sent his eyes to Shirley for a while. Shirley had her eyes locked somewhere else, lost in thought for whatever.Ackermann tapped her shoulder a third time until she reacted to it.“Ye – Yes…” Shirley answered, blinking her eyes a couple of times.“Why are you spacing out, Shirley?”“Sor
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I-Shirley BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA Peter Benedict saw his reflection and marveled at the way his image was chopped up and scrambled by the optics of the glass. The front of the building was a deeply con- cave surface, soaring ten stories over Wilshire Boulevard, almost sucking you in off the sidewalk toward the two-story disk of a lobby. There was an austere slate courtyard, cool and empty except for a Henry Moore bronze, a lobulated and vaguely human conception off to one side. The building glass was flawlessly mirror like, capturing the mood and color of the environs, and this being Beverly Hills, the mood was usually bright and the color a rich sky blue. Because the concavity was so severe, the glass also caught the images from other panes, tossing them like a salad-clouds, buildings, the Moore, pedestrians, and cars jumbled together. It was wonderful. This was his moment. He had reached the pinnacle. He had a scheduled and con- firmed appointment to see Bernie Sch
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I-shirley 27 The pit boss tapped Peter on the shoulder and whispered, "The manager wants to meet you." Peter blanched. "Don't worry, it's all good." Gil Flores, the floor manager of the Constellation, was sleek and urbane, and in his presence Peter felt scruffy and self-conscious. His armpits were damp, he wanted to leave. The manager's office was utilitarian, equipped with multiple flat-screen panels getting live feeds from the tables and slots. Flores was drilling down, trying to figure out the how’s and the whys. How did a civilian spot something his guys didn't and why did he turn them in? "What am I missing here?" Flores asked the timid man. Peter took a sip of water. "I knew the count," Peter admit- ted. "You were counting too?" "Yes." "You're a counter? You're admitting to me you're a counter?" Flores's voice was rising. "I count, but I'm not a counter." Flores's polish rubbed off. "What the fuck does that mean?" "I keep the count-it's kind of a habit, but
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Michael WillsNancy BridgetMike had a devastating hangover, the kind that felt like aweasel had woken up warm and cozy inside his skullthen panicked at its confinement and tried to scratch and biteits way out through his eyes.The evening had begun benignly enough. On his wayhome he stopped at his local dive, a yeasty smelling cavecalled Dunigan's, and downed a couple of pops on an emptystomach. Next up, the Pantheon Diner, where he grunted atthe heavily stubbled waiter who grunted back at him andwithout exchanging any fully formed phrases brought himthe same dish he ate two to three days a weeklamb kebabsand rice, washed down, of course, with a couple of beers.Then before decamping to his place for the night he paidhis wobbly respects to his friendly package store and pickedup a fresh half gallon of Black Label, pretty much the onlyluxury item to adorn his life.The apartment was small and spartan, and stripped ofJennifer's feminizing touches, a truly bleak uninterest
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Case #5: Milos Ivan Covic, eighty-two-year-old man fromPark Slope, Brooklyn, middle of the afternoon, plunges outOt his ninth floor apartment and makes an ungodly ssOn Prospect Park West, near Grand Army Plaza. His bed-a break-in or robbery. However, several framed black-and-ofWindow is wide open. apartment locked, no STgise photos of a young Covic with others, family probably, are found shattered on the floor by the windowis no suicide note. The man, a Croatian immigrant whwindow. Therehadworked for fifty years as a cobbler, had no living relativand was so reclusive there was no one who could attetohis mental state. The apartment was covered in only on setof fingerprints: his.Will leafed through the stack of vintage photographsAnd there's no ID on any of these people?""None," Nancy replied. "His neighbors were all inter-viewed, we put out feelers among the Croatian-Americancommunity, but nobody knew him. I don't know where toAny ideas?"He pointed his palms towar
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Confluence.The word had been rattling around his mind, andwhen he was alone it would occasionally roll off his lips andmake him tremble.He had been preoccupied by the confluence, as had hisbrethren, but he was convinced he was more affected thanthe others, a wholly imagined position since one did notopenly discuss such matters.Of course, there had long been an awareness that this sev-enth day would come, but the feelings of portent had dra-matically escalated when in the month of Maius a cometappeared, and now, two months later, its fiery tail persistedin the night sky.Prior Josephus was awake before the bell rang for Lauds.He threw off his rough coverlet, stood and relieved himselfin his chamber pot, then splashed his face with a handfulof cool water from a basin. One chair, one table, and a cotwith a straw pallet on a hard earthen floor. This was his win-dowless cell; his white tunic of undyed wool and his leathersandals were his only earthly possessions.And he w
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The sun was getting high, and Josephus made haste tocomplete his circuit before the community assembled backin the Sanctuary for prayers at Sext. He rushed past the Sis-ters' Dormitory and entered the Chapter House, where therows of pine benches were empty, awaiting the appointeahour when the abbot would read a chapter of The Rule oSt. Benedict to the assembled community. A sparrOwgotten in and was urgently flapping overhead, so he letadthed0ors open in hopes it would find its freedom. At the reaof the house he rapped his knuckles on the entrancejoining private chamber of the abbot.heOswyn was sitting at the study table, his headover his Bible. Golden shats ot light shone throughthe glazed windows and struck the table in a perfect angleto make the holy book appear to be glowing fiery orange.Oswyn straightened himself enough to make eye contactwith his prior. "Ah, Josephus. HOw are things at the abbeytoday?They are well, Father.""And what progress on our church, J
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