Every Crime Has a Motive | By: Shane Waldo | | Category: Short Story - Dark Bookmark and Share

Every Crime Has a Motive

Every Crime Has A Motive
by Shane Waldo

A tall lanky man in a long black trench coat walked slowly down an alley, black as a cart load of ass holes. It was empty save the dumpsters, trash and two silhouettes standing out by the mouth of the alley. People in the street scurry like roaches carrying their looted treasure. The dark night is broken with the sounds of breaking glass, police sirens and riotous yelling. The two men at the end of the alley approach the tall dark man. The dark man takes no notice as they come ever closer. The two men are hard to make out with no light, but they are obviously looking for trouble and he is walking their way. The two men flank the tall dark man grabbing his arms. His long pale face never quavers, never falters. The men take him to the ground in a sweep of motion. The dark man makes a whooshing sound as the wind escapes him. One man, the larger of the two, holds the dark man to the ground while the other starts rummaging through his pockets. One of the dark manís arms is free, he uses it. The dark man reaches for his belt as the other man is reaching for his wallet. Metal scrapes the black asphalt like nails on a chalk board. The larger of the two muggers lets out a gasp, then it is stifled with blood now flowing from his clenched teeth. The smaller of the two muggers is standing up examining the contents of the dark manís wallet when he notices a silvery object protruding from the back of his accomplices flannel shirt. In horror he drops his jaw and the wallet. The tall dark man puts his knees to his chest, kicking out. The dead muggerís body jerks back and falls away the handle of the knife sticking out from his chest.

The stunned muggerís exasperation breaks and he leaps at the dark man. The dark man puts his foot on the dead muggerís body and pulls the knife from him with a squealing sound. The smaller manís arms raised in an attack fall down limply as the dark man pierces his larynx with all twelve inches of the blade. Blood runs in a small jet from the wound down the hilt of the knife, soaking the dark manís coat sleeve. The mugger looks at the man with starry eyes, a kid at Christmas maybe, grabbing the collar of the dark manís coat with a weak grip. The dark man pulls the knife sideways in a spray of black blood. The mugger falls to his knees then, falls back over them looking to the sky one final time before the black between the stars envelops him, forever.

The dark man turns and walks casually away, not seeming to notice the blood streaking his face and hands, running down his coat and spattering the black asphalt. He comes to the T in the intersection of the alley and the street and hangs a right, his long trench coat flowing out behind him like a vampires shall. People run around him, not even bothering to look. Police lights flash, sirens whale. The dark man does not look around, he has other business to attend to tonight, those muggers just slowed the inevitable. He will not be stopped.

As the man with the pale sad face and the long black trench coat walks down the street he sees a cop car stop in the middle of the street. The cops get out of the car at a fevered pace grabbing for their guns hoping to stop the store across the way from getting looted any further. People swarm them. People, people with out face. The mob, the crowd, the identity less rioters fall on the police and bludgeon them. Some grab the cops night sticks, others use their fists, some just beat them with the VCRís they have just stolen. After the cops have been knocked unconscious or dead, the people grab one side of the car rocking it back and forth, the carís lights flickering and rotating in shades of blue and red. The rioterís get the car on itís side then all the way over, crushing the lights in an audible crack. The copís can not stop these people tonight, the whole damned city is in an uprising. But none of this, the people, the police, the looting, the murdering, is the sad manís concern.

After a short while the dark sad man reaches a large iron gate. A bum across the street, wearing a blue scarf around his dirty neck, grabs a can puts it in his cart and heads off into the darkness. As the dark man approaches the gate three guards appear behind it. They ask what his business is here. He knows, but gives no reply. They put their hands on the butts of their guns. The dark man steps up to the gate, toes to the black cold iron. The middle guard, short with a crew cut, steps up, again asking what the man is doing here at this late hour, with all the townís power out these men were put on a state of alert and they would take no shit. The dark man puts one of his long white hands through the bars and motions for the middle guard to come ever so closer, maybe to tell him a playground secret. The guard does so, his companions reaching out to try and stop him. The dark sad man grabs the middle guardís white shirt, pulling him to the bars. The guardís head hit with a bong. The two other guards take their companionís shoulders and pull him away from the bars. The middle guard steps back and shutters. The two men to his sides see a large black stain below his tie. The guard falls to his knees, doubles over and dies with his ass to the sky. His two co. workers grab their guns and aim them at the intruder, the murderer, now climbing the iron bars with uncanny speed. Ka-Pow. Ka-Pow. Ka-Pow. Three gunshots ring out, cutting the still black air in two. Two of the shots hit the dark man, one tearing into the soft flesh of his calf, the other puncturing his lung and blowing out the back of his black coat. The dark man did not let go, held his grip on the cool iron bars and continued to climb. The two guards were dumbfounded, they, in their stupidity, let enough time pass for the dark man to get to the top of the gate. The dark man leaped from the top of the gate onto the left guard, his gun still held at shoulder level like one of those movie cops. The other guard shot at the dark man putting a burning hole in his coat and nothing else. The guard and the dark man fell to the ground as one, the dark manís trench coat hiding his movements. After the impact of the two bodies the dark man stood up, the moon light painting his bloodied face in sharp contrast. The standing guard raised his wavering hands, raised the gun and aimed at the dark manís head. The guard on the ground started to get up, mumbling obscenities, absently looking for his gun. The standing guard fired. The force of the bullet exiting the barrel of his 357 magnum made his hands flinch, putting his aim off and to the right. People told him it was just too much gun, but he insisted that it was not. Now, standing there with this pale dark visage dressed in black and his friend, whom he had shared five or more years of service with, laying on the ground, half his face missing in a red blur, he wondered if he might have been wrong. The only living guard dropped the gun to the ground with disgust. He fell to his knees and began to cry in sobbing gasps. The dark man raised his knife above his head and stopped. Faltered. He lowered the knife and put it back in his belt. The dark man raised his booted foot and kicked the sobbing man in the temple. The guard fell sideways and stopped crying, he was unconscious. The sad dark man walked his way up the winding path to the large country house that squatted at the top of the hill.

The walk to the house was hell, the dark manís wounds screamed with pain. The blood from his chest wound filled his lungs and bubbled from his lips. His breaths came in wheezing gasps. The wound in his calf drenched his pant leg in blood, filling his shoe. Black butterflies invaded his vision, he swatted them away with the hand of will. He had business, business, and wound not be stopped until it was finished. So on he walked, walked through the pain, in spite of the pain. He came to the doors of the house and looked up at a small window above him and to the left. Candle light flickered and snores drifted out. The dark man grabbed a nearby down spout and crawled his way up to the window. Once at the sill he slipped his body in and took in his surroundings. The room was obviously an office. Green carpet, to book shelves, to deep red walls, to dark oak finishing. There was a large desk in front of the window. A large fat man with a balding head and gray hair sat in a huge red swivel chair behind it. The fat man went on snoring his big Cuban cigar smoldering in itís ashtray. The dark man positioned himself behind the chair of the fat sleeping man while he took out his knife. He raised the blade, candle light glinted off its bloody blade. The sad dark manís face changed then, from the somber look it had before to a look of rage, of revenge. He brought the blade down between the fat manís collar bone and his jaw, cutting into the soft white tissue of his pudgy neck. The dark man thought about his children sitting around the kitchen table as his wife cooked their last bit of food. So he brought the knife down again. Blood spraying on the desk in sheets of crimson. He thought about the note attached to his time card last Friday, as part of the power and light layoffísÖ. bla bla blaÖ and so he brought the knife down again, and again and again. He thought of his life insurance, his children, his wife, his job, and revenge as he brought the knife down. The fat manís dead body dropped from the chair thumping dully on the floor. The dark man followed the movement still cutting deeper and deeper into the soft tissue and bone of the fat manís neck. Blood stretched out in arches and lines as the enraged man cut again and again. The blood smothered the cigar burning in the ashtray, it died with a hissing sound. The dark man stopped, as suddenly as he started. He stood up, runners of blood streaming down his arm and face, blotching his coat. He sat the expensive leather chair back upright. Footsteps were welling from downstairs, trailed by alarmed chatter. The dark man sat in the chair, grabbed the hilt of the knife and looked at the ceiling of the small office.

Two guards, that were previously playing rummy in the kitchen, were trouncing up the stairs after a barrage of grunting noises and that horrid dead thump. They dashed up the steps stood to both sides of the door with their guns drawn. One of the men spoke, asking if every thing was all right. No answer. He turned and busted down the door with his gun leveled.

The dark man saw the guard bash through the door, it was the last thing he ever saw. The dark man plunged the knife into his breast, it made a cracking snapping noise as it passed through his ribs. The pain shot up his chest, nailing boards to his head. He pressed harder. The knife passed through the tissue of his heart, and he was dead. The other guard, the one now walking into the room, stood by his taller companion with awe struck amazement. The larger one spoke, telling him to see if the Mayor was still alive. The smaller guard walked to the edge of the desk, minding the coppery smell of blood, and peaked over itís edge. There lay the Mayor. His head lying askew from his body in a pool of blood and gore. His mouth open in one final snore, the eyes dark, black, reflecting the dim flickering candle light. The smaller guard doubled over and puked. The tall guard told him to get him self together as he looked for himself. Told him to go downstairs and call the police. The other man wiped his mouth with his sleeve and did as he was told. The taller of the two guards looked at the lanky pale faced man, sitting in his employerís chair, saw the knife sticking from his chest and wondered. Why?

Hours pass and the sun starts to rise in the east, a ball of red fire reflecting blue, purple and pink off the clouds and smog. The new dayís light twinkles off the broken glass of the previous nightís riot. It wakes a bum from his sleep, his head pounding from the whisky the night before. A TV lays on itís side in the window of a looted shop. The bum watches it with disinterest. The morning news has started.

Last nightís riots claimed at least thirty lives and millions in property damage. Started by the strike of the Power and Light union, which caused a black out and ill feelings for the city. People flooded the streets, enraged at their situation. The Mayor, had just passed a public works bill, it in effect has causedÖ. Wait, this just in, Oh lord, Mayor Spading is dead. He was murdered last night in his home along with two of his security guards. The assailant committed suicide after the murders. The assailantís name is not being released at this time, and it is not known if these murders are related to the riots. In this reporterís opinion it is an atrocity, just another act of senseless violence.

The bum nodded his head in agreement and walked down the street pushing his cart full of cans, his blue scarf billowing out behind him.

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