Murder by Numbers (part 1)

Like a raindrop splashing in a puddle, the bullet hit his stomach. A wake of delicate destruction splattered upon the wooden floor, and hot, black coffee spilt from his mug and mixed with the red. He staggered back against the wall holding his hands over the bloody entrance to his perforated insides.

A slender blonde woman ran through the doorway, straight past him out to the deck railing, looking for what had made the noise. He could only croak brokenly before sliding down the wall and into unconsciousness. She turned at the sound and screamed as she saw the bloodied figure.

Detective Jack Willis had a look at the gunshot wound before the ambulance medics loaded the body, tilting it to check the back, and then flicking the sheet back into place over his head.

He had been shot from close range with a large calibre weapon. What he’d seen of the impact said it was a soft-point round, with no exit wound. No vital organs directly impacted, yet the shockwave from the bullet’s passage would have caused tissue damage in a wide radius around the bullet wound, as well as the fragments lodged throughout the abdomen.

So unexpected, so devastating. And apparently no-one had owned up to seeing the shooter.

‘Here he is, sir – Detective Willis,’ said a voice from behind him. Senior Constable Paul Hunt, his assistant, coordinating the others into working the crime the way he liked it done. With him at the top, and the rest knowing their place.

He turned and looked up to the street frontage of the business. McAllisters Accounting, the big name in corporate accounting for the large-yet-regional city of Toowoomba.
‘Detective Willis,’ said one of the uniforms, ‘I’m Senior Constable Fielding, and your man is obstructing our work.’
Jack Willis was not a small man. Years of rugby had given him a solid, blocky build. His thick neck supported a face textured with small scars, a crooked nose and clippered brown hair. He didn’t have time for these runty little try-hards who wanted to challenge him on every small thing.

He marched to the uniformed officer and stood nose-to-nose with him, his face an image of distain. ‘If my man is causing you a problem, then you’re screwing with my procedures. Get the fuck off my crime scene and expect a disciplinary letter.’
‘What? You can’t…,’ he looked for support as he stepped backwards and found none. Now dismissed, the officer was left ignored by all, floundering on the beginning of his first murder case.
‘That’s Red Willis,’ a young Constable whispered helpfully, and Fielding finally admitted defeat and left, shoulders slumped.

Detective Jack Willis was better known as ‘Red’, a nickname he had gained in his youth for his fiery temper. He seemed to always be on the verge of dismissal for his outbursts, yet he had been sheltered by upper management. Red was not a star on the rise, but he honestly didn’t care. He was paid to do a job, so he put his all into doing just that, although he always left toes trodden on.

‘Hunt!’
‘Sir.’
‘Forensics?’
‘On route.’
‘Victim?’
‘David Clarke, age 29.’
‘Why is evidence being loaded in an ambulance?’
‘It seems he was still breathing when they arrived.’
‘Alright. Show me the scene.’

The deck where David was shot was three floors off the ground with no external access. Two separate entrances to the deck, neither of them visible to the other. Whoever shot him was on the deck, and then returned to the building.

‘Hunt!’
‘Sir.’
‘Do you have a list of visitors in the building?’
‘There weren’t any.’
‘Any staff piss off?’
‘I think they’re all accounted for, but I’ll check.’
Red nodded, already re-focused on the deck before Hunt had even turned.

A single bullet case sat on the deck, perilously close to being kicked into a three story fall. Red crouched and pulled his left hand into a disposable glove before he touched the shell. A 9mm handgun. Not a common item in this area.

He returned it to its resting place. From his crouched position he looked at the blood smeared across the wall, then stood and walked over. Three metres.

Hunt appeared in the doorway near the blood, flipping pages in his notebook.
‘Red, all staff are here, and have been all day.’
‘How many is that?’
‘Eighteen, sir.’
‘Right. Profiles underway?’
‘Of course.’
‘Any good looking ones?’ Hunt knew the question related to their status as suspects, not their appearance.
‘A few, sir, but it could be a tangled one.’
‘Why?’
‘A family business. Most of the employees are related to each other. His wife is one of them inside.’
‘Fine. Line ‘em up. We’ll start with the first person on the spot. I’ll be in in a minute.’
‘Yessir.’

While Hunt organised the building staff, Red found the Sergent coordinating the uniformed police.
‘Sergent, have you got your people going over the ground under the deck?’
‘No sir. They’re moving through the building first.’
‘Send two down there now, and more when you can. Then have someone get me a list of any gun club memberships, gun ownership, and links to people with the same.’
‘Yessir.’

Minutes later Red was set up to interview everyone in the building, with Hunt coordinating a staff list. He could hear the murmurings of the people as they waited their turn. Not all of them were mourning, and that was a bad sign. It stank of plotting.

A blonde woman came in first and Hunt settled her down while Red flicked through the information he had been given on her. Jen. Office receptionist, doing the mail sorting, first on the scene, no-one to confirm her innocence. Hunt ticked her off and handed over to Red.
‘Who can verify what you were doing at the time of the shooting?’
Her chin quivered and she struggled to answer, ‘Omigod. I’m a suspect, aren’t I? You think I could shoot someone?’ and then she burst into tears. Red sighed and waited for the torrent to end before trying again.
‘Did he say anything when you found him?’
‘No. No, he had just passed out.’
‘You saw him fall down?’
Jen nodded and pulled out a tissue to wipe her eyes.
‘Did you see anyone coming off the deck?’
‘No, it was empty.’
‘Did you hear anything?’
‘Yes. A big bang, so I ran out onto the deck to see what the noise was.’
‘Where were you?’
‘In the room across the hallway.’
‘Okay. Do you have any idea why he was shot? Did he have enemies, or was he sleeping around?’
Jen gasped at the question. ‘Oh course he wasn’t! And he wouldn’t have any enemies either.’ Then she paused in thought for a moment, thinking out loud, ‘But he was always the centre of arguments here. Angry a lot of the time at people doing things wrong.’
Hunt caught Red’s briefly raised eyebrow. ‘Who was he angry at?’
‘Oh, no one person in-particular.’
‘Thanks Jen,’ Hunt said, ‘we’ll get in touch when we need more.’

The next sixteen interviews did not point the finger at anyone, but a few fumbled for answers in the face of direct questioning. Many were together in a workplace planning meeting, and were easily removed from the suspect list. But, a pattern began to appear in the answers to why he was shot.
‘He was always yelling at her, she was on the verge of quitting.’
‘He’d been telling everyone things she’d told him in confidence, and she was so embarrassed.’
‘He cheated on her…’
‘He was driving her mad with his constant scheming and gossiping…’
‘I’ve never seen anyone so hypocritical…’
‘Always so aggressive, yet always turning it back on the other person…’
‘He set up his career by piggy-backing off the work of others, but he never even mentioned the other guys…’
‘If he didn’t have all that inside information he’d still be a shit-kicker like the rest of us; that got right up the noses of the other guys…’
‘Ted didn’t think much of him ‘cos he has a thing for his wife, but she’s never let him close.’

After a couple of hours of interviews, Red had a headache. What was going on?! This whole fucking workplace had motives, and half of them didn’t have anyone to verify where they were. It didn’t seem anyone was going to miss David Clarke.

Although, they still had to talk to his wife.

To be continued…
Constructive criticism welcome.

© 2008 Damian Herde

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challenge, easter, group, long, manor, marpellette, murder, mystery, shoot, short, story, weekend and writing