The Perfect Crime, Page 2
Terry Wright
“Hello, Pete,” a raspy voice said from behind him.
Stilled by surprise, he clutched his chest and slowly turned around. What he saw gave him a fright, a cowboy shedding dirt from his long brown coat. He must’ve fallen off his horse and got dragged through the mud, or more likely a pasture full of cattle dung. God, he stunk something awful. And half the skin on his face was gone; his exposed molars looked like they’d never seen a dentist. What the hell was he doing here, standing on the trail in the middle of nowhere? “Who are you?”
He tipped his dusty cowboy hat. “Didn’t mean to startle you, sir.” Steel gray eyes set deep in dark sockets glared out from under the hat brim. “Name’s Justin Graves. But you can call me Justice.”
Seizing his composure, “I’d offer you some wine,” Pete said, “but as you can see...” He pointed to the puddle where the bottle had broken. “I’m fresh out.”
Seemingly unconcerned, the nasty cowboy approached, his boots crunching dirt. “Martha is upset with you.”
Yeah, right. “How is it you know Martha?”
“I talked to her yesterday.”
Impossible. She was dead yesterday. The old cowboy was full of shit. “You want an apple?”
“We watched you feed her body to the dogs, Pete.”
His heart lunged in his chest so hard he truly believed he’d fall over dead from cardiac arrest. This couldn’t be happening. “You can’t be serious.”
“I know how much she hated those dogs. She told me everything.”
“No way.” He wasn’t stupid enough to tell him that he couldn’t have talked to her because she was dead. That would be a Detective Curland trick to get a confession out of him. Pete could’ve written the script for that pitfall. She was dead and not talking to anyone.
Justin parted his coat lapels, revealing rotted flesh and exposed rib bones. “Believe me now?” Worms wriggled in and out a circle-star badge pinned to his tattered gray shirt.
“That’s gross!” The sight of him was worse than Martha splayed open in the bathtub. And more disturbing than that, why did the old man think he needed to prove he was dead and that he could have spoken to Martha? It was like he knew Pete’s thoughts, and right now he was thinking: You need a doctor.
“I’m fine, really.”
Okay, he could read minds.
“I’m a homicide detective, deceased, as you can see, and I know you killed your wife.”
Pete fought to remain cool, focused. “There’s no proof of that.”
“You watch TV. There’s always proof.”
Pete stepped away from the smelly old ghoul, careful not to get too close to the edge of the cliff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s what they all say about us dumb cops.”
“If you’re so smart, what do you got on me?”
“Did you consider the airport security cameras? It’s all on tape, you know, Martha going into the men’s room, you coming out.”
“Why would anyone look at a security tape? She’s not even missing.”
“Nope.” Justin grinned, or maybe he yawned, it was hard to tell. “I know exactly where she is.”
“San Francisco, damn it. She’s in San Francisco. I have a note to prove it.”
“No she isn’t. She’s in the afterlife awaiting justice for her murder. Only then will she be able to cross over to everlasting peace and happiness.”
“That’s malarkey. There’s no proof a murder was committed. No body.”
“Come on, Pete. How else do you think I knew you went to San Francisco? I watched you. I even sent a trash truck so you could toss the suitcase in it, the suitcase with all the evidence.”
“You did that?”
“I know where the cops can find it, too. Then I made a phone call to my boss, Captain Holland. His detectives are combing your place for clues as we speak. How’s all that for malarkey?”
Pete frowned. He’d been extra thorough. Completely. Not a trace. Clean bed sheets. Clean bathroom. Clean dog bowls.
“And your dogs have been eating well,” Justin added.
The words felt like a knife going into his chest and twisting, carving out a hollow place that quickly filed with doubt. What could he have left behind? Nothing. Nothing at all. “You guys must’ve got a bad tip on Crime Stoppers. They’re not going to find anything. And you’re bluffing about the suitcase.” He’d seen it get crushed.
“You sure?”
“Of course.” Pete gulped. Of course he was sure. Okay, he wasn’t sure.
Justin crossed his arms. Bones creaked. “Nine out of ten killers leave something behind.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“What have you forgotten?”
These trick questions kept popping into the conversation. Detective Curland must’ve trained this cowboy homicide detective. “There’s nothing to forget.”
“Where’s the rope?”
“The rope? What rope…?” It was in the suitcase, deep in the landfill by now. He’d put it in the suitcase...or... well, now he couldn’t remember what happened to the rope, but he wasn’t going to say anything incriminating.
“It’s under your bed,” Justin said, his voice grating.
“How the hell do you know what’s under my bed?”
“When you stripped off Martha’s nightgown, it fell to the floor and you accidently kicked it under the bed. Out of sight. Out of mind.”
“You’ve been snooping around my house?”
Justin tipped his hat back and pointed up. “I see everything from up there.”
Pete looked up. Blue sky. An impossible thought seized him. “You’re from heaven?”
“Not exactly. I didn’t quite make it that far, but close. Along the way I made a deal with the devil to save my daughter’s soul. Gotta get a hundred bad guys, and let’s see, I’m not real sure but I think you’re number eighty-nine on the countdown.”
“Eighty nine? You’re saying the devil knows about me?”
“Hey, you made his top one hundred list. That’s got to be worth something.”
“Oh, shit!” Pete could hardly breathe. This cowboy ghoul was for real. “They’re going to find the rope.”
“And you’re going down for Murder One.”
He slumped on the rock. His dogs were gone and his celebration was completely ruined. “She made my life miserable, don’t you see?”
“That’s not a capital offense, Pete. You should’ve divorced her instead of killing her.”
He looked up at the ghoul. “You really did talk to her?”
“Yup, and she’s pissed off at you.”
“What else is new?” He exhaled.
“Feeding her to the dogs like that, Pete, how could you?”
“Ironic, I’d say.” Pete had to laugh.
Justin looked around. “It’s nice up here. Enjoy the view while you can. Until the police get here. Then you’ll spend the rest of your life in an eight-by-ten-foot cell.”
“I can’t go to prison. I need this, the wide open spaces. Living in a cell will kill me. And besides, who’s going to take care of my dogs?”
“Mrs. Perkins, your secretary. I recall she wanted a couple big dogs. I’ll see to it, but don’t worry. She’ll feed them regular dog food.”
“But it was the perfect crime.”
“There’s no such thing.”
Pete stood, the consequences of his failure greater than he could bear. There was nothing left for him now. He stepped to the edge of the cliff, looked down to the river below, and wondered if the water was cold.
With a gust of wind the ghoul was gone.
About the Author
There’s nothing mundane in the writing world of Terry Wright. Tension, conflict and suspense propel his readers through the pages as if they were on fire. Published in Science Fiction and Supernatural, his mastery of the action thriller has won him International acclaim as an accomplished screenplay writer. A longtime member of the Rocky Mountain Fict
ion Writers, he runs their annual Colorado Gold Writing Contest. Terry lives near Denver with his wife, Bobette.
Terry invites you to visit his Website at www.terrywrightbooks.com where you’ll find more information on his short stories, novels, and screenplays.
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