Murdered Mister

Murdered Mister
By: James Dubeau

I picked up the pistol from where it sat next to the poor sucker that lay at my feet. His blood turned a deep brown as it hardened in the rug. Gunpowder wafted from the barrel of the .45, this gun had been fired recently. It had to be the murder weapon. The girl was right; someone was after her secret caller.

I contacted the girl before calling the police. She was heartbroken; sobbing tears rang out over the phone. Her young heart would rebound. They always do.

“What happened?” She choked out between sobs.

“Shot, .45 to the gut,” I calmly replied. Her sobs doubled, but the bluntness was necessary. “Did he have any enemies?” I repeated the question that I had asked her earlier this afternoon in my office.

“Yes… No… I don’t know.”

“Give me a straight answer!” I growled. “Did he or did he not have any enemies? The police are on their way and I can just as easily send them in your direction. They would be more than happy to pull you in for questioning, if you would rather do it that way.”

“He… He told me she left him.” It was all the girl could do to control the sobbing enough to squeeze out a satisfying reply. “That bitch wanted nothing to do with him anymore.”

“I’m coming to see you. Don’t go anywhere,” I rattled off, slamming down the phone before she could reply. There was something that she was not telling me. Something that I will have to pry out of her in person.