Play Dead

10

May 29, 1960

‘Bastard.’

The gun exploded. A bullet sliced through Sinclair’s skull. Blood splashed onto the walls, the sticky, red mist spraying the killer’s face. Clumps of brain tissue flew out the other side of Sinclair’s head. The dead body slid off the chair and onto the floor.

Standing over the bloodied corpse, the killer felt a strange exhilaration.

I killed him. I killed the bastard. He’s dead. I didn’t mean to do it, but I killed him. Plain and simple. I’m covered with blood, but oh, did he deserve it. Oh, was he asking for it.

The killer scanned the room. The music outside on the commons blasted so loudly that the students did not hear the bullet or, if they did, they must have thought it was a firecracker or a car backfiring. Still, time was short. The killer had to act fast.

Just relax. Don’t panic. You’re in control. Now just think. Something will come to you.

The killer looked at what had been a man’s head. It was now an unrecognizable mass of blood, flesh and bone fragments.

I shot him in the head. That was good. That was smart. Now I can make it look like a suicide. Everyone knew the bastard had problems. A suicide would barely be questioned.

The killer locked the office door, wiped the gun clean of any fingerprints and placed the gun snugly in the dead man’s hand.

There. It’s done. Perfect. No one would ever suspect me. All I’ve got to do is sneak out the back before the police get here and -

The killer stopped abruptly, remembering something very bothersome.

What was the name of that T.V. show? Or was it a movie? Or a book? Not important. There was a situation similar to this one. A man was found dead with a bullet hole in his head and a gun in his hand. An apparent suicide. But the detective figured out it was really a murder. But how?

Fingers snapped. The killer smiled.

The detective had the victim’s hand checked for traces of gunpowder or something like that. None was found. In fact, the hand showed absolutely no signs of trauma, so the victim could not possibly have fired the gun. Conclusion: he had been murdered.

Fear crept in along with an idea. The killer sprinted back toward the body, lifted the hand with the gun, and pressed Sinclair’s finger on the trigger.

The gun fired. The bullet lodged into the wall near the bookshelf.

Relief settled onto the killer’s face. The hand now had the gunpowder or whatever on it. The police would be here soon. They would investigate the matter completely and come up with one of two scenarios: 1) after shooting himself, Sinclair’s hand spasmed in death, firing another bullet; 2) Sinclair had chickened out at first, pulled the gun away from his head as he fired, then worked up the courage to kill himself for real.

The killer headed out the back entrance and into the sunshine, confident that no one was watching.

That was wrong.

From behind the couch two scared eyes had seen everything. But the killer did not look behind the couch. The killer just continued to make his escape, thinking:

I did it. I killed the bastard. And now he has left me no choice. There is only one way to right the wrong, only one way to put everything back in place.

The killer swallowed.

I have to kill again.