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Issue 19
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“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.” – Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard’s Almanack
The plan had been perfect. And the execution—if I say so myself—had been perfect as well. We had made no mistakes, nothing had gone wrong. The papers hadn’t picked up the story yet, or maybe we’d been so careful that the police hadn’t even discovered it. I basked in the warmth of those facts for several days, turning them over and over in my mind as I went about my otherwise nondescript life. But then I began to worry about the participants. I was certain of myself, as certain as I could be, but what of the other two? I ran the opening sequence of events through my mind, over and over, and as I did so, I realized my error, or, rather, errors. There were two. Braddock was a bit too full of himself, prone to boasting, I realized. He was the kind of fellow who’d want people to know. He liked being the center of attention. And Comstock? I thought of the way he tended to hesitate, to hold back before taking the next step, no matter how obvious it was. I saw him sweating with guilt, dying to confess. However careful I’d been, I hadn’t considered my helpers all that closely. And there was my mistake. But what to do? I lay awake several nights on my cot, deep within myself where I couldn’t hear the snuffles and moans of those around me, thinking the thing through. And came to the inevitable conclusion Tuesday morning. Because I earn my keep here by helping wash dishes mornings and evenings, it was easy enough to slip a boning knife and a couple of paper towels into a slit in my coat. (We don’t set out sharp knifes for our residents, of course, but our cook uses them constantly, so half a dozen or so are always waiting to go into the washer.) Thus equipped, I set out. I spent the first hour walking the streets before it occurred to me to check the alleys as well, and that’s how I spotted Braddock, standing by the rear door of a diner, where he was smoking and tapping his foot to the music playing inside. As I approached him, I pulled a cigarette out of my pack (Natural American Spirit—one of my very few extravagances) and asked him for a light. Now that’s the kind of request no one’s going to turn down, of course, and as he smiled and raised his lighter, I swept the knife up under his sternum and angled it sharply to the right where I was pretty sure his heart was. His arms flew up and he tried to say something, but all that came out was a kind of gurgle and he collapsed against the wall and slid down. I jumped aside quickly to avoid the blood spurting out, wiped the knife on his white apron, wrapped it in the towels, slipped it back into my pocket, and continued down the alley. It had taken only a few seconds. The library was five blocks away, so I stepped in, took down a magazine from the display rack and carried it to a table where everyone could see me. Then, after a few minutes, I slipped off to the men’s room to flush the towels down the toilet and wash off the knife. I realized, of course, that I could have dropped it down any of the half-dozen sewer grates I’d passed, but that would have meant betraying the trust that the shelter had placed in me. And I couldn’t do that. It was about 11:00 by then, so I took the stairs up the second floor to talk to the librarian, which I make a habit of doing two or three times a week. I find that librarians are pleasant people, and this fellow in particular was always good to talk to if it were a quiet morning. I thought of him as a fellow intellectual, although of course he was far above my modest station. In any case, we had an intelligent conversation, the librarian and I. When it was nearly noon, I headed down the street to a Dunkin’ Donuts to order a coffee. (Fortified with plenty of cream and sugar, a tall coffee makes a passable lunch.) Afterward I stepped outside to smoke my Natural American Spirit, which I’d been looking forward to since my encounter in the alley, and as I stood there on the sidewalk, I realized what had been so peculiar about Braddock’s behavior: He had pretended not to recognize me. Had I underestimated his self-control? In any case, the next day our local paper (which we have a subscription to here) reported a single murder by stabbing. Oddly enough, it was in the right location--but the victim wasn’t Braddock. I wondered what their game might be, but I had other things to worry about. I could imagine the guilt that was gripping Comstock, and I needed to dispose of him quickly, but in a way that wouldn’t be linked to Braddock. That meant that I needed a different weapon and a different approach. I’m pretty slender in build, so I couldn’t count on using my strength. Instead, I’d have to be lethal and quick. I’m fond of the suppleness of filleting knives, but, after considerable thought, I chose a paring knife with a good, stout handle that would fit into my coat pocket where I could reach it easily. Plus another couple of towels. I was feeling desperate when I finally spotted the fellow Friday morning as he headed into a cocktail lounge on the south side of town. Given the time of day, I guessed that he was feeling pretty desperate himself and was ready to pour his heart out to anyone who would listen. It looked like I was going to miss my usual lunch at Dunkin’, so I settled down on a bench nearby for what I suspected might be a long wait. And so it was, a long wait I mean. But finally Comstock emerged, walking a little unsteadily, I was glad to see, and with his tie loosened and shirt unbuttoned. Holding my knife with its blade up, I followed him around to the back of the lot, and as he opened the door of a black Cadillac sedan, I stepped up close behind him and reached around to sweep the knife as hard as I could up into his throat. He made a loud retching sound and splayed his arms out wildly, but I pushed him onto the seat with my left hand and managed to tuck his jerking legs in far enough to slam the door. Then I slipped quickly around the back of the lounge and across a strip of scrub ground to another street. It was early afternoon, a pretty quiet time of day, so I strolled as nonchalantly as I could back toward town, zig-zagging here and there before stopping in at a 7-Eleven to buy a pack of Reese’s and use the restroom. There I flushed the towels down the toilet and washed the knife off and slid it into the space behind the tank, where I’d be able to retrieve it a few days later to return it. It wasn’t the kind of place where they spend a lot of time tidying up. The shelter wouldn’t be opening for another couple of hours, so I sat down on a bench after a few more blocks to eat my Reese’s and smoke a Natural American Spirit. It was a warm spring afternoon, and the catalpa trees that lined this particular street were just beginning to bloom and I felt relaxed for the first time in weeks. A local Domino’s delivers dinner to us on Fridays, and I was looking forward to a good meal and a good night’s sleep. |
GROVE KOGER is the author of a collection of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, Out of Idaho, published by Finishing Line Press in 2026.
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