Tim Blake was a runner, and a planner. This Thursday night he was sitting on a bench, under a tree, across the street from a low-level downtown hotel. He wore black sweatpants, black sneakers, a black hoodie with a tight hood, dark gloves, and a black KN95 mask, maybe fake.
Tim was thirty-nine years old, medium build. He had twin daughters, sixteen, and a son, fifteen. They were all at home this night. He was married to Monica, thirty-seven. As he sat on the bench, Monica emerged from the hotel's front door, and turned right toward the parking garage where her Camry was parked while she spent some time inside. It was nine pm. Tim watched her go, and saw her car emerge from the garage. She drove past him.
Two minutes later Donald Crenshaw, III emerged from the hotel. He was forty-nine years old, and he was a big man, well dressed this night. He was a partner in Monica's law firm. He was also a cheapskate and a snake. His Lexus was not in the lighted parking garage. Instead, Crenshaw had parked it in an alley next to the hotel, by the loading dock, which was unused at night. That way he saved eight dollars. Also, there was no record of his having been near the hotel that night. But it was the eight dollars that mattered to him.
Crenshaw turned left from the hotel entrance, walked half a block and turned into the alley. Tim got off the bench when he saw Crenshaw, and jogged easily across the street, both hands in the pouch of his hoodie. Crenshaw was reaching into the pocket of his overcoat to get his keys when Tim caught up to him. Crenshaw had absolutely no idea that someone else was near him. Tim pulled a.22 revolver out of his hoodie. It was loaded with six rounds. Shorts. It had a homemade sound suppression device mounted on it. Tim put the revolver at the center of the back of Crenshaw's neck and shot him, injuring his spine. Crenshaw dropped to the ground. Crumpled, really. Tim turned him over so they could talk. Crenshaw was alive, and paralyzed. He looked up at Tim.
Tim lifted the KN95 mask, and smiled at Crenshaw. He could see that Crenshaw recognized him. Tim was happy to see the abject fear in the man's face.
Tim said, "You shouldn't be fucking someone's wife. Especially mine. Time to pay up."
Crenshaw gurgled something. Tim shot him in the middle of his forehead. He checked for a pulse, and found none. Then he removed Crenshaw's wallet, and his car keys. He hefted the body - for it was now just a body - and eased it into a dumpster stationed by the loading dock. There was debris in the dumpster and the body made little noise as it settled into it.
Tim got into Crenshaw's car. He drove it across town, and parked it at a certain curb. Twenty minutes later a man approached it, took the keys from the front driver's tire, and drove away. Three hours later the Lexus was no more. Parts in a big warehouse.
Tim ran from the Lexus to his house, miles away. About halfway there, he stopped, took the money from the wallet and shoved the wallet into a storm drain. Another four blocks on, he did the same with the.22. It was an untraceable gun, that he had since he was a teenager. He had grown up in a rough neighborhood. He had hidden the gun all that time, knowing that someday he might need it - again.
Monica was home when he arrived from his regular Thursday evening run. He was about five minutes later than usual.
The teens were all upstairs in their rooms. Monica was in the kitchen. She had shed her work clothes, and wore a shift, slippers. She looked the same as usual - very good.
She said, "How was your run?"
"Very satisfying." Tim smiled at her. He noted that she had showered since she had been home. A normal Thursday. He did the same, and they went to bed. She initiated sex. Tim pulled her to himself and fucked her hard, until they both came.
Monica arrived home from work the next day, shocked.
"Tim, Don has been killed. He's dead." She was sobbing.
"He was a jerk. Why cry?" He stared at her, hard. She paled, screamed and fell to the floor.
**********************
Tim looked down at her there. He felt no compassion. Rather, he was quite pleased. Served her right.
He watched as she wobbled her way upright by grabbing the couch. She was still sobbing.
"What happened? And why are you so distraught? The guy was a total jerk, and you've said it yourself many times."
She looked at him. Tears were streaming down her face.
She sobbed, "You! You....." She coudn't finish.
"I what? Just tell me what happened."
"You know. You evil bastard!"
"Whoa! What the fuck? You need to calm down, Monica. I didn't do shit to the guy, if that's what you're saying. The question is, why would you think I did?"
"He....he wasn't an asshole. He was....nice. How did you find out?"
"Well, I guess you just told me. You were fucking him. Jesus, Monica. Because he WAS an asshole. What kind of person are you?"
"I'm not what you are! How could you? It was only a fling."
"Yeah, and how many other flings did he have? Why are you accusing me?"
He said all the right things, but with a little smile on his face. That smile, and the hard stare at the start, allowed his errant wife to know what had happened.
"You killed him and you're going to be arrested. Then what happens to the family, when you're in prison?"
"I'm not going to be arrested, and won't be in prison. I guarantee. The real question is what happens to the family now that I find out you're an unfaithful slut."
"I'm no slut. It was a fling. It wasn't going to last. You..."
"How long had this been going on?"
"I don't have to talk about that."
"I can understand that. Must have been a while, otherwise you'd tell. Here it is. I believe we have to get divorced. I want that, I think. Maybe you do as well."
"I have to consider. I mean...you say you didn't, but I don't know. You're grinning when you say it. An unsettling grin. An admission."
"Bullshit. I am happy that the guy's dead, though. He shouldn't be fucking anyone's wife. People can be dangerous under those circumstances."
"You especially."
"Moving on, please move your stuff into the basement room. I'm not sleeping with you."
"You move."
"No, Monica. You fucked around, so you pay the price. A small price......so far."
Monica didn't want to sleep in the same room with Tim, anyway. She got enough things to keep her for the night, and went downstairs.
All three kids then came quickly down the stairs. They had been alerted by the crying and arguing, apparently.
Rita and Emma were agog. Tim, Jr. less so.
Rita said, "Dad, what's going on? We heard some stuff. About divorce, flings. What?"
"Here's the story, kids. Your mother has been unfaithful with her boss. And, more, someone apparently killed the guy last night. That's about what I know. She'll be sleeping on the basement futon for the foreseeable future."
"Geez, Dad...." This was Junior. "Are you getting divorced?"
"Dunno, I have very little information, and no explanation. Now, we need a dinner. Let's call a couple of pizzas."
Emma had her phone. "What kinds?" She was a level-headed girl, and could eat.
Thirty minutes later the pizzas came. A large veggie, and a meat lovers. There hadn't been a lot of talk while they waited. Everyone seemed pensive.
Over pizza, they began to discuss things.
Tim said, "I want all of you to know that whatever happens between your mother and me, I'll always have your backs. Please try not to get distracted and lose your grades. And, also, no talk at school. This problem should stay here, for the moment."
"When....when will some decisions get made?" Rita was clearly anxious and never ate much anyway. Emma was still eating. (Yet, they were both the same, slim size. Go figure.)
"I can't say. Who wants to take your mom some pizza?"
Emma looked up. There were two pieces left. She seemed disappointed.
Rita said, "I'll go." She made a plate and took a water bottle.
Rita was downstairs for ten minutes. When she came back up, the others looked at her.
"Mom said thanks for the pizza. She's not in very good shape. I gave her a hug. She said to tell you all that she was sorry for what happened."
Junior sighed. "What part of what happened is she sorry for?"
The girls looked at him, aghast.
Tim said, "Please, JR. She's screwed up, sure. But let's see what happens. She still loves you all."
After ice cream dessert, the kids went to their rooms, no doubt to look on their computers, or phones, for reports of the killing.
Tim did the same. The local section of the paper had a big article on it. It said that prominent local attorney and conservative political activist Donald Crenshaw III had been found shot to death in a dumpster in an alley behind the Elvers Hotel. Police indicated that Crenshaw had been robbed, and that his late model Lexus was missing. The police would not say why Crenshaw was in the alley. The investigation continued. There was speculation on line that Crenshaw had been killed for political reasons, since he was a big supporter of Trump.
It was past nine o'clock when the doorbell rang. Tim looked at the camera and saw two plainclothes police officers - an older white guy dressed in a rumpled suit, and a sharply dressed black man, tall and slim. He opened the door.
Tim said, "What can I do for you guys?"
The white detective said, "I'm Detective Stevens, and this is Detective Jackson. We'd like to speak to you and your wife."
"About Crenshaw?"
"Yes."
"Well, I can talk to you, but she's downstairs, and maybe asleep."
He stepped back and the two officers came in. He ushered them into the living room. Then he went to the stairs and spoke loudly, "Everyone in their rooms, now."
Feet padded away from the top of the stairs.
