Reloaded Murder At The M And M Lounge

Detective Bradley had seen plenty of bodies during his twenty year career, but the sight of this one still sickened him. He struggled to think of the still warm and bleeding carcass that was laying in the parking lot behind the M & M Lounge in down town Gresham as just an anonymous, adult, caucasian male. Detective Bradley hadn't needed to check the wallet to know that the man had been forty-six years old.

A quick scan of the parking lot revealed only one car that was familiar to Detective Bradley but not the car that was most familiar to him. A glance at his phone confirmed yet again that there were no replies to his frantic calls and texts.

The M & M Lounge had once been the type of respectable establishment that one would not expect to be the scene of a shooting much less a mass murder. He had made enquiries about the M & M months ago even though it was outside of his jurisdiction for personal rather than professional reasons. Historically; the lounge had tended to feature country western bands which attracted a clientele that was mostly white, lower middle class folk who were at least circumspect about their vices. However; the area had gradually changed over the decades as Portland's urban renewal programs pushed poor urban people from their historic neighborhoods around Martin Luther King Boulevard and Killingsworth out to the suburbs.

The M & M Lounge had adapted to the changing demographics of the neighborhood by featuring more eclectic music for its more diverse clientele. Some of the urban cowboys who now frequented the M & M were black men just like many of the real cowboys of the wild west had been. These ebony cowboys frequented the M & M Lounge because they were not at all averse to dancing with women who might be a few years older and a few pounds heavier if the women were white, especially if they were married. The crude jokes implied that the M & M Lounge had become popular with suburban white wives who had become afflicted with Jungle Fever as they approached menopause.

The fear of what he might discover inside the lounge compelled Detective Bradley to stall for time by inspecting this carcass more thoroughly. The body was illuminated by the headlights from the descendant's vehicle that was parked nearby with the engine and emergency lights still running. The light made it easy for Bradley to see that the bullet had been perfectly placed by someone who seemed to have known almost as much about guns as most people assume that someone in the shooter's profession should know. Rather than enter through the right temple, the forty caliber bullet had entered the skull through the roof of the mouth, traversing front to back and upward through the brain stem and limbic system before shattering but not exiting the anterior skull. This careful shot placement had eliminated any risk of surviving to live on with a traumatic brain injury.

The weapon was laying on the sidewalk next to the body. Detective Bradley recognized it instantly. It was the exact same model, forty caliber, semiautomatic Glock that he carried. The original, nine millimeter, Glock seventeen had provoked a shit storm of controversy when it was first introduced almost three decades earlier because it's polymer frame was allegedly invisible to metal detectors and X-Ray machines. Detective Bradley had known that this was untrue, but he hadn't spoken out to refute the propaganda. Few of his colleagues had.

Detective Bradley struggled to remain calm as he confirmed the identity of the first body to the investigating officer. He reluctantly shifted his attention back to the other body on the sidewalk. Bradley hadn't needed to check her purse to know that the woman was forty-seven years old. He was ashamed that he was so relieved to recognize Charlotte. He had been a guest in Charlotte's home on numerous occasions to have dinner or watch football with her husband. He had been to their home only a few months earlier to celebrate her most recent birthday. That party had been a ritual of reconciliation. She was one of those women who had managed to remain reasonably attractive as she entered middle age without being delusional about it. It helped that she had a nice rack. One of those big, once beautiful breasts was now devastated by a nasty looking exit wound centered where her right nipple had once been. The remnants of a silicone membrane and gel confirmed his chronic suspicions.

The department brass favored the forty over the smaller caliber but higher velocity nine millimeter not only because it was more effective but because it was less likely to overpenetrate a perp then continue on to kill an innocent bystander. Detective Bradley was certain that the autopsy would confirm that the bullet had managed to miss ribs both as it entered then exited her torso, and had traversed through only lung and breast tissue before exiting her nipple.

A brief inspection of Charlotte's back revealed a total of three entry wounds. One bullet had obviously shattered her spine while another bullet appeared to be properly placed to hit her heart. At least Mrs Grahn hadn't suffered much.

Detective Bradley realized that solving this homicide would be a no brainer. His colleagues in the Gresham police department were no more adept than he was, but even they could figure it out.

He turned his attention back to the perpetrator who was laying beside his first victim. The motive was obviously romantic jealousy. Jeffrey had reluctantly commiserated about his situation over coffee and donuts as they started their shift earlier that afternoon. In spite of their reconciliation, he was convinced that Charlotte had reverted to her philandering habits. Sergeant Grahn didn't have any actual evidence, but he knew that the M & M Lounge had a reputation. Detective Bradley had confessed his own anxieties then argued that there was an innocent explanation for their spouses frequenting the M & M Lounge during her weekly Wives Night Out. He had argued that he was not convinced that their women were on the prowl. Obviously; Detective Grahn had finally had his fill of his spouse's suspected philandering and decided to Bury the Bitch rather than just divorce her and pay alimony for a decade or so! The Sheriff had encouraged Detective Bradley to not volunteer this information to the investigators to shield the department from a probable lawsuit for negligence.

The fact that Sergeant Grahn had decided to wear his uniform rather than plain clothes on his mission of mass murder embarrassed Detective Bradley. He had even driven a marked patrol car with the Clackamas County Sheriff's emblem prominently displayed on the doors over a mile into a neighboring jurisdiction for his murderous mission. This of course had facilitated the massacre. No one had wanted to interfere with a police officer in the performance of his duties. Bradley reached in to turn off the engine and take the key out of the ignition. The Sheriff had eagerly agreed with his suggestion that he visit the scene to retrieve the marked patrol car asap.

After pausing for a moment to summon his courage, Detective Bradley went into the M & M Lounge to see the other victims. The paramedics were still struggling to stabilize the one woman who wasn't dead yet. They had her laid out on the floor. Her dress was cut open to reveal that she was a cougar dressed for the hunt. She had worn stockings and a bra that had also been cut off of her but no panty. She had a nice rack too. He couldn't avoid noticing that her big breasts sagged naturally to the side to confirm that they were live rather than mamorex. Detective Bradley instantly recognized the wounded victim. Fortunately; she too wasn't who he most feared she would be. Victoria's beautiful, big, bloody breasts undulated in response to the medics' attempt to revive her. Given the multiple, forty caliber entry wounds in her pelvic region, Detective Bradley doubted that she would survive.

The body of the other women had not suffered the indignity of being stripped in public. She too was not who Detective Bradley feared that she would be. The single, forty caliber round that had entered her forehead had managed to overpenetrate, creating a spectacularly gory exit wound in the back of her skull. Kathleen had died almost instantly.

Detective Bradley went over to where his colleagues were interviewing who they assumed were key witnesses while they waited for a bus to haul everyone into headquarters for questioning. The big, burly, black man that they were questioning claimed that he and his friends had been dancing with a group of four, white ladies for much of the evening. He had been in the restroom rather than sitting at their table when the Clackamas County Sheriffs sergeant must have first walked in. He had seen the cop dragging his screaming wife out the door to her execution. He had wisely dove for cover when the maniac returned, screaming that he was "going to kill the bitches who led his wife astray." He had remained hidden while he watched as the women were shot then the shooter walked outside to shoot himself.

The black man explained that he and his brothers had known all three of the victims. They were part of a larger group of white cougars, all of whom he had known, intimately. He knew that all of the women in the group were married but he was far from ashamed to admit that "we been fucking them white bitches for the last few months."

The black man continued his gleeful taunting, "there was a fourth, white bitch with the group earlier who is also married to a cop. She has never been as reluctant as her friends. It hadn't taken much time for one of the brothers to talk the white bitch into going off to a motel room to fuck. They left the lounge only half an hour before the irate cop showed up."

The Negro chuckled evilly as he taunted, "her life was saved because she had been getting her married cunt pounded by a big, black cock. Instead of taking a few bullets as her friends had, she had just taken a few more loads of Nigga cum." He continued to taunt his interrogator by explaining, "I prefer to fuck white cougars like the dead cop's wife. Unlike younger, single women, married ladies never ask me to wear a condom. Married ladies sometimes just ask me to pull out, but they never get too upset when I don't."

Detective Bradley struggled to resist the temptation to shoot the uppity Nigger who so casually boasted of seducing white women who were married to police officers. However; he was daunted by the shame of explaining his motives to his colleagues. The man was also right about how the white wife had survived the massacre of her friends because she had been away somewhere else having sex with a black man. Neither the witness or the investigators had any way of knowing how intensely personal this case was for Detective Bradley. He had no intention of enlightening them.

After confirming with his colleagues that there was no evidentiary value in the patrol car parked on the sidewalk, Detective Bradley exited the lounge. As he was getting into the patrol car, he noticed that several television news crews were already on the scene and filming. Hopefully they had not yet realized that the mass murderer had driven the patrol car to the scene of the crime and hadn't bothered to get video of it.

Bradley tried calling his wife once more. The call went directly to voicemail. Either her battery was drained or she had turned the phone off to ensure that her assignation could not be interrupted. Bradley tried to remember the witness' statement. He had mentioned that the fourth woman had gone to a motel with one of his friends, but not which motel. There were many motel's in the area. He could actually see two from the parking lot.

A quick drive by confirmed that the car that he was looking for was not parked at either of the closets motels or the surrounding streets. Bradley contemplated contacting the cell companies to get the most recent tower ping logs for his wife's phone. He wouldn't need a warrant for that, but he would have to explain it to the Sheriff. It wouldn't tell him where she was if she had turned her phone off before she left the bar.

As he was driving, Detective Bradley checked his phone for texts and calls. This was of course technically illegal, but cops considered themselves exempt from the law. The Grahn's oldest child was mature enough to watch over her younger siblings while her dad was working a graveyard shift and her mom was out with her friends. She was not mature enough to parent her siblings. No teenager could be mature enough to watch over their siblings in the wake of the murder- suicide of their parents.

Fortunately; the Grahn's oldest daughter had been mature enough to help the deputies that had been sent to their home locate her grandparents. The grandparents were on their way.

One of the putatively female deputies had volunteered to take the children home with her until their grandparents arrived. Detective Bradley knew her. Like most female cops, she was the type of woman who had a kick starter on her vibrator. Bradley had actually met her wife. The lesbian couple had two children as a result of sperm delivered naturally rather than via turkey baster. In spite of their unconventional lifestyle, those women had maternal instincts. The would be much better guardians for the children than the official, State child welfare bureaucrats who had an uncanny ability to recruit child molesters to be foster parents.

Detective Bradley had far too much experience investigating the resulting crimes that included another, grisly, mass shooting. That case had compelled the Children's Services Division to find a new name that was more easily forgotten to evade accountability. He had no desire to consign anyone's children, much less the children of his deceased colleague and friend, to the jurisdiction of those idiots.

The Clackamas County Sheriff's main office was a nearly brand new, five story glass edifice that looked like it might be the headquarters of some high tech corporation. It was an opulent monument to the Sheriff's overinflated ego.

The Sheriff's office was literally right across the street from the Clackamas Town Center shopping center that had been the scene of another mass shooting just before Christmas. The police had gotten to the scene of that crime almost immediately. However; rather than rushing in to immediately confront the still active shooter, they had implemented the same, standard operating procedure that had been implemented at Sandy Hook with such deadly effect only a few weeks earlier. Rather than rush in to heroically intervene, the cops had waited out in the parking lot, listening to the ongoing shooting while the Special Tactics Squad got organized.

By the time the police entered the shopping center, the shooter had already been confronted by an armed citizen. Unlike the cops, the citizen had not allowed the prospect of taking on a man armed with an assault rifle with only his compact carry pistol to dissuade him from intervening. The Sheriff had been incensed. The fraudulent investigation had concluded that the gunman had committed suicide. This spared the Sheriff the humiliation of having to publicly acknowledge that a citizen had taken out the bad guy while he and his deputies were still having a circle jerk out in the parking lot. The threat of being prosecuted for carrying his concealed pistol into a gun free zone combined with the specter of a wrongful death lawsuit from the mass shooter's family had persuaded the armed citizen to remain silent.

After parking the car, Detective Bradley decided that he wouldn't finish his shift. The Sheriff would understand. Given the circumstances, he needed a drink. He needed more than just one drink. He arrived home to discover that the children were exploiting their mother's absence to stay up late. He had a beer while he herded them off to bed.

Once he was alone, Detective Bradley switched to whiskey while he waited for his wife and contemplated the implications of her absence. He didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce where she was and what she was doing. He thought about how he had been married for almost two decades. He thought about their children. Detective Bradley thought about the mortgage that was almost paid off. He thought about the looming expenses of hopefully putting their children through college.

Detective Bradley tried to distract himself by watching the vixens at Fox News. It was a mistake. The massacre at the M & M News had for the moment become a national news story. For reasons he didn't and couldn't understand, Bradley pushed the record button.

The confirmation that his wife had become a black cock whore just as Charlotte incensed Detective Bradley. He had never considered himself a paragon of tolerance who celebrated diversity. However; he was amazed that it bothered him so much that her infidelities were with black men. If she got pregnant, her black, bastard baby would proclaim to all of the world that her husband was a cuckold.

Detective Bradley finished off a whiskey as he curse his unfaithful for not even having the decency to be fucking around on him with white men. Then if she got knocked up by some other guy, the baby would look enough like her husband that they could pretend that it was his. Bradley was amazed by the sudden realization that he might be willing to accept such a scenario and remain married to his unfaithful wife if she had been discrete enough to screw white men.

Unfortunately; the whiskey bottle had been mostly empty when Bradley started drinking. There was no beer in the refrigerator. Linda had long ago realized that limiting the supply of alcohol was a simple and effective tactic to regulate her husband's drinking. Since Bradley could no longer drown his sorrows, he considered other possibilities. His thoughts turned to the respectably small arsenal, meager supply of ammunition and accessories that he kept in a locking cabinet out in the garage.

Bradley brought the small cleaning kit into the kitchen and laid it out on some newspaper spread on the table. Most cops had at least contemplated the scenario. The cleaning supplies would give investigators a pretext to rule that the death had been accidental rather than a suicide. Cops had a well documented history of accidental discharges. The nearly universal adaptation of double action only pistols that had no manual safety assured that there would be accidents. The tables, chairs, walls, floor and ceiling in the club house of the Tri-County Gun Club where only cops were allowed to have guns inside the clubhouse attested to just how often even police could forget that they needed to clear the chamber as well as remove the magazine to unload a pistol. Cops could rely upon their colleagues to ensure that their families would get their insurance money if they shot themselves.

Bradley removed the loaded magazine from his pistol and laid it on the table but he didn't rack the slide to clear the chamber. He considered various positions that a gun would plausibly be in when it discharged. A man would have to be really stupid to point a gun at himself, even while he was disassembling it to clean it. Shooting himself in the chest would be no more plausible than shooting himself in the head. Thinking of the bullet riddled tables at the gun club suggested a possibility. A man could forget about the portions of his anatomy that were hidden under the table. A bullet to the groin would certainly be lethal if it hit a femoral artery. Unfortunately; an unlucky hit to the genitals would probably be survivable and given the circumstances of Linda's now confirmed infidelities, profoundly humiliating.

Detective Bradley decided to take the easiest, safest way out. He stuck the muzzle of his loaded pistol in his mouth just as Sergeant Grahn had. The position forced him to put his thumb rather than his index finger on the trigger. The Clackamas County Sheriff had not been quite as stupid as the New York City Police who had mandated the installation of extra heavy trigger springs on all Glocks. The New York Trigger resulted in a long, harsh trigger pull that made it nearly impossible to fire a Glock accurately under stress. However; it still took a few pounds of pressure and almost half an inch of travel to cock the striker then release it.