John Turner- The Case of the Black Widow

A Story by Prantik Ali

It's basically about an amateur detective trying to solve a murder case. I tried to put a bit of Sherlock Holmes in my character, but I know the whole thing sucks pretty bad. I think so at least.

THE CASE OF THE BLACK WIDOW

PROLOGUE

reg Smith sat down heavily on the chair, and stretched his legs upon the dressing table in front of him. It had been a while since he had last examined his face closely. Nearing 50, his face was still full of glamour, his eyes the color of a clear summer sky. Owing to the stress and hard-work he had been through for the last month, he was dreadfully tired. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, thereafter putting on his spectacles. It was his habit to read books for a while before going to sleep. It was more like a sleeping pill for him. He was nearing the end of the novel “The Cuckoo’s Calling” by Robert Galbraith. Smith mentally resolved not to retire to bed before finishing the novel. He had read for about 15 minutes, deeply engrossed in the book. The cold winter air was blowing in through the open window.

A sudden sound made Smith jump.

“PING!”

He looked up in the mirror, and it shattered into many pieces as a bullet from behind him hit it. He just got the look of his killer before the pieces clanked down on to the marble floor.

He suddenly felt great pain seizing him from inside. Smith could not breathe. The book fell from his hand, and he felt his side with his other hand.

BLOOD!!

The bullet had gone right into his kidney!

Blood poured out of his nose, and he trembled like a child, as he dropped from the chair. He knew that he would surely die. But it would be at least 2 minutes before his death. With unbelievable effort, Smith got up on his knees and got to work. His last two minutes would be used as best as he could manage.

avid Maxwell sat wide eyed, glued to his push-back chair, with his laptop in front of him. The news he had just seen made him shiver in fright.

An Intelligence Officer in the SIB, he was one of the heads in the office. David was only 29, with blond wind-swept hair, a strong physique, and tilted eyebrows that made his expression ever-angry. He had a good sense of humor (though he never tried to show it in front of his co-workers), and was a good friend to have in tight situations. When not in work, he was usually seen at the local café, or in the cinema, and mostly in his house.

“Gotta show this one to him”, David thought. He looked at his wristwatch and then grumbled in frustration.

He couldn’t leave work so early.

David yawned and cracked his knuckles. Then he opened up Google Search on his laptop.

A lot of links sprang up. David clicked on Wikipedia.

“GREG SHELDON SMITH”

“Born in 1964 to a rich family in Manhattan, New York, this world-renowned icon has………..”

David scrolled down and stopped suddenly.

“…………gained a lot of fame in the year 2006 by participating in a reality detective game show and coming first in it. His iconic life has seen him solving various murder cases and sending criminals like Max Johnson, Hans Cook, Peter Shillingford, and the most notorious Andrew Bell to the gallows to be hanged. Smith has also contributed a lot to certain crime programs shown on FOX CRIME. After marrying West Indian beauty Miss Janine Shaw, he started writing crime stories………..”

David Maxwell got up and copied the link on to his USB flash drive. It took about a second to do so, after which he strolled towards his office cabinet and took out his journal. The diary was of the year 2011.

David sat down on his chair and turned a page. He had filled up this journal at the time he had just met the idol in his life. Memories came flying back to him and engulfed him, as he started reading what he had written 3 years back.

2nd March 2011

I don’t know from where to start. It has been an unusual day for me. I have met a most eccentric man today. His name is Jonathan Adam Turner. I was going along the pavement, and turning a corner, I bumped into this fella, dropping my hot dog on the street. He didn’t even try and apologize. I looked up at the man (coz he was nearly the size of Uncle Alfred, who’s 6’4), and noticed that he was good looking (not that this matters). There was no doubt that he was nearing 40, as he had that air of shabbiness around him that suggested that he was a bachelor. He had messy black hair, which covered his forehead. He had thin lips and a straight long nose. And GOD! Will I ever forget his eyes! They were sooooo black, giving me a dark penetrating unmoving gaze, as he took out a ten dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to me. I told him to look where he was going and muttered one of those latest slangs which always caught one’s attention. He heard me (unfortunately) and started the ‘rap’. I can’t remember his exact words, but I’ll try.

“I can tell by the look on your face that you’re a bloody idiot. You know that yourself and you’ll do better next time to hide that expression. It was 90% of your own bloody fault as when I saw you coming I stopped dead on my tracks unlike you. You had your goddamned hot DOGGIE!!! �" Or whatever they’re called about an inch from your still working jaws. Your eyes were fixed on it as you walked and you didn’t see me coming. Your hot doggie took about a second to drop on this pavement, and according to common ’HUMAN’ sense we shouldn’t pick up food from the dirt and eat it. May cause health hazards, even food poisoning. Therefore, I’m giving you this 10 dollar bill so that you can hop into ‘Tom’s Café’ and buy yourself whatever you like. It’ll take you about 3 minutes, I guess.”

He would’ve taken 15 seconds on the most, without taking a breath.

“Damn, man! How’d ya’ do that??”

“Do what?”

“You can be the fastest rapper this world has ever seen mister! You seriously do it better than Eminem!!”

“Who’s that supposed to be?”

“He raps, ya’ know? Sings”

“I call it noise, not singing.”

“Piss off man! He rocks!!”

“Go get some rest boy. Working overnight at your office and writing notes and reports and drinking coffee won’t help. And your aunt will be worried at home. You haven’t phoned her yet. Next time, you go to the sea on a vacation, take your aunt with you”

My jaw dropped, (truly it did) as my eyes bulged suspiciously.

“You’re some relative of mine huh?”

“Nay Mr. David Maxwell”

“You’re freakin’ me out now man! Do you know me?!!”

“Dark circles round your eyes. Ink stains on your thumb and index finger. Sleeve’s half rolled up. Suggests that you’ve been at office doing overtime all night. Normally, people roll up their sleeves when they’re working long on a certain thing. Coffee stain on your shirt. No doubt Tom’s Café”

“No way man!! You Sherlock Homes or what?!!”

“You’re wearing a scarf round your neck with Santa Clauses and reindeers and Christmas trees. You’ve not bought it. Probably the loving work of a mother or most probably an aunt”

“Mother”

“S**t!!Thought so at first”

“Gotcha!!!”

“However, the design is childish. You secretly don’t wanna keep it but- Sentiment”

“Your name please?”

“Below your neck the skin is of a lighter tone but your face’s as brown as a nut. You don’t do military under the sun, so it’s gotta be the sea. BUT- you were wearing a shirt. You were alone so you didn’t wanna get into the water. You’d ’ve got bored as I get when there’s nothing to work my high functioning humongous brain on.”

“Hell man! I want your name”

“Jonathan Adam Turner. Call me John. Address is 28/8m Greens’ Pond Lane.”

“I’m Dave Maxwell”

“David Maxwell-I know”

“How in devil’s name?”

“You’ve designed on your left palm the words ‘Dave Max’. Obviously David Maxwell.”

That John Turner is an absolute genius is no great news to me. He is one bloody hell of a genius!”

avid cautiously knocked on the door of 28/8M Green’s Pond Lane. It was situated between other similar old houses with un-kept gardens outside and the streets full of parked cars.

The door opened and David looked up expectantly. But John was already walking towards the kitchen instead of welcoming his friend with open arms.

“Ummm….Wuzzup John!?”

“Hello Dave”

“So, everything going fine?”

“Bloody finer than I expected at least. So, take a seat on my shabby sofa. What would you like?”

“Coffee for me. No sugar”

“I meant what would you like- watching the cartoon or the news?” John had turned on the ‘not-so-expensive’ T.V. in the sitting room with a wide grin on his perfect face.

David caught the joke and laughed awkwardly. “You always get me man!”

“Sorry. So coffee it’ll be”

“It’s lovely to be here in your house after a lot of work. Makes me relax, the atmosphere of your untidy room”

“You’d prefer what- sugar or marshmallow?”

“Marshmallow in case of coffee, yeah”

“Marshmallow costs a bloody lot more than sugar so I don’t waste my money you see. Sugar will do, will it not? Especially at times when you’ve come to a detective to ask him to aid you in a baffling situation, you wouldn’t really care much about your coffee”

“How John, how?” David asked with a tired expression.

“You haven’t combed your hair. You’ve bitten and chewed your nails a lot. Your shoelace is not tied properly. And there is another reason which suggests prominently that you’re in haste and in confusion”

“What?”

“Your zip’s open, Dave”

“It’s about Greg Smith, John”

“The detective plus actor plus writer plus God-knows-what, who was murdered yesterday night at about 1 o’clock, am I right?”

“Right. Was a legend that man”

“Legend! HUH!”

“Have you seen the murder scene yet? You’ll be shocked”

“The newspapers said that the scene was horrific and gory. Nothing more than that. Feel the journalists are improving eh?”

“No the journalists aren’t improving, John. They haven’t yet got into the house. They know nothing other than Smith’s dead. Exaggerating as usual”

“Surprise me”

“Heck, I will”

David handed John two photographs and John’s eyebrows knitted together on seeing them. In the photograph, Greg Smith was lying on the floor of his room, wearing a dressing gown. His whole body was covered in blood, and his mouth was open, as if still in agony. His hands were clutching at his wound, in the right side of his stomach. The most interesting part was the message beside him. Written in blood on the floor, just beside the corpse, was-

“I SEE YOU BLACK WIDOW”

“I see you black widow. What’s that supposed to mean John?”

“Smith wrote this last message on the floor with his own blood, with his own hands. Look at the index finger of his right hand. Covered in blood”

David whistled and said, “pretty strange circumstances to die in, don’t you think?”

“Black widow is the name of a poisonous spider. What’s the link between the spider and a dead man, Dave?”

“That’s why I came to you old man”

“The bullet pierced his right kidney. Massive internal bleeding. But he still had about 2 minutes to die when the bullet hit him. What would you have done in a situation like this?”

“My will”

“Dumbo!”

“Then what?”

“Look at the floor. Pieces of mirror. So the mirror must have been in front of Smith when the killer shot him. Most probably, it the mirror of his antique dressing table. So, Greg had got a clean view of his murderer before he died”

“Ohmigod!!! So Smith must’ve been referring to his murderer in the message. But, seriously, Black Widow?”

“I don’t think that’s the name of the killer. It’s a huge bloody hint. A hint, so that the killer does not think that his or her life is in danger and flees. Cool idea, by the way. Better than writing your will at least. “

“So, what now?”

“Where did you get these photographs Dave?”

“My friend Edward Hutchinson works in the forensic section of the F.B.I. Sent it to my email address on my request. It’s highly confidential, John”

“So the F.B.I’s already on it. Ask Edward to give us permission to view the murder scene. Tell him that I was the head of the Detective Headquarters in the N.Y.P.D and also tell him that you’re in the S.I.B. He will bend under the pressure surely”

“Cool. So, we meet again tomorrow at the Smiths’. Know the address?”

“Are you kidding? It’s all in the papers”

he maid of the Smiths’ household was called for questioning. Mrs. Johann, a thin small lady of about 60, came confidently up to the towering figure of Mr. Graham Duffels, the Chief Superintendent of the N.Y.P.D. Mr. Duffels was in his early 50s, with a huge stature, balding brown hair, and a fat nose. His hands were as big as tree trunks.

“Mrs. Anne Johann, I presume”

“Yes sir”

“When did Mr. Smith retire to his bed yesterday Mrs. Johann?”

“12:30 perhaps. It was the usual time for him to go to bed. He would have a glass of milk, then he would read for a while, and then he would go to sleep”

“Was he troubled yesterday?”

“No. Yes. I mean, the last month or so he has seemed a bit preoccupied. He would forget things, shout in his sleep, throw chairs around and all”

“You heard how many gunshots?”

“One. That hit Master Smith and killed him”

“Could you be a little more descriptive for the benefits of us?”

“Once I heard the gunshot, I came running up to his bedroom and banged on the door. I could hear groans and shouts from inside. I could also hear him scuffling around on the floor. I then raised the alarm and tried to break open this door. But it wouldn’t budge. At last, our big man Viktor Holloway from Bulgaria came running from the end of the corridor and broke the door open.”

“Viktor Holloway?”

“Manservant of the house. Master Smith’s favourite servant. Trusted him with everything. Well, then we went inside the room and found poor Mr. Smith lying in a pool of blood, with the message beside him”

“Condition of the room? Any signs of a struggle?”

“Er- no. None. His room was always a bit untidy. Books everywhere. Yes, and the chair was upside down on the floor and the mirror of the dressing table was broken”

“That covers everything. Thanks for all the trouble, we’ll call you later if needed”

John and David met at a local restaurant and walked the distance to the Smiths’ house. Located in a posh expensive area in central Manhattan, the house was at that time swarming with police constables and journalists and the press. Slowly, John and David moved up and came to the huge gate. A police inspector suddenly stopped John by stepping into his path from out of nowhere.

“Sorry sirs, this is a crime scene and you can’t go in without authorized permission”

“I’m a veteran N.Y.P.D cop bro. Let us in”, John said calmly.

“Retired won’t do sir. I’m sorry”

David took out his badge and said,” Mr. Edward Hutchinson inside will be expecting us. I’m from the S.I.B. Not retired”

“O.K….You may pass”

John smirked at the inspector and went in, closely followed by David.

Inside the house, it looked as if a gold mine had been discovered. People were everywhere, taking notes, dropping things into evidence bags, and simply loitering around, taking a few pictures. It was certain that they wouldn’t find Hutchinson inside.

Suddenly, a cheery voice from behind startled the two.

“Turner-my old mate. Where’ve you been ole’ man?”

They turned around. A tall thin man in plain clothes was rushing towards John with open arms.

“O ho! Brian Connor. You in fine health boy?”

David gave a puzzled look at John.

“Oh. Brian, David. David, Brian”

“I’ve heard his name already John”

“But he hadn’t heard yours. Brian was my partner in several cases while in the N.Y.P.D. He was just a tiny kid then, younger than you Dave”

David looked up at Brian and estimated his age. He would be nearing 40, David guessed. He had thick shaggy eyebrows, receding hair, and butterscotch eyes. Brian was wearing a shirt and tight jeans.

“What were you doing in Cobbler’s Street today may I ask?”, John asked suddenly.

Brian looked astonished. “You’re doing that thing again huh?”

“There’s mud on your shoes. Which is now 80% dry. Must’ve got it in the morning. I saw it on the news today that it has rained heavily in the district I mentioned yesterday night. Cobbler’s Lane is a very low place, with many ditches and holes on the street. So, the rain water must have accumulated there. You often visit the Shanghai Inn there. You were drinking before coming to duty? Serious offence”

“Shut up Turner will ya?”

“I wanna inspect the dead body”

“Then you will want to visit City Life man”

“The body’s in a morgue? Already?”

“It’s been two days Turner, since he died.”

“Brian? Take us to the room will you?”, asked David.

“Sure, come this way”. As Brian led the two men upstairs, John stopped suddenly on the stairs.

“Look here!”

Sure enough, two small dots of blood were the edge of a stair on the staircase. Nobody had noticed them yet.

John took out a glass phial and collected a drop of the blood, leaving a little for the police to find on the staircase.

“Blood of the murderer I presume, left when he or she was fleeing the house”, John muttered.

ohn and David, accompanied by Brian Connor, entered the room where Greg Smith had been found murdered two nights ago. It was empty, except for a few other detectives, most probably from the F.B.I.

“If you don’t mind Turner, why are you actually looking into this case? I mean, you’ve retired. It’s your time to-you know, go fishing, play golf and all that”, asked a curious Brian Connor.

“Young Maxwell here coaxed me into investigating this murder based on my skills of deduction”

“I didn’t actually ‘coax’ you John”, David raised his eyebrows.

“Let’s have a look at the room first. We’ll quarrel later”, John arrived at the place where the mysterious message left by Smith was situated.

“I see you black widow. We can’t make head or tail outta this”, said Brian.

“No gun found here?”

“Nope”

“The bullet hit Smith from the right hand side of his back. It came as a 45 degree angle.”

“Maybe it was suicide”, remarked David.

John chuckled. “Absolutely not”

“Why so sure?”

“As I told you earlier, the bullet hit Smith first but he had enough time to look and identify his killer before his death. He left this message as a clue, remember? And moreover, he showed no suicidal signs that night, according to the maid’s statement”

David looked thoughtfully at the small sharp pieces of mirror.

“Why kill him so suddenly? I mean, there must be a motive for the killer”

John closed his eyes and thought for a while. Then he said, “Let’s go pay a visit to Mrs. Smith and the Bulgarian manservant Viktor Holloway.

Mrs. Janine Smith was a lady of great admiration towards antique stuff. Her room was full of stuffed heads of animals, some valuable china vases, some old furniture, and a collection of Chinese cutlery including a set of antique tea set.

When the three men went into her room, they found her with her head in her hands, her elbows resting upon a table in front.

“Mrs. Janine Smith?”, started John.

Mrs. Smith had her eyes red, which pointed to the fact that she had deeply mourned the death of her husband. She was surprisingly young to be Smith’s wife, John noticed. Her face was dark and determined, reflecting the beauty of the coasts of West Indies.

“Yes?”, she said.

“We’ve got some questions for you”

“No more. I’ve had enough of it already from the bloody police. Please leave me alone”

John Turner’s character took a sudden change. He banged his fist on the table in front of Mrs. Smith and whispered menacingly in one breath, ”In case you didn’t know, Mrs. Janine Smith, right now you’re on top of my suspects’ lists cause you’re not agreeing to answer my questions which will maybe remove your name from the list, and help us nab the damned killer, and I’d most readily want to see you start cause I want to FIND THE MURDERER!!”

After an unsuccessful questioning session with Mrs. Smith which had ended in her getting hysterical, John and David continued to Viktor’s room, where they were met by a police constable.

“Who you lookin’ for sir?”

“Viktor Holloway”

“He’s had a nasty bit of vomitin’. He’s gone off to his house early this morning”

Suddenly, they heard an arrogant voice from behind.

“Well well well. If it isn’t our dear old Johnny Turner!”, the man grinned broadly.

“Haven’t they fired you yet Tom?”, John replied without even caring to look behind.

David looked at the man closely. He was about 35, with neatly combed black hair, blue eyes, and a permanent grin (closer to smugness) etched out on his face. He was jaw-droppingly handsome, with an air of coolness and aristocracy all around him.

“The same old Johnny!”

“My name is John, not Johnny”

“Johnny Johnny Johnny!”

“Stop it for your own good Tom”

“Johnny dear!! Good boy. Good boy. Had your milk today, or did you have corn-fla-!!!!”, Tom couldn’t finish, because right then, John had landed a heavy slap on his cheek.

Tom staggered back, losing all his calmness and aristocracy. He looked as if he may cry out any moment.

“Piss off Tom, you bloody b*****d”, spat out John.

After about another minute, John and David were heading back to their respective homes in a taxi, now no less than two fugitives, one among whom had just slapped a high ranking N.Y.P.D chief.

t was two days later, and none of the detective agencies from around the world had got any closer to finding out who the cold-blooded killer of Greg Smith was.

John was lounging on his old sofa, with his laptop carelessly balanced with on his knees. His eyes were darting from here to there on the laptop screen, while his fingers tapped continuously on the keyboard.

“Come in David”, he said all of a sudden.

David opened the door of the room with a sheepish grin. “How’d you know it was me John?”

“I just knew. I know better than anything to always trust my instinct, my sixth sense”

“So, got any information?”

“Guess what?-The blood we found on the staircase matches with Greg Smith’s DNA”

“So, he was there on the staircase before he died?”

“God knows. And yes- I paid a little visit to “Marcus Dealers & Co. yesterday”

“Marcus-what?”

“One of the china-vases in Mrs. Smith’s room had a sticker upon it. The name of the shop from where she buys all those things”

“What did you find there?”

“The shop is good”

David sighed exasperatedly.

“I forgot to say one thing John. Yesterday I went to Viktor Holloway’s home. But he wasn’t there. The next door neighbour says that he left on the previous morning. Fishy, isn’t it? The F.B.I has even got a warrant for that fellow’s arrest”

There was an uncomfortable silence for 10 minutes, as John kept on tapping furiously on the keyboard, and David awkwardly played with his fingers.

Suddenly, John burst out. “Max Johnson from Austria. Hans Cook from England, Peter Shillingford from the West Indies and Andrew Bell from England. The criminals Smith sent to be hanged. The jury found em’ all guilty only because of Greg Smith’s heartfelt excitement to see them rot in the cells. He was a famous man then too”

“You mean someone has killed Mr. Smith for revenge?”

“Not one among those. They’re all dead. But- it can certainly be their family, returning after all these years to take out Smith for taking any a member of their family. It was planned out too well, Dave, too elaborate. So, only conclusion- the killer still lurks, waiting for the heat to come down, so that he or she might escape the U.S.A. Sensible thing to do- lying low”

“Cool. So, we’re getting close?”

“Yup. And for your information, as I found out from the helpful website of GregSmiththeMan.in, the all-rounder Greg Smith had also worked as a senior surgeon in the City Life Hospital between 1992 and 1995”

“Can’t get it. What?”

“I see you David”

“Yeah I know you can see me, I can see you too”

“I see you Dave. I SEE YOU!”

“Are you out of your mind, you psychopath??!!”

“I see you. I see you. I see you. I-C-U. Intensive Care Unit, City Life Hospital”

“Bloody Hell!! You just solved it!!!”

“Yep, I did. There’s a black woman working in the I.C.U. of the City Life, who’s also a widow, possibly one of the wives of the four criminals I mentioned”

“You rock man. You just bloody rock!”

“Probably the wife of Peter Shillingford, the murderer from the West Indies. He married the ‘black widow’ there, and came up to England 20 years later, as a teacher in the Cambridge University”

“Go on”

“Then comes the interesting part of the story. Mr. Greg Smith, who was already making his name in America as an all-rounder, sent his daughter Alice Smith to England for her higher studies in the Cambridge University. There the 23 year old daughter met the 45 year old teacher Peter Shillingford, and they instantly agreed to marry, but secretly. Greg Smith must not know, otherwise he would’ve spoilt all their future plans. But, somehow the ‘black widow’ got to know all about his husband’s betrayal, his plans to marry an American girl, and she ditched him, coming over to the U.S.A. with her own daughter and started all over again, by employing herself as a junior surgeon in the I.C.U. of City Life. There she met Smith, and both respected each other. The ‘black widow’ then one day angrily revealed all about his husband and his betrayal, spurting out even the names. And in this way, Smith came to know what her daughter was actually doing in England. Mr. Smith was in an outrage. He immediately called back his daughter from England and told her off, saying that he knew about it all and would not stand such impudence”

“You wrote their scripts, did you? You’re saying even their dialogues”

“But, Dave, you know how the young generation takes the scolding from their parents, especially in situations like these. The young girl committed suicide a month later. It’s all here in the website. Only a little exaggerated. However, Greg Smith burned inside with rage. It’s here too. ‘In a confused affair with a Cambridge professor, Alice Smith sadly extinguished her own life blah blah blah’. Smith then formed a master plan. You also might have known that Smith was a brilliant painter. As a result, his fingers were delicately calm. He could forge anyone’s handwriting if he wanted. See here. ‘On 17.11.1997, as Smith was rummaging through Alice’s belongings, he came up with a letter, written in his daughter’s own hands. The letter is still with Greg Smith, in his house, where he keeps it as the last memoranda of Alice Smith, his beloved daughter. It clearly stated that the cause of her death was Peter Shillingford, the professor with whom she was having an affair. He was blackmailing her and as a result, she had to end her life’. You see now what Smith did?”

“Wow. So, Smith forged a letter in his daughter’s handwriting and proved Peter Shillingford guilty of ‘blackmail’, and ‘driving a young lady to her unfortunate death’. Greg Smith’s personality will go up in flames once this is made known, John. He was a cowardly sucker, nothing beyond that”

“What Shillingford was doing was no small deed, but Smith ended up doing something even foolish just to avenge her daughter. Conclusion- the ‘black widow’ resurfaces after a long wait, and is sure that the death of her husband was because of Greg Smith, to whom she had earlier revealed everything”

“But, knowing what she was doing to her, the ‘black widow’ would no doubt have wanted to kill Peter off herself, wouldn’t she?”

“Family is a weird thing, Dave. No matter, what you have done, after time, one will forgive the other if the person is sentimental”

“I see. That’s why you’ve not married huh? Your wife could’ve turned out to be a criminal herself”, David laughed.

John Turner’s face suddenly clouded and he averted David’s gaze.

“Go pick up the ‘black widow’ whoever she might be. Got you the killers, but mind, don’t involve my name in the press. I hate publicity”

“So down to earth, aren’t ya’ John?”, David mocked. As he got up to leave, John stopped him.

“Before you go, take a look at yourself in the mirror. Leftover chicken between your canine. Totally gross”

“I’ll strangle you now John. For God’s sake, shut up!”

Suddenly, there was a loud gunshot in the air, and the small window of John’s sitting room shattered as a bullet came through and hit a trophy bearing Turner’s name on the mantelpiece.

“What the-!!”, David cursed, and acting on instinct that years of training had provided him with, he dropped to his feet and got behind the sofa, shielding his head with his arms.

“BANG!!!”, another bullet hit the opposite wall.

John Turner, without even thinking of the consequences, jumped out of the small window gracefully, and was in a moment, hot on the assailant’s trail. David got up quickly and saw John sprinting away after a short burly man, clad entirely from head to foot in black.

David repeated John’s action (though he bumped his foot hard on the windowsill and nearly fell down headlong), and sprinted hard after John and the shooter.

ohn put his hand down hard on the small man’s shoulders, and the shooter staggered a little and fell upon his knees on the road. One or two adventurous neighbours had come up on the streets to find out what it was all about.

“The men in black, are we?”, panted David, as John slapped the man hard, knocking off the sunglass.

“Who’re you working for?”

“Please sir!! I beg of ya’! The police ‘el be ‘ere any moment. Please! Please!”

“I said who are you WORKING FOR?!!”, John broke the man’s nose with a clean swipe of his elbow.

The short man screamed in pain. “I don’t know. I don’t know. The person gave ‘is or ‘er name as 109. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman! Contacted o’er the phone. Lemme’ go!! Please sir!!”

“Disguised the voice?”

“Yes sir. Yes sir. The police sir!!!! Lemme’ go!! I ‘ave my son and wife to feed!! Lemme’ go!!”

“Let them feed ya’ in jail for a little while for change”, remarked David, as two constables led the struggling man away.

“Quick Dave! The ‘black widow’!!”, reminded Turner.

“S

he won’t open her mouth John! She just sat there, waiting for us to put the handcuffs on, without even putting on a fight. She seemed to be lost in thought, as if in a trance”

“It doesn’t seem right huh Dave? A woman who’s got the guts to kill a superstar in his own house, owning up so readily”

“No, it happens sometimes. The killer gets all bloody confident and content and owns up happily”

“No, we must be missing something. Something which has been under our nose, staring at us intently. The blood, do you remember? How could Smith have dropped his blood while dying off in his own room?”

“Forget it. The case is closed. The press will get to know any moment the name of the killer, and it’ll make heavy news”

“How many bullets did Smith get hit by?”

David signaled with his index finger the number one.

“Did it go through or was it inside his body?”

“Stuck in his kidney. Smith’s funeral is two days later at St. Par-“

“I don’t give a damn about that b*****d’s funeral. One thing strikes me as very suspicious. The black widow, or Mrs. Jada Shillingford, must have known all along that she would somehow get caught. So, tell me, WHY DIDN’T SHE FLEE?”

“Her own big mistake”, David shrugged.

“And why would she give her name as 109 to assassinate us and keep us off her trail?”

“I told you John. I had a hunch all along, that Viktor Holloway, must have been the killer”

“Let’s go to Smith’s house once again. This time, I’ll bloody make sure that I am right about everything”

“G

reg Smith was sitting over here, in front of this dressing table”, repeated David. “Yep. And when the bullet hit him, he got a clear view of his murderer on the mirror, still holding the gun pointed at him”

“And last of all, Viktor Holloway, the missing Bulgarian broke the door open and found the room like this”

“It just doesn’t make sense. Why write about the black widow when the killer is someone else?”

“You’re Sherlock Homes here, not me. I’m just supposed to help you a little bit like Watson”

“Get out of the room and give me 5 minutes Watson- I mean David”

“Okay Sherlock”

David closed the door and found himself staring at the faces of the tearful Mrs. Smith, now with a bandaged leg, saying that she had cut her foot on a ‘bloody knife in the kitchen’. David apologized again for disturbing her and made polite conversation. Mrs. Smith was still mourning her husband’s death clearly, whimpering frequently and sobbing as the memories came flooding back to her.

After a long wait, David knocked on the door.

“Go to hell!”, came a voice from inside.

After another 10 minutes or so, John Turner emerged, with a triumphant smile on his face. “The killer is, as you’d said earlier Dave, is none other than Viktor Holloway. Go with some of your men to his house and wait. He will come back one of these days to take away his belongings. The game is on, David. The game is on”

he athletic swift figure, clad wholly in black like the assassin who had been contracted to kill off Turner and David, stole through the dark, moving amidst the sleeping guards stealthily, yet quickly. The person, for it was not sure if it was a man or a woman, had only one goal in mind, “Kill Jada Shillingford”

The unknown person suddenly stopped dead on its tracks. Just beside, sleeping with a troubled expression on her mind, inside the small prison cell, was Jada Shillingford, oblivious to the fact that her life was in terrible danger.

The unknown person broke into a malicious grin. Jada had known the real culprit all along, but had remained dumb in front of the police. It was high time to end her life, otherwise she could change her mind and reveal the name.

Picking out a lock-pick from out of nowhere, the person got to work. The lock was a large and heavy one, and it took a full 15 minutes to break open the lock.

The silent assassin opened the gate without a noise, and stepped inside. Taking out a crude looking knife from a pocket, the assassin got ready for the final fatal plunge to the heart. Jada would have to die in her sleep.

Suddenly, the single bulb in the cell overhead, flashed on, and the walls were covered with a sharp yellow light.

Jada Shillingford got up from her sleep and looked with terrified eyes at the assassin holding the knife. “Why did you come idiot!!? I warned you. I would never have revealed your name, even if they’d burned my heart out for it!!!!”, Jada Shillingford shouted hysterically.

The assassin’s hand trembled.

“I couldn’t help but be a little dramatic”, came John Turner’s voice from behind.

Three police constables pounced on the assassin from every direction and held the person tightly. Though the assassin was trying to put on a last hopeless fight, it was to no avail. Three against one was too much.

John Turner came up to the assassin and with a gentle tug at the mask the person was wearing to cover the face, the killer of Greg Smith was revealed.

“Mrs. Janine Smith. A pleasure”, John Turner bowed dramatically.

David Maxwell now emerged from the shadows and smiled. The hoax of saying in front of her that Viktor was the killer, had worked. David remembered the old saying that temptation usually came in through an open door.

John Turner smiled emphatically at David, as more constables emerged from the other cells and let Mrs. Janine Smith away, who was now ferociously struggling with the policemen like a wild cat.

“The Case of the Black Widow-solved for good”

“Yep. Let’s go home, David”

“What? You coming to my house to meet Mom at last?”, David looked excited.

“Let’s go home. 28/8M Green’s Pond Lane”

David groaned.

“W

hen I went into that room, I first closed my eyes and concentrated real hard on the previous facts”

“You took about half an hour to come out. That was real boring”

“Not at all. I took 23 minutes and 50 seconds approximately.”

“Whatever”

John Turner and David Maxwell were seated on the sofa in John’s sitting room, 8 days later, discussing the case they had solved together.

“I waited and waited and waited and waited and-“

“And you waited and waited…. So what? This is boring John. Come straight to the point”

“And suddenly the truth hit me with an explosive force”

“Truth is an abstract noun, John. It can’t ever ‘hit’ you”

“I almost laughed out at our foolishness. The truth was staring us right in the eye. We were so much concerned about the bloody message, that we completely overlooked the very ‘BIG’ clue”

“What was it?”

“The mirror, Dave! The mirror! Smith saw Jada Shillingford’s reflection on the mirror, pointing a gun at him, after getting hit by the bullet in his right kidney already. So he thought that she must be the killer and wrote that clue. But then, the mirror shattered, caused by the firing of the bullet from Jada’s gun. The first one, that had struck Smith had been fired from another gun, by another person, Mrs. Janine Smith. Remember? Only one bullet had been found, and that was in Smith’s kidney. Mrs. Smith had enough time to remove the bullet fired by Jada. Smith had seen Jada’s reflection only, because his own wife had carefully positioned herself behind the curtains”

“But the maid said that she heard only one gunshot”

“Mrs. Smith’s was a silenced revolver. No sound. Curious isn’t it, both planning to kill the same person at the same time at the same place ?”

“But what was Mrs. Smith’s motive?

“Coming to that. Have patience. So, yes, got any other query that you’d like me to answer first?”

“Why did Janine Smith give her name as 109? Or did it just come to her mind?”

“Nothing comes to the mind of an elaborate killer just like that. There was a specific reason. She too wanted to be a bit dramatic, like those criminal masterminds in the movies, who put their head into the noose, and take it right back from under everyone’s nose”

“Come to the point John!”

“What is the 10th alphabet in English?”

“A,B,C,D….ummm yeah-J”

“10 becomes J and 9 remains 9. The result?”

“J9…Wait a sec- J-9 sounds suspiciously like Janine!!! Jesus Christ!!”

“And now, do you wanna know why the blood on the staircase matched Greg Smith’s DNA?”

“Go on. Surprise me”

“It was left by Janine herself. Her foot was bandaged. We didn’t notice it the first day because her foot was under the table. Her foot was cut by one of the pieces of mirror while she quickly retrieved Jada’s bullet. The cause for Jada’s love for Janine. The cause for the darkness of their skins. The cause for which Janine killed Greg Smith”

“No way!”

“Yes way. Janine Smith is the daughter of Jada Shillingford and Peter Shillingford. That’s why she is so young. That’s why she was so hell bent on avenging her father’s death. She only came to know about it all about a month ago. The pieces of the jigsaw puzzle have now slid obediently into place. The dark mystery is unraveled. There you go”

With a nervous laugh and a friendly pat on John Turner’s back, David Maxwell hurried out of the “freak’s” house as fast as he could walk in a polite manner, not showing his urgency to leave.

Author's Note

Told you it sucks.
It's a wonder that you could read the whole thing, IF you did, that is.
My first story.

My Review

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Featured Review

hdc

Not sure why you say it sucks. If I could focus on A topic long enough to write a full story, I wouldn't be writing poems..:) You did A good job on this, It was A descriptive and easy to follow story. I have a short attention span, and you kept me interested till the end. Well done:)