Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story by G.P. Sorrells (ebook reader computer TXT) 📗

the crank. Blood and guts and brain matter escape the body along with the foreign projectile that disturbed them. Crime scenes of the homicidal variety exist in a world of grotesquerie for a reason.

The interior of Cagney’s condominium was a textbook picture of the damage a bullet can do to the human body. The bar was partially covered in blood, like someone had taken a jar of strawberry jam and thrown it at the mahogany in protest. Osteen picked up the tumbler Cagney had been pouring a drink into and noticed a piece of the deceased’s brain inside. It was much of the same on the wall behind the bar. Blood and brain matter plastered across it like the canvas of a twisted splatter painting. A few small bone fragments were even tossed in for effect.

Osteen’s eyes trailed down to the second entry wound, the shot which merely confirmed the inevitable. It had hit Cagney in the gut, roughly an inch above his waist. A pool of blood congealed on the travertine tile in front of his body. Another bodily substance accompanied it. The opposite side of the apartment had much of the same on display. Cagney’s mistress had a single gunshot wound to the head. Her blood sprayed across some nearby furniture and a rug which looked like it must have cost Cagney a small fortune. A few scattered pieces of brain followed the trail marked by her blood, but the shot had hit at a different point in her head, leaving much of the organ intact. Something was off about the whole setup. Of that Osteen was certain.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Vivian announced as she turned to step outside. She was no stranger to death, but there hadn’t yet been a moment where she saw something as sickening as what lay before her now. The corpses she came across most often usually had the decency to be more presentable.

“Take a moment to collect yourself, Viv,” Osteen motioned for his partner to step outside. “I’ll handle things in here.”

Vivian left the room, and Osteen stood still for a moment. He glanced around the room, trying to force himself to believe it was nothing more than a murder-suicide. Like someone had opened a paint-by-numbers book for homicides and recreated their favorite piece. An open and shut case.

Mistress wants something she believes only a man with power can provide. Mister denies her wish, and she makes him pay with his life. Realizing what will follow because of her actions, she turns the gun on herself and leaves the heartache for someone else. Looked at a different way, jealous boyfriend thinks his young plaything is messing around him. He confronts her, pulls a gun and she loses it. They get in a scuffle and the gun goes off, striking him in the gut. Flabbergasted, the jealous boyfriend steps back, realizes the futility of the situation and offs the supposed cheat before turning the gun on himself.

“Son of a bitch,” Osteen muttered. He read the case files on Cagney on the drive over. He’d heard mention of the broadcaster’s recent cooperation with the police in a sting operation to take down a local drug dealer. The op had failed to deliver the desired results, but it wound up with a pusher behind bars. Was that it? Was it about drugs? Osteen knew the motive was there. Revenge for the incarceration of a couple of lackeys was possible.

Though any revenge would likely be for a deeper meaning than the life of someone as replaceable as a street dealer. The men and women who at the top within these organizations cared little for the working folk peddling their goods. That they themselves likely started at a similar level was of no consequence. They had escaped the monotony. Made it out and achieved a better life. Discovered the true meaning of the American Dream. To them, anyone unable to reach their level could fuck right off.

Cagney didn’t have a history of domestic violence. Or anything outside of habitual drug use. Even then, the only thing they had ever found him guilty of didn’t exist any longer. His cooperation with the police had all but assured that. Can’t have a local hotshot news anchor walking around with an asterisk next to his name because he had a fondness for soliciting prostitutes. Doesn’t work all that well when you try to sell said hotshot as a household name.

That left revenge as the most likely motive. Did it have to be, though? Couldn’t it just be the straightforward answer instead? Besides, there were multiple possibilities for the easy option which, Osteen hoped, had to count for something. He played through several scenarios in his head, talking himself into believing things could be just as they seemed, but not making much leeway in convincing his subconscious on the matter.

“Ok, I,” Vivian tried to talk as she stepped back inside, but her mind was operating on sensory overload and her mouth just wouldn’t respond quickly enough. “What are you… thinking… Dan?” The taste of bile was there again, but she fought hard to keep it at bay.

“Huh?” Osteen looked over at Vivian, wondering how she suddenly appeared beside him. “Just thinking. It looks like a simple case. We should be able to walk out of here, talk to the M.E., write our report back at the station and go home.”

“Then let’s do that. The sooner we get out of here, the better. I may have to burn these clothes later because I don’t think I’m ever getting this smell out.”

“We can’t.”

“We sure as hell can. It’s really simple,” Vivian asserted with a newfound confidence. “Cagney was at the bar fixing drinks because that’s the only way he could have been seen with our mystery lady. She surprised him as he turned his back to her and the rest is history.”

“What’s her motive?”

“Maybe she didn’t like his hair,” Vivian replied. “I’ve dumped guys for less.”

“Be serious, Viv.”

“I am being