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The Perfect Crime
The Perfect Crime
“Hello. Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?” Yet another one of those harassing phone calls. He was just about to slam the phone down when the pain came again. This time sharper and more piercing than ever. Every day the pain got worse; an ice pick between the eyes, a burning deep in his brain. He was worried. Tomorrow the doctor. Right now he needed sleep. What he got instead was harassing phone calls. Silence on the other end, not even deep breathing. How long had these calls been going on? Five days? Six? Pain. Tomorrow he would see the doctor. Now he needed to rest his head, close his eyes, sleep.
The incessant ringing brought him back from the dream beaches of his fantasy. His sleepy arm groped for the phone even as the dull ache awoke behind his eyes. “Bronson here,” he mumbled into the instrument. The other end gave him silence and a lot of pain.
Detective Doug Bronson struggled to his feet. He needed medical attention now. Hurriedly he slipped into his clothes, strapped on his revolver and put on his favorite sport coat. He debated whether to take his phone but there were urgent matters pending so, in the end, he slipped the phone into his pocket and left. Walking to the garage he is once again overcome with pain. It drives him sobbing to his knees. The pain is a living thing, like a hot knitting needle through his ears. He screams and staggers to his car fumbling for his keys. Even now he can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. This time he does not answer. Work be damned. Just what a man needs, he thinks, are harassing phone calls when he’s dying.
The phone rings again an hour later and then again an hour after that. This time no one answers. No one ever would. Detective Bronson is dead. Found slumped over the wheel of his still running car. The cause of death: carbon monoxide poisoning. You’d think a man of Bronson’s experience would have been more careful.
Later that same night, Daniel Webber, Assistant District Attorney, fishes his cell phone from his pocket. After inquiring who is calling, he is greeted with silence on the other end. “How did you get this number?” he asks the silence.
For the next several days the same gloved hand punches the buttons on a phone somewhere and listens for the call to go through. When he hears “Hello?”, he places his phone into a microwave oven and pushes start. He waits smirking until the call is completed, waits an hour and does it again.
“Hello? Is anybody there? Hello? What is it you want?”
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