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    Small Murders
    Small Murders
    Small Murders
    Ebook106 pages1 hour

    Small Murders

    By Dennis Smirl, Ian Hall, Marsha Henry Goff and C.R. Kennedy

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    About this ebook

    Small Murders is an anthology packed with short stories you will wish were full novels. The diversity of the writers gives each tale a distinct voice. Scottish novelist Ian Hall takes you to his old stomping grounds to deal in a dash of espionage in Case of the Missing Opal. Denis Smirl, a top-rated sci-fi writer, takes a turn at spinning two masterfully crafted yarns filled with mystery and delicious intrigue, each vastly different from the other, Small Murders and Fright Night.  C.R. Kennedy, author of Case of the Illusive Opal, is one of two women writers in this Saratoga Classic presentation. Her flair for mystery hints of her rightful place alongside Agatha Christie and Daphne du Maurier. Marsha Henry Goff's unique take on marriage and murder is laced with chilling irony in Until Death Do Us. Editor and Publisher Esther Luttrell, herself a prolific mystery writer, has assembled five of the best mystery short stories to be found anywhere today.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEsther Luttrell
    Release dateFeb 28, 2019
    ISBN9781386685531
    Small Murders

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      Book preview

      Small Murders - Dennis Smirl

      by

      Dennis Smirl

      Frank Batelle smelled fear the moment he stepped from the chartered airplane. Colorado Springs reeked of it. Like a tangible, malevolent fist that pounded his senses with each step down the boarding ramp, it was demoralizing, pervasive... deadly.

      Are you Batelle? A large, gray-haired, middle-aged man wearing a rumpled blue suit waited on the tarmac. His face was dark and severe, with mirrored sunglasses masking frightened eyes. Batelle knew the man’s feelings, knew of the infant at home, of the fear that his grandchild would be next.

      Yes.

      I’m Alan Nelson. He gestured impatiently. Your airplane was late. C’mon, the car’s this way.

      Sorry, Batelle said as he hurried to match the older man’s impatient strides. We were late getting out of Kansas City. Weather.

      Whatever. Nelson wasn’t paying attention to Batelle's needless apology. Instead, his gaze wandered, as though searching the airport for a monster who murdered infants. He stopped at an unmarked police cruiser and opened the right rear door. Stow your bag and briefcase there. Then he opened the passenger door, and walked around to the driver’s door. Let’s move it.

      Batelle hesitated for a moment, his attention caught by a flash of color against the gray and green of the mountains to the west. He pointed. What’s the large cluster of buildings over there?

      Nelson squinted against the afternoon sunlight. What are you talking about? Describe them.

      Several large, beige buildings with orange tile roofing. ‘Spanish tile’ I think they call it.

      That would be the Broadmoor. It’s a very high-end resort complex. But it’s about ten miles from here, and how you can see it from this distance... He left the rest unsaid. Now, can we get a move on?

      Sure. Batelle shook away the chill of seeing something he shouldn’t be able to see. For that moment, it was as though the Broadmoor had been just on the other side of the road instead of all the way across the smoggy valley. He got in the car. By time he’d fastened the shoulder harness, Nelson was accelerating from the parking space, blue lights on the roof of the car flashing in a steady cadence.

      The Detective Lieutenant drove badly. Batelle endured a hurried, jolting ride in a vehicle that stunk of smoke, sweat, filth... Watch out! Truck! he shouted, and as Nelson instinctively hit the brakes, a cement truck raced through the intersection, its horn honking wildly as it ran the traffic light.

      We don’t need to be in that much of a hurry, Batelle said firmly. The people downtown will wait on us.

      Nelson breathed in through his nose and then asked, How the hell did you know that truck was going to blow that light?

      Batelle shrugged and looked away.

      *

      The room was stifling—and Batelle was short of breath. Or maybe he was just out of shape. He’d been ushered through the corridors of the city building at a jog, and by time Nelson stopped and pointed to a chair, he was happy to have a place to sit and collect his thoughts.

      I’m Richard Orr, FBI, one of the other men, sitting at the table, said.

      Paula Martinez, State Bureau of Investigation. She was an attractive young woman.

      I’m Frank Batelle. How may I help you?

      After a moment of minor confusion, Nelson said, They say you're a psychic. We want you to use your powers to help us find a killer.

      Batelle was taken aback by such a blanket statement. He was used to skeptics—police and elected officials who didn’t understand what he did, who thought it was smoke and mirrors, and who—when push came to shove—really weren’t interested in his help because they didn’t think they needed it.

      This was different. These people seemed almost desperate.

      It’s not that simple, Batelle began. And the term ‘psychic’ doesn’t apply. If there’s anything special about what I do, it’s that I get impressions, sudden gestalts—if you will—in ways that others can’t or don’t. It’s like a talent for composing music. People with such a talent hear melodies that we can’t—at least, not until they play them for us. And if you try to understand that talent, or dissect it, it goes away. Does that help explain what I do?

      You’ve told us far more than we wanted to hear, Special Agent Orr growled, slipping back into the role of the skeptic. We aren’t interested in your philosophy, Mr. Batelle. We’re here to find a killer and anything that takes time from that goal is a waste. But we’ve seen your record, and we’re willing to give you a chance to show us what you can do.

      Batelle shrugged. I’m not a magic act. But let’s move forward. What do you have so far?

      An epidemic of dead infants—nineteen so far—and a city ready to explode, Nelson said. And we have nothing to go on. No forensics, no motives, no witnesses... Nothing.

      We’re not going to get anywhere if we believe the job’s impossible, Martinez said. That’s why we brought you in, Mr. Batelle. We need a break. Anything.  Even a hunch.

      Alright. Batelle backed his chair from the conference table a few inches and reached into his battered briefcase for his notepad. Do you mind starting at the beginning? I need to know what I haven’t heard from the media.

      Each of the law-enforcement agents briefed him in turn. Batelle made careful notes. At the same time, a part of his mind curved back to the beginning, to a point years earlier when things started going crazy... Acid in eyedrops, cyanide in headache remedies, razor blades in candy—food and medicine no one could trust.

      Now, in Colorado Springs, it had edged past nightmare. Infant formula and baby food had been laced with poison, and infants had died. Those who could afford it took their infants with them to other cities, other states. The rest, the perennial victims—minorities and the poor—stayed in town and took their chances. In the week since the first rash of poisonings, more than forty women had been treated at the poison center because they’d sampled food or formula before giving it to their babies. Only two of them had died for their selflessness.

      Finally, after Batelle heard it all, he closed his brief case. Can you give me forty-eight hours? I should have something by then.

      "I don’t think we have twelve hours, Nelson replied. People are carrying guns into the supermarkets. We take their guns away and send them home with a warning. But there are always more guns, and sooner or later, someone is going to start shooting. We need an answer yesterday."

      Is there one supermarket the killer favors? Batelle asked.

      "There’s a mom and

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