15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers) Read online

  “Shoot me!” I screamed.

  Then I heard his finger press down on the trigger.

  Click.

  The gun went off, and I opened my eyes. The shot echoed off the hallway and made a slight pinging sound. Gasps of horror followed from the people sitting in the waiting area. I stood there in shock, looking at the police officer in front of me. I was a mere inch from his face. The sweat was dripping down his brow. His lips quivered as he said, “Sorry.”

  I frantically looked down at my torso and noticed I wasn’t hit. I was still wearing the top and jeans I had put on at my apartment, and they didn’t show any signs of bullet holes or blood.

  “You missed — how did you miss?” I asked.

  The guy looked at me, still sweaty, unsure as to what to say.

  “I shot you. I shot you in the chest. It was a kill shot!” the guy said, sounding breathless.

  As both of us stared blankly at each other, I heard someone scream from behind me.

  I turned around and saw the group of doctors who were chasing me before attending to someone on the floor. The person they were looking at was one of their own. He’d been shot. A bullet to the chest. He was gushing blood onto the hospital floor. People sitting on the seats waiting to be seen lifted their legs to try to avoid the pooling blood. Some screamed. Some cried. I shook my head.

  “Impossible. I shot you, not him,” the police officer said, still standing in the entrance. I turned around and pushed him out of the way. He fell to the floor, and I ran past him, jumping over the dazed and confused officer.

  “But I shot you….” I heard him say.

  “Well, you missed!” I replied as I jumped over a small stone fence and landed on the sidewalk leading off the hospital grounds. My head swam with thoughts of regret and intrigue. I regretted that somebody had been shot on my account but wondered why the bullet hadn’t hit me. It was fired at point-blank range; there was no way a trained LAPD officer would miss at that distance. Hell, I doubt anybody could miss at that distance.

  Somebody was looking out for me, that was for sure.

  Ten

  I sprinted down the pathway leading to the downtown shopping district. I turned on 12th Street and saw a row of taxi cabs parked on the curb a few feet from me. I immediately decided that I should board one of the cars. Maybe I could get to my apartment before it was crawling with police.

  I dug deep and exhaled, launching myself into a sprint that was akin to the one that got me into this mess in the first place. The difference now was that I didn’t have any pain in my chest. My defect was no longer existent. I wasn’t sweating. I wasn’t gasping for breath. I didn’t even think I needed to breathe. I just did it out of habit.

  “I’m not even breathless,” I said as I ran, the words coming out in a perfect sentence that contained no stutters or pauses for breath.

  I held my breath, not inhaling for twenty seconds. I was amazed to observe that I truly didn’t need to inhale or exhale. It was a frightening realization. I was actually dead. There was no other way to put it. I didn’t need to breathe oxygen to survive; neither did I need my heart to pump blood around my body to wake up the next day. Come to think of it, did I even need to sleep?

  There were so many questions that needed answers, but the only thing I thought I should be concentrating on was getting to safety. I knew people would be after me. I knew they, too, would want answers as to why I was still breathing. But I had other things on my mind, like contacting my mom and dad, and telling them I loved them.

  I continued to blast down 12th Street, minding the street vendors to my right. I saw a taxi driver getting out of his vehicle with a cigarette in his mouth. He was just about to light up when I reached the taxi rank and flailed my arms in the air.

  “Are you on a break? I need a ride. I need one fast,” I said.

  The driver stood at the side of his car and gave me a smile. He was a tall man, black, and had one of those Bob Marley beanie hats on. I hate to describe people in stereotypes, but if that was what he was wearing, I’m afraid I mustn’t lie!

  “Hey, man, easy, yeah? Where you going? You in trouble or something?” the beanie-hat guy asked.

  “Sort of.”

  He nodded his head and lit up his smoke.

  “I’m afraid I don’t want trouble, man. You better go knocking for another cab, yeah?”

  I folded my arms in protest and gave him a look I knew he’d understand.

  “Look, fellah, I need a ride, and I’m willing to pay you handsomely. Don’t worry — I’m not after a getaway driver, just a fast one.”

  The guy shrugged and flicked the partly smoked cigarette into the gutter next to his front tire.

  “What the hell, I need the money. I double the price, okay?”

  “Suits me just fine. Let’s get a move on,” I said.

  We shook on it, and he got into the front seat. I was just about to get into the back when he rolled the window down and shone me a big grin. “Easy, guy. I don’t trust you so much, so I want you in the front, next to me, so I can keep an eye on you,” he said.

  “Fine,” I replied, grabbing at the front door and swinging it open. The hinges sounded as if they needed some oiling. The car itself smelled of body odor and stale smoke. I got into the passenger seat up front and shut the heavy metal door. It made a loud snapping sound as the hinges protested.

  “Where to, man?” he asked.

  “Watts, South Central,” I said.

  The guy nodded his head, beanie hat bobbing up and down as he did so.

  “Buckle up — safety first.”

  We drove away from the curb and on to Watts. I slumped back in the uncomfortable seat and collected my thoughts.

  Eleven

  After ten minutes in the taxi, the driver finally said something to me. We had been silent since I entered, but it was needed. I was thinking about what I would say to the people I loved. How would I explain that I was alive and well? But the driver snapped me out of my reverie with an observation that caught me off guard.

  “You look like a zombie, man,” he said, taking the left. He gripped the wheel with a certain tightness that I hadn’t seen from many drivers. I could tell he was usually a cautious driver. Made me think that maybe he wasn’t exactly legal. Maybe not having a green card made him extra careful. The marijuana cigarette hanging off the ashtray didn’t coincide with my astute first impressions of the guy, though.

  “I’ve had a rough day,” I said.

  “You look like you had more than a rough day, friend. Maybe you need to slow down a little, or one day it could run you into the ground.”

  I burst out laughing. The man had a point, after all. Look where my excessive stress had gotten me. I should be in the ground, but for some reason, the ground didn’t want me.

  “You could say that. I guess we will never know when we die. You could die tomorrow while relaxing at a day spa. Maybe you’d slip on a wet rug while getting out of a Jacuzzi. Maybe you’ll be robbed on the way home from feeding the poor. No one knows when we’ll punch our final ticket,” I said, watching the man take the corners at a leisurely pace. I suppose my request for speed had gone unheeded.

  “You say these things as if you speak from experience. I mean, what are you, twenty years old? You have plenty of life ahead of you, my man. It’s people like me that have to worry about what’s around the corner. No matter how old you are, being a man of the people and picking up strangers in your car isn’t exactly a way to guarantee a long and fruitful existence.”

  I nodded my head. I agreed with the guy. He spoke a certain truth I hadn’t experienced before. I was intrigued to hear more from him.

  “You pick up many drifters?” I asked.

  “No, but I do pick up some weirdoes,” he replied.

  We took a hard right, and he opened up the accelerator, going from 25 miles per hour to around 60. A brief thought popped into my head. What would happen if I was involved in a car accident? Would I survive? Would I actua
lly die for real?

  “You see, these days people have a certain entitlement, man,” the taxi driver continued. “They are brought up with empty promises of success and fortune. They watch those shows on TV about a bunch of no-good teens who party and fuck all day long. Fed by their mothers and fathers. Made stars by those trashy networks that have capitalized letters in their names.”

  I watched the beanie-wearing man take another corner, downshifting with precision. He looked like he knew how to drive.

  “Maybe the world needs to hear those fake promises? I mean, if I grew up knowing that I wouldn’t succeed in life and all I had was a pizza delivery job to look forward to, then maybe there would be more murderers and psychopaths out there,” I said.

  The guy took his eyes off the road for a split second and gave me a coy smile.

  “There is nothing wrong with being realistic. If fame and fortune are what stop people from killing, then why is it the poor and deprived kill each other? It can’t be because of fame and fortune. On the streets, you can have a certain level of fame. Street fame — it goes with the fortune that these street-famous people acquire through drugs and extortion.”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t really in the mood to examine the subculture of street life and gang violence, even in a city like L.A., where most people I knew had some sort of affiliation with the hard-knock life.

  “Youngsters like you need to realize that being normal and hardworking is just fine. In life, you get what you put in. And if the only thing you put in is work on the street, then you’ll only get the street back. The streets don’t discriminate. The streets take all sorts of people. Young, old. Black, white. Girl, boy. It doesn’t matter.”

  We pulled up to Watts, the “Welcome” sign looking especially dirty today.

  “Street?” the taxi driver asked.

  “Just drop me off here. I have a friend I want to visit first,” I said.

  The car came to a stop, and we gently rode up the curb. A few feet in front of us stood a group of guys. They were playing dice on the corner. The game looked like it was about to get heated. Growing up in these parts, I knew when and where to go. Being from Watts, you know who you can trust and who you can “fuck with.” That’s all well and good when you’re a gangbanger or something worse. But when your name is Derrick James Smith and you’re white, middle class, and run track, you don’t tend to “fuck with” anybody. No matter what, I knew my place in Watts. People left me alone. They knew who I was. They knew I was not affiliated with any street stuff. They let me be.

  “I can’t believe a white boy like you lives in a place like this,” the taxi driver said as I reached for my wallet.

  “Well, somebody’s got to live here,” I said, handing the guy two twenties and a thirteen-dollar tip.

  “Thanks for the tip, Youngblood. I’ll be sure to stick around for a few minutes, just in case those guys up the block fuck with you. I don’t want yer cracker ass being toast, now, do I?” the driver said, giving me a smile.

  I thumped the dashboard a few times and got out.

  “Thanks, man. I appreciate the ride. If I ever need another taxi ride, I’ll be sure to call you.”

  The taxi driver winked at me and waited as I walked up the road. I strolled past the dice game on the corner. No one really paid attention to me. They were too busy playing their game. I saw a guy with a few fifties scrunched up in his hands as he watched in anticipation of the die rolling. He obviously won, because I heard him taunt his friends as he raked in the cash.

  “Goddamn, you niggas play like sissies. I told you I’d wipe the floor with y’all! Now pay up, bitches.”

  I had a smile on my face.

  Dead or not, it sure was good to be home.

  Twelve

  Watts was pretty much deserted, barring the dice game on the corner. I saw my taxi driver pass me, and the horn went off. The beanie-wearing driver nodded his head at me and put his foot down on the accelerator. He was out of there faster than Sonic the Hedgehog at the promise of some golden rings!

  “Now, you put your foot down,” I muttered to myself as I put my hands in my pockets and strolled down the street.

  I was fixated on the ground, my head bobbing along as I walked. I had picked up that habit living around here. You would be much safer just minding your own business if you kept your head down. I was taught not to look at other people. I was taught not to stare. So I did. Even then, when I knew I was the walking dead, I was still intimidated by those streets.

  I guess what made me so cautious was the lack of understanding I had regarding my condition. Would I still be walking if I took a slug to the head? What if somebody decapitated me? Would I bleed out?

  I didn’t want to entertain those sorts of thoughts, so I decided to try to be a little optimistic about my newfound self. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Maybe I could put my so-called powers to good use. I could become a fireman who didn’t need breathing apparatus and could go in and rescue children from burning schools, scooping up the little kids in my embrace and saving them one by one.

  Those were wishful thoughts, and the matter of fact still remained. I was a walking miracle, so to speak, and I knew that I couldn’t hang about waiting for people to scoop me up. It was inevitable that somebody would have a keen interest in my ability to live without any discernable blood flow through my body. Many people would want to dissect and interrogate me. They would want proof that I was immortal.

  I didn’t think I was immortal, though. I knew that my body was fragile, and I could easily be crushed or burned. What would happen after I received such wounds was anybody’s guess, but I wasn’t going to go around testing my ability to sustain pain or trauma. The only thing I wanted to do was find my friends and family, and tell them I was alive. Even if I didn’t have a heart rate, it was my right to go about my life and live it according to my wishes. I had the right to privacy. I was an American. I had my rights. I wasn’t going to let anybody take those rights away.

  I continued down the small path toward the east side of Watts. When we were younger, my buddies and I used to play tag around there, near the basketball courts. We’d play tag all day long. Most of the older teens would grow tired of seeing us playing and making noise while they attempted to play hoops. We used to get pushed around sometimes, but people got used to us — so much so that some of the basketball players would occasionally join us in our kiddie games.

  I felt a warm sensation come across me as I reminisced about the good old days. No matter how violent the streets were, at the end of the day, we all lived like brothers. The older people looked out for the youngsters. We were all a team. It’s just sometimes, teams have bad apples, and one day those bad apples spoil the sack. Some of my friends were turned into rotten fruit. Some went to prison. Four were dead. And I’m the living dead, so you could probably assume that I went rotten, too.

  Whatever it is, it seems that nothing but hate and bad luck surrounds my life. Either way, no matter how rotten things were getting, I was determined to make something of myself. That’s why I ran track. That’s why I wasn’t running away from my situation. I’d come back home to stand up for my right to see my friends and hold my family in my arms.

  Many would say that I should have run. God knows what forces were at work here. But I didn’t run. But I can tell you now that they were right.

  I should have run. I should have run faster than I ever ran before.

  Maybe they would all still be alive if I had done so.

  I guess I’ll never know.

  Thirteen

  The sun had gone down. I walked past those basketball courts I remembered so fondly. I ran my fingers across the chain-link, rattling the fence as I walked. It felt good to be back. I was happy, and, oddly enough, I felt safe. It was a silly thing to assume that I would be safe in the place I called home. If I had given my situation a second thought, then I would have known that they would be looking for me here. Seeing the helicopter in the sky should have warned me of t
hat fact. But I just brushed it off.

  “Another night in Watts,” I said, noticing the spotlight shining on the park in front of me.

  As I walked closer to my destination, I noticed the lights from the chopper above me flickering through the trees. The bright light intertwined with the branches and the stumps in the park. Meshes of white and black danced in the sky, stretching the shadows that the trees possessed. The light above me seemed to make everything appear bigger. It projected a fear that I was used to. Many a night when I was a young boy, I would see the police helicopter flying out above my window. They would sweep the streets, looking for whoever got on their bad side. Once in a while, while looking out of my window, perched up a few flights, I would spot a figure moving between the trees. The shadowy figure would zigzag between the bushes and the brambles, playing cat and mouse with the bird in the sky. I’d hear the chopper moaning as it banked left to right, flying high and low, then giving up and droning off into the horizon.

  That was normal life in Watts. The difference now was that I was the only shadow on the streets. If they were looking for somebody suspicious, they’d find me in a heartbeat.

  I decided that I needed to become one with the figure in my memories. I would need to dash across the field and make my way to Chad’s house. He lived across the way. The path from the basketball courts provided a route to his house, but I didn’t want to risk getting caught by any police officers. No matter who was on the street, if you were seen by yourself, hood up, looking down at your feet, you were bound to be stopped and asked some questions. I didn’t need to be asked any questions. People asking questions was the last thing I needed to have happen. If I wanted to stay ahead and out of trouble, I’d have to pick my battles. Getting arrested in Watts was easy, so I had to make my visit back home brief.