Murder in His name. (an excerpt)

Conrad Silva walked his poodle for the last time. The poodle, Rio, would find a new home with Rad’s mother, Rose. The victim had a spring in his step that would end today. He bought the Times from Mr. Orno, as was the case every Sunday. The paper slipped into the canvas bag he carried for just this purpose. He disliked the ink stains, preferring to read his paper wearing gloves. He was certain ink, over time, would lead to cancer and death. In reality, he should not have worried about the ink. Looking forward to curling back in bed with Joy, sharing a coffee and devouring the paper, he began to hurry.

The rifle’s sound ripped through the neighborhood causing residents to pause and reconnoiter. The Korean shopkeeper was old enough to recall a distant war and instantly knew a shot had been fired. Less trained residents like the widow, Mrs. Jasper, were still looking around inquisitively. They would all eventually learn that the sound announced the demise of Conrad Silva. Milliseconds after the discharge, Conrad’s brain welcomed a deadly intruder. The bullet crashed through his forehead just above his right eye. The back of his head gave way to the projectile, resulting in a large opening the size of a orange. From the back, it seemed like a granite fist had punched a hole through his long blond hair.

As residents assimilated the meaning of a man laying carelessly on the sidewalk atop an ever-growing puddle of blood, lethargy gave way to urgency. Amid frantic yelps from Rio, they struggled to find cover in hopes of avoiding a similar fate. In the mayhem that followed, the killer methodically disassembled his weapon and returned it to its carrying case. With the same paced control he stood, observed his surroundings and began his retreat.

This would have been the end of the day’s excitement but fate, as it were, had a different plan. Why Severino Orente had to die today seems like one of those unexplained vagaries of life. Severino, a Brazilian illegal alien, worked in the neighborhood’s Brazilian restaurant. He was sitting on a small plastic stool. It was slightly inclined, allowing him to rest his back on the sooty back wall of his work place. In his left hand, between two nicotine stained fingers, a cheap cigarette smoldered between pulls. Having heard the shot, Severino was alert but being lazy by nature, not prone to venture out looking for a source.

His eyes focused on a dark figure descending the adjacent building’s fire escape. The man was moving with resolve but not hurriedly. He released from the last rung silently dropping the four remaining feet. As his shoes made contact with the asphalt, his knees contracted absorbing the impact and letting Severino know the man possessed cat-like qualities. The man pivoted and started walking toward the street. He was only ten paces from Severino’s resting place. In the time it took to shorten the distance to five paces, both men came to congruent realizations. At one pace, the Brazilian’s heart was pounding furiously and his nervous eyes wondered from left to right unknowingly telegraphing his thoughts. Sebastian, on the other hand, had already decided the man’s fate at nine paces. At zero paces he turned and smiled to his victim in a reassuring manner. Two paces later, a total of twelve paces and a mere 20 seconds having transpired, the killer pivoted once again faced his victim thrusting a knife silently and viciously severing the man’s neck causing and abrupt gurgle and death.