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A Red Herring Murder: Flash Fiction by cam
I am preparing for the upcoming NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge which will begin on Friday, July 31. I'm pumping out a few flash fiction stories in various genres as practice for the competition. This story, in the mystery genre, takes place in a train station which was the location of a murder. Private Investigator, Owen Darby, skillfully unravels the tangled web of evidence and shows, beyond a doubt, whodunnit.
“My name is Owen Darby. I have invited the four of you here because each of you is a suspect in the murder of a booth clerk by the name of Harrison Burke who worked at the train station in which we now sit.” Owen Darby was a very large man, connoisseur of food and abstainer from anything that resembled exercise.
“What do you have to do with the investigation? You don’t look like a cop to me.” said Louis Palmer, one of the suspects.
“I am a private investigator, hired by the victim’s family to find his murderer or murderers. No more questions, please. We have business to attend to, and I have a dinner engagement with a charming lady which I do not intend to miss. My assistant, Jacob Feingold, will review the details of the crime. Jake, if you will proceed.”
“Okay, here’s what we’ve got so far,” said Jake. “On the afternoon of August 2, a large crowd of people headed home from work in the city was milling about at this station, waiting for the 5pm connector. At 4:58 pm, just after the train had pulled into the station, gun shots were heard and Harrison Burke lay dead on the floor of the ticket booth. Surveillance cameras have shown each of you in the depot at the time, so save your alibis for another occasion.
“But you said there was a crowd in the station. How did you narrow the search down to us? I had nothing to do with that murder,” said Malcolm Smith.
“You are telling only part of the truth,” said Darby. “You did not pull the trigger of the gun that killed Harry, but you were involved. Jake, please continue."
“Which one of you is Robert Licht?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” said one of the suspects, “What do you want?”
“You’ve got quite a collection of marksmanship awards, don’t you?” said Jake.
“Just because I’ve been competing in shooting sports for a few years, doesn’t mean I’m a murderer,” said Licht.
“No, it doesn’t,” said Darby. “But the gun has been retrieved from a dumpster right here on the station property. No fingerprints were found on the weapon which was registered to a woman who lives in Northeast Philly.”
“Of course my prints weren’t on the gun, cause I never touched it,” said Licht.
“While you did apparently use gloves during the murder, you failed to use them during the robbery of the apartment when you stole the gun,” said Darby.
“So you’ve got your murderer,” said Hillary Miller, another of the suspects. What do you need the rest of us here for?”
“Because three of you are accomplices to the murder,” said Darby. “There were two crimes committed that afternoon, not just one. I discovered the other while reading the August 3 edition of the Philadelphia Inquirer. Buried in the back pages was a story describing how the 5:00 pm train to Philly was robbed at precisely the same time that Mr. Burke was murdered. I find that to be quite coincidental.”
“What could possibly have been on that train worth stealing?” said Miller as she applied lipstick to her already red lips.
“You know the answer to that question, Ms. Miller,” said Darby. “You must have been the brains behind the robbery, since you work at the Art Museum and would have known about the valuable paintings being transported on the train which were destined for the museum.”
Malcolm Smith and Louis Palmer made a dash for the exit, but a police officer appeared, blocking their escape.
“Sit down,” said Darby. “It’s too late for that. Both of you, Mr. Smith and Mr. Palmer, have extensive criminal records which include trafficking in stolen art.”
“But stealing a few paintings is not murder.”
“I’ll accept that as a confession to the theft, Mr. Palmer,” said Darby. “I also know that there were not just four involved in this crime, but five. At the same time that Mr. Licht was pulling the trigger of the murder weapon, armed guards were in one of the train cars watching over the paintings. Ms. Miller, one of those guards is your fiancé. When they heard the sound of gun shots coming from the depot, your fiancé told the others to go investigate. That’s when you, Palmer and Smith entered the car, maced your boyfriend who volunteered for that experience, and stole the paintings.”
“How could you possibly be certain of any of that,” said Miller.
“Because,” said Darby, “you’re boyfriend, who is now in the custody of law enforcement, told the whole story to the police.”
“So the murder of Harry Burke was nothing more than a red herring to get the guards out of the train car?” said Jake.
“That is correct, Jacob. Burke was considered by these co-conspirators to be collateral damage in the heist of the paintings. Because of the testimony of Ms. Miller’s fiancé, we can link the two crimes so that the police can charge Licht with murder and the other four as accessories to murder.
The door opened and four officers, accompanied by the Chief of Police who was still wearing a set of headphones, entered the room. Rights were read and the four suspects were escorted toward the door.
“I hope you miss your damned dinner date,” said Hillary Miller as her hands were being cuffed behind her back.
“Oh, can’t you tell, Ms. Miller,” said Darby, patting his considerable belly, “I never miss a meal, and I always get the woman I’m pursuing.”