Quite the Story

Chapter 2 | What I Have Failed To Do

Photo by Hunters Race on Unsplash

Gus blinked groggily at the early morning light creeping through his window. He shivered, sat up, stretched, and grumbled. “Not again.”

He picked up his towel and coffee mug, glancing ruefully at the jumble of takeout boxes piled haphazardly beside the couch. An involuntary groan escaped him as he squatted down to stack them up as efficiently as he could. The boxes got tossed into the trash can, the coffee cup got set beside the sink, and the towel made it into the dirty clothes bin before Gus remembered that he’d lost his suit coat and his keys.

Sighing heavily, he rested his forehead against the wall as he ran the mental math to decide how quickly he needed to leave. Odds were the coat was either at the bus stop or the church, so it wasn’t out of the way, per se, but who knew if the church would even be open so early? Gus’ stomach churned at the thought of taking yet another abnormal bus time, but there was nothing to be done about it—his office keys were still in the pocket of his jacket.

At least, he hoped they were. He didn’t let himself dwell on the possibility that they’d been stolen, that someone had used them to break into his office, that he was about to get fired for costing the department millions in confidentiality violations…

Gus shook his head sharply. “No,” he said aloud. “Coffee first. Then commute.”

The coffee maker drip-drip-dripped as Gus rummaged around in the pantry for something to call breakfast. He settled on a stale granola bar, which he unwrapped and scarfed down before he really realized it. When the coffee finished percolating, he filled his travel mug to the brim, turned off the machine, and walked to the door.

The full-length mirror he’d just recently hung on the back of the door did its job well, and the small end table he’d placed just beside it did the same. He set his coffee down on the table, turned around, and hurried back to the laundry room, where his last clean shirt and pair of pants sat in the otherwise-empty dryer. Mental note: do laundry after work. He changed quickly, ran a damp toothbrush over his teeth, and took a shot of mouthwash to mask the stale, sticky taste of his morning breath. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing once again he’d thought to stop by the barber shop over the weekend.

“Here we go again.”

The bus was sparsely populated, positively empty compared to his usual time. A gaping, yawning mouth ready to swallow him whole. His back tensed as he stepped on board and selected a seat close to the driver. He missed Sandra, his regular morning driver, and he hoped that she wouldn’t worry too much when he wasn’t on the 7:25.

The drive passed quietly, and as Gus stepped off, his glasses fogged over. After a moment, he gently wiped them with the handkerchief in his pocket and placed them on his nose again. He meticulously searched the bus stop for his keys—it was easy enough to notice that his coat wasn’t there—looking under the bench, in each corner, and even examining the ground around the bus stop, just in case.

When he was unsuccessful, he pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the map, trying to decide which of the nearby churches he’d stumbled into the previous evening. Taking an educated guess that the smells-and-bells of it all meant it was the Catholic one and not the Baptist one, he set off in that direction.

Relief flooded over him as he approached and recognized the heavy wooden doors. They once again creaked as he heaved them open, and that stale smell of holiness greeted him like the breath of some ancient, sleeping creature. He walked quickly through the stone-floored entryway and cracked open a second door before he realized that he’d once again interrupted a service—how often did these people worship?—and paused, statue-like, at the back of the church.

Everyone in the building was mumbling something, vaguely in unison, but the only words Gus could make out were “not worthy”. He wondered in a distracted, half-hearted sort of way what that said about him, but couldn’t give the question any further attention because just then, he saw the stained gray collar of his suit jacket draped over the back bench. The woman and her baby were missing, and the bench was blessedly empty. Most of the worshippers were gathered in the front few rows, and not a soul looked back at him. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the front, where a different man in a different cape (red today instead of yesterday’s green) held up a small white circle of… well, Gus couldn’t make it out from so far back, but he assumed it was bread. The spectacle held his own gaze for a moment, until everyone suddenly went silent and the minister set the circle down.

Gus slipped his jacket on, checked his pockets quickly to reassure himself that nothing had fallen out or been stolen, and slipped back out. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the street was beginning to feel crowded. But the rest of his commute was uneventful, and Gus felt his shoulders drop as he slid the key into the lock of his office door.

He opened his laptop and pulled up his email—more to say that he’d done so than for any other reason—before switching over to the Discord server where his college buddies chatted about their tabletop game days and exotic trips across the world. Gus didn’t contribute much, but he read every message religiously.

After clearing the notifications, Gus stood up and meandered to the bathroom. He rinsed his travel mug in the sink, wiped it carefully with a napkin, and walked it back to his desk. The mug on his desk was empty, so he wandered back to the break room.

Marty, for all his bumbling incompetence, was a shockingly effective paralegal, and although it had been less than thirty-six hours since his original phone call, Special Agent Robert McDowell strode into the office with a swagger that was equal parts charming and obnoxious. He was dressed in a dark suit and a bright tie, with a pair of aviators tucked into his breast pocket.

“I’m here to meet with Augustus Butler,” he announced. Gus heard him from the break room and stifled a groan. He glanced down at the stained coffee mug he’d filled with water, dumped it down the sink, and filled the mug back up with yesterday’s coffee from the pot. It was stale, burned, and tepid, but at least it was coffee.

“Tragic that there’s nothing to spike it with,” he grumbled.

“Buck up, Butler. You’ve got this.” Jones’ voice startled Gus, and he almost dropped his coffee. A drop jumped out, leaving a dark spot on his wrinkled white button-down.

“Really, man? My first client in weeks, and you’ve gotta go and make me look bad?” It was only half a joke.

Jones winked. “Nah, it’s good luck. Can’t have him thinking we’re professionals or anything.” He walked off.

Gus followed, slowly, eyes focused on his cup. He stepped into his office and gingerly placed the cup on the cheap electric warmer that Victoria had left behind when she’d moved out. It had been his gift to her for their tenth wedding anniversary. He wasn’t sure why he’d taken it when he moved himself, but so many years later, it felt wrong to throw it away. Not that there was any hope of…

The man seated across from Gus cleared his throat. Gus looked up at him, unaware of how long he’d been there.

“Hello,” the man said, a note of accusatory inquiry in his voice.

“Yes, hello. You must be…” Gus looked down at his desk and scrambled to find his notes.

“Robert,” the man filled in. “Special Agent Robert McDowell. I’m just here to cross my ts and dot my is so I can get this arrest made.”

“Yes, of course. Well, I’ll need some preliminary information from you, just paperwork stuff, and then you can tell me a little more about the allegations, and we’ll see if it’s a good fit.”

The man rolled his eyes, saying nothing. Gus pulled out a clipboard with a few pages and a pen, which he slid across the desk. Mc-whatever-his-name-was glanced up, then back down, and began working on the forms. Gus pretended to busy himself on his laptop. Out of the corner of his eye, he tried to size up the client. Well-dressed, carried himself with confidence. A little judgy, which could go either way, but Gus wasn’t inclined to think he’d pass muster.

Gus never got along with men who wore aviators. Especially when they weren’t actually pilots.

When the clipboard finally slid back across the desk, Gus opened a clean document to take notes. The cursor blinked at him expectantly.

“So,” Gus looked up. “Tell me a little bit about what’s going on.”

He scoffed. “You’re kidding, right?”

Definitely judgy. This wasn’t going to go well.

“I’ve read through the information you shared with my paralegal, but I want to hear the full story before I can agree to take the case,” Gus replied. “So, tell me about this homicide.”

“Yeah. It’s a lot more than homicide. But, look, all I need to do is prove probable cause, and frankly…” He paused, reached into a leather bag at his side, and pulled out a stack of papers fully two inches thick, which he dropped unceremoniously on Gus’ desk. “This is just the information I received through the tip line. A local hero—an employee of the defendant—spent months putting it all together and then sent it my way. I’ve been undercover for over a year acting as a patient at the clinic to get answers to a few lingering questions, and I think we’re almost ready to move in and make an arrest.”

Gus found himself nodding. “It’s quite a story you’ve got there, but I still need you to give me the facts of the case itself.”

“Multiple homicides—at least a dozen a year for a decade. Medical malpractice. Fraud. The doctor was killing inmates at the correctional facility in the suburbs under the guise of helping cut prison costs. Got away with it for something like ten years until my main witness caught on and decided enough was enough.” A warm, subdued smile flashed across his face for a brief moment. “Anyway, there’s enough here to lock them up for the smaller crimes, and once I get my last questions answered, the homicides will basically prove themselves.”

It took all of Gus’ willpower to hide his skepticism. “I see. And who did you say was committing all these crimes?”

“Italian family. They’ve got mafia roots, but they’ve been in the area for a couple generations now. Last name’s Pierucci.”

If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider dropping a couple quarters in my digital typewriter case!

You’re reading What I Have Failed To Do, a serialized first-draft from Sara Dietz at Blinking Blue Line. If you’re new ‘round these parts, welcome! If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read, I’d love to have you stick around.

And if you’re in the mood for your next favorite story, check out my crime/medical thriller, Remembrance, or my fantasy-quest serialized novella, The Ravenswing Report.