The following is a sample of a short story I wrote this spring. It was a fun exploration of an idea I had formulated many years ago.
Inside Job
Warren Bruns © 2025
Part I – The Murder
It was 3:15 pm on a Monday afternoon when the call came through. Staff Sergeant Gibbons had just polished off his favourite powdered donut and was about to wash it down with a bitter cup of diner coffee when his radio crackled to life with the urgent disembodied voice of a remote dispatcher. He muttered a few choice words under his breath, brushed the white crumbs from his uniform and proceeded to answer the call. His shift had barely begun and already he was summoned to a fresh crime scene in a nearby alley. He shifted his ample girth from the cafe booth, stood and adjusted his service belt and hat before dropping a few crumpled bills on the table and shuffling out the door. There was always something brewing in this sleepy little town, mostly petty crime, shoplifting, break & enters, graffiti and the like. He assumed some rookie was trying to impress him and had overexaggerated the nature of the incident. In the last twenty-seven years of his career, Gibbons couldn’t remember the last time anything major went down.
Between 12th Avenue North and the main highway which dissected the town, was a service alley that ran for several blocks. It was usually busy at this time of day with deliveries to nearby stores and the comings and goings of workers and townspeople alike, all trying to avoid mainstreet traffic. As Gibbons made the turn into the alley, he was immediately surprised to see a crowd had gathered behind a nearby pharmacy. Two patrol cars and an ambulance blocked off a portion of the alley and a rookie officer was unfurling yellow police tape while another was trying their best to get the crowd to move along. “What the hell is going on,” Gibbons thought. As he approached the scene, a sharp knot formed in his gut. Two ambulance attendants were whispering to each other while standing beside a blood soaked white sheet covering what appeared to be a body. One leg was jutting out, its position and unnatural angle preventing it from staying fully covered by the sheet. Another officer stood beside a patrol car, one hand on his holstered service weapon. A gleam of nervous sweat beaded on his forehead while he glanced between the back seat of the car and the body on the ground.
Gibbons felt an uneasy cold creep up the back of his neck. Blood could be seen splattered across a wall next to the body on the ground. It was as if a car had rammed into the victim with such force that their body partially exploded on impact against the wall. He glanced at nearby vehicles, none of which appeared connected to the crime scene. Gibbons was waved over by the officer standing by the patrol car. “Jack, what do you got?” asked Gibbons.
The officer nodded towards the back seat of the car. “Weirdest thing Sarge. When we arrived we found this guy just sitting quietly beside the body. It was like he was waiting for us. He hasn’t said a word, but his fists and clothing are covered in blood. He didn’t resist when we cuffed him and put in the car.”
Gibbons stepped closer to the car window, leaning over slightly to get a good look. The suspect appeared to be in his mid-40’s, dark shoulder-length hair, steel grey eyes and an average build. He sat motionless, staring forward. His blue jeans and shirt were splattered with what appeared to be blood. He had a calm but serious expression on his face, much like someone who was sitting in a comfortable chair while deciphering the daily newspaper. The man continued to stare forward, not showing any signs of acknowledging the presence of Gibbons. The Sergeant shook his head and turned back towards the officer. “Get this guy to lockup. We’ll see if we can get something out of him there.”
After fourteen hours, six cups of coffee, and three hours in an interrogation room, Gibbons was tired, irritated, and feeling no closer to the identity or motivation of the man in custody. The suspect hadn’t uttered a word, not even to request a phone call or a lawyer. He had no identification and his fingerprints didn’t appear in the system. The victim had been identified as a newly hired pharmacist, barely on the job for two weeks. He was a single caucasian male, age thirty-six, moved to town less than a month. With the town facing staffing shortages for healthcare professionals, the pharmacy didn’t probe too deeply into his past. They felt lucky to attract someone so quickly to fill the vacant position. There didn’t seem to be much information on the victim to shed light on any possible motive for the brutal killing.
Gibbons continued to search for information, connecting with other law enforcement detachments hoping for a breakthrough. Two days later, his case took an unexpected turn. Two government-issued black SUV’s pulled into the station parking lot and half a dozen men in dark suits entered the detachment. Heading the group was a man in his early fifties, a short crew cut, greying mustache and a piercing gaze. He strode directly past the front desk, briefly flashing his badge at the clerk while the other men stopped to take in the lay of the room. The man proceeded directly to Gibbons office and introduced himself as Special Agent Cruze. “What the hell do the Feds want?” thought Gibbons. Before the words even crossed his lips, Agent Cruze produced orders signed by a federal judge, giving the Agent custody of the unidentified suspect. Gibbons slumped back into his chair, the springs creaking under his weight. His eyes narrowed as he closely examined the details of the judge’s order, ever so often glancing between the paperwork and the Agent. He let out a long sigh and shook his head. He let out a small grunt as he hoisted himself up from his desk and directed the Agent to follow.
Within ten minutes, the suspect had been shackled, placed in one of the SUV’s and disappeared down the highway. Gibbons stood looking out his office window, his head still buzzing with more questions than answers.