The glow of the sun was dawning in the East. He knew he didn’t have much time left to do something or get to hell out of there. He found the driver, sprawled on the back seat of the Humvee, already awake. Cargo pants, t-shirt and a baseball cap over his eyes. The skin looked tanned. The knees of the pants were wrinkled, but looked like they had been pressed lately. If he had a jacket it was missing.
The driver greeted him.
“Morning, Jack. I wasn’t expecting a visitor this early.”
Virgil Fusner moved closer to what would soon be his second mistake of the day. A short-handled shovel was lying on the floorboards between the seats. Pulling the stolen pistol out of his belt and picking up the shovel, he gestured for the driver to move up and out of the Humvee.
“Shut up and keep your hands where I can see ‘em”
Slowly sitting up, the guy who had been asleep seconds before with a lightning head butt knocked Virgil backwards out of the Humvee. Staggering but still grasping the pistol, Virgil quickly took charge again.
“That was probably your next to last mistake, Dipshit.”
Last Saturday Virgil had watched the latest horror DVD. And for the rest of the week he had fantasized about how to commit the perfect murder. He loved to come up with ways to kill, but his most troubling question was where to hide the body. He could feed it to a mountain lion or a grizzly, but where could he find one in Spokane? The only place would be the zoo with all the security cameras. That left burying or burning, but burying would leave the body available for examination.
That’s was the problem with murder, when they find one little thing they go after it until they discover something else. He knew that the cops would be on his back. There would be always a fingerprint or DNA, a footprint or witness. Up until now he had kept it all inside his head. This morning something made him snap.
With the driver of the Humvee in front, Virgil directed the two man parade out into the old apple orchard. It might have looked like choreography but was actually a by the seat of the pants move. Arriving at what he guessed might be a large enough tree, with one sloppy move he threw the shovel. The blade of the shovel hit the back of the guy’s head. The impact produced a dull thud. Drawing on what was probably his last ounce of balance and strength the man pivoted and lunged for the gun and missed. Virgil lurched backward. He was feeling scared as his target staggered and fell, propping himself up against the base of the tree.
The murder happened that morning.
Driven by only God knows what, Virgil completed the killing with three carefully placed shots at close range. As the results of what he had just done sank in, he began considering what might be next. From past experiences he knew when the Police got involved they would be looking for a motive or reason. Maybe he could convince them it was self-defense or manslaughter. or a PTSD suicide.
Virgil Fusner hadn’t had any planned purpose to kill the guy in the Humvee.
His mind was rather blank actually, but it was a killing anyhow. If he had just zipped past Deer Park and been satisfied with what he had. If he hadn’t been so focused on making another score. If his greed and sense of adventure hadn’t overpowered his judgement and sense of self preservation. If the dog hadn’t stop to shit, he might have got away with the bone. And if the damned guy had just followed orders and hadn’t tried to grab the gun.