When Double Lives Collide

Murder is easy. For the precise type of person. A particularly strong stomach is foremost. Anyone can murder with the right provocation. It’s getting away with it that creates the problem.
At least that’s what Clay Shine thought. He had always believed his work was simply “thinning the herd”. He perceived his profession to be similar to a maid or butler. He’d clean up the world around him one dirt-bag at a time. The people he eliminates are stupid; and in his book, stupid people do stupid things. That was a fact. Clay’s job; preventing a situation presented by his employers from getting any more out of hand then it already is. If someone has a person they want permanently removed for something stupid, and can pay Clay’s bill, they do business.
Granted, it is rather irritating for Clay to go out with a girl and have to tell her that he’s never been married, the scar on his arm was from his childhood dog, and that he worked for a killer business firm. They would normally assume that meant he was a lawyer. Which, wasn’t a lie. He was a lawyer, and a very good one at that. Ironically, he was a prosecuting attorney. That just wasn’t the job that paid the big bills.
Clay liked smart people. He could deal with smart people. People who possessed curiosity and acted upon it were usually smart. That quality, especially in women and even the few friends he had, was an immediate attraction. If they’re smart, they’re careful not to get anyone mad. They asked questions, but not too many. There was a thin line to walk. If you kept to that fine line, you were okay in Clay’s eyes; exceed that line and he wanted nothing to do with you. If your stupid mistake compelled Clay to add you to his killings, he could simply rule the as getting rid of a waste, and not give it a second thought.
Clay’s charismatic personality, when he wasn’t working, made him quite likeable. His young innocent face was soft and welcoming, with light green eyes and brown hair styled in a crewcut. His lips always curled into a smile or smirk and his nose was medium size and fit perfectly between his eyes and mouth. His teeth were white and he was very health conscious. He never smoked and didn’t plan to start. He drank occasionally, but not excessively. He used to have a mole on his chin right below the left corner of his mouth, but he had it removed, along with his fingerprints, a long time ago. His voice was deep and comforting. It was a voice you could trust. He preferred casual attire, despite his ability to pay. A tee-shirt and jeans suited him fine.
When he worked his eyes were dark, hard, and hateful. They were small lasers that pierced his victim even before the bullet of his Luger. His face was cold and he possessed a heartless demeanor. His mouth wore lips that had never even cracked a grin. His teeth were clenched and never was his voice heard. He would never speak unless absolutely necessary, and then only with a frigidity that was low and flat. It was a voice to fear and respect. His chocolate colored fedora shadowed his face with the wide brim. His canvas trench coat hung down to his ankles and was met by black socks and dress shoes. A lapel was pressed neatly on each side of his neck. He always ensured that the scar on his arm, left by one of his victims who wasn’t yet ready to die, was well concealed. The man did die, but not without leaving his mark on Clay’s arm with a blade.
He is known to employers and victims as Mr. Whacker. That is his job. To whack people for pay and get away with it.
He won’t smoke or do drugs because he won’t be dependent. He won’t have any tattoos or pierces that could be used for identification. He won’t take a wife or have kids for the same reasons. He had friends and partners, and like any guy he loved women. However, he never got farther then the deepest kiss. That would be leaving a trail and a clue to him. He had sex only once, almost got caught, and rationalized that it was no better than the most intimate kiss. It made him feel the same. Why get caught for a moment of pleasure?
He thinks about none of this, it will distract him. He has programed himself to never think too deeply, for he might conceive a conscience and any inkling of guilt, pity, or worry that he would not tolerate.
When he was Clay, he did not think like or about Mr. Whacker. Likewise, when he was Mr. Whacker, he did not think or act like Clay. It was two different ways of living, but he did not suffer from schizophrenia. Clay could recollect what Mr. Whacker did on a day to day basis and could live with it. (He knew what Mr. Wacker was doing, when he pulled the trigger. He knew who the police were looking for when it was on his news channel. And he would think, just as he did when he was in the attire of Mr. Whacker, Another loser out of the hair of society...Just doing the job).
The two lifestyles never crossed...until now.

“And the jury rules the defendant...guilty! On all counts of man slaughter, larceny, and arson.” The judge with the bald head and thick skull announced. Clay was lucky he had gotten his case through the mass of concrete the man calls a head. “Jordan Seaver, you are sentenced to life imprisonment.”
Clay swore under his breath. The scum deserved worse then that. He deserved the chair. He’ll just get out in forty years and do exactly what he had before.
The slur of loud and vile curses coming from the accused confirmed Clay’s thoughts.
As the two lawyers stood to shake hands, the defense attorney; a sleazy, soiled, stupid woman hissed in a low voice, “My client swears revenge.”
Grabbing the woman’s hand and pulling her closer, he hissed smartly in reply, “Your client swears a lot.”
The woman snatched back her hand and turned sharply. She stomped out of the court room full of frustration. Clay followed her butt and had to admit, from the back, she was quite attractive. If he never had to see her face or hear her voice, he might consider a date. After a brief moment he reconsiders...Nah! Never!

A week later, one hand was pulling down the wide brim of his fedora so it shadowed his face as he buttoned the long canvas overcoat that hung to his ankles with the other. He slipped on his black socks and then his shoes. Mr. Whacker was ready for his next assignment.
He went to the agreed upon meeting place. An abandoned ally, under the one and only, obviously misplaced, streetlight. It was soon going to die, for the light kept flickering. Mr. Whacker hid in the shadows. He was not to go into the light. That would be stupid, and Mr. Whacker was not stupid.
“Mr. Whacker?” A gruff voice asked. The big, muscular, bouncer type became visible. He had a gun on him and no problem using it. Mr. Whacker could smell gunpowder like too much perfume. That kind of nose came from years of experience.
“Yes.” Mr. Whacker answered, being conscious of how far he let the flickering light of the street lamp grace him.
This man was new. Mr. Whacker liked new clients. He could mess with them. He could twist his job to fit his needs.
“You’re the guy I called ‘bout my problem?”
“No. Just taking a stroll.”
That was their code. They were in business.
The muscle man stepped toward Mr. Whacker stating, “Your weapon?” The man took out his gun and motioned as though he wanted all weapons to be grounded.
“Sorry, against my policy.”
The man looked a bit irked, but came back with a clam tone. “Then I have no further business with you.” The man turned to leave.
Mr. Whacker kept his hands at his sides. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be forced to pull his gun on a perspective client; someone he didn’t intend to kill. “If you back out now, you’d be making a very stupid mistake.”
The man turned and for a moment, Whacker was relieved. Unfortunately the moment of alleviation was short-lived, expiring when the muscle man demanded, “Oh, and what’s that?”
Mr. Whacker was forced to pull his gun on the guy. “Seeing me.”
The man started to aim his gun, but Mr. Whacker shot it from his hand. As the man grasped his hand in shock and looked at it, Mr. Whacker pulled another gun. The man looked at Mr. Whacker oddly. He wasn’t scared, but he was spooked enough to shut up and listen.
“Now, we both know the other is armed. So, as long as you don’t pull your gun, I won’t pull mine. Understood?”
“Fine.” The muscle man picked up his gun and put it away, but, Mr. Whacker couldn’t quite tell where. “Alright. The guy I want whacked looks like this.” He pulled a wrinkled photograph from his person and handed it across the barrier of light. Mr. Whacker’s left glove clasped the photo and brought it into his space. As he opened the photo, his eyes widened and his breath got caught in his throat. He backed up, further from the light. After a second of sheer and utter terror concerning who he had to kill, he forced himself to swallow or Whacker himself would be killed. He focused on what the muscle man was saying. “The name is Shine. Clay Shine. I want him dead by tomorrow morning. Is that clear?”
“Yes...” Mr. Whacker slapped himself back together. “Consider it done.”

As Mr. Whacker walked home, his head hung and he thought. Who’s wrath did I unleash?
Suddenly, it hit him. “Jordan Seaver!” He hissed, then swore. “What’s worse, I was hired to do it.” (The fact was, neither Shine nor Whacker wanted to die. They were both at the top of their game. If one fell, the other did too.) What about the Witness Protection Program? Oh, and what do I say? I was hired to kill myself? That ought to go over well! He thought with rage.
However, Clay should have foreseen this. A Prosecutor? Why couldn’t you have done a job that doesn’t say ‘will make enemies’ in the fine print!
But Clay Shine had contributed to society in a lot of ways. He had persuaded the courts to dig the needle into the arm of that one serial murderer. He had been his hardest subject.
Charles Nel had been one of those people that never had a bad hair day. His allure was in his looks, which could easily be compared to a crisp, fresh out-of-the-box Ken doll. His brown hair was cut short, but not too short. His bangs always fell lightly on his tan forehead. His blue eyes were the color of a Carribean sea and looked as innocent as a newborn. His smile was perfect. His white teeth and slim lips fit together as though painted by the artist he was. His nose wasn’t exactly attractive by itself, but on him, the way it was positioned on his face, it was glamorous. His muscles shown through the tight white, button-down dress shirt and his black suit fit snug, for the brawn in his arms and legs.
It made Clay sick!
He had killed people randomly, without rhyme or reason, it seemed. It was so incidental, it was hard to convict him. His victims were all women. The only connection was, they were all extremely attractive. The jury dragged the trial on for three long years because there wasn’t exactly enough evidence to nail him, but there was just enough to keep him under suspicion.
It was Clay that came across the final clue. It was by accident, actually. He had been grilling him for the ten-millionth time about where he had been the night of the most recent homicide, and he said something he didn’t realize, until he was answered.
He had said, “You’re an artist, right?”
“Yes.” He had answered.
“So, you appreciate beauty, right?”
“Right.”
“Your main subjects are women, right?”
“Yes, beautiful women. Ones who want to preserve their beauty.”
“Oh.” He spoke as a revelation hit him. He turned to the judge. “No further questions, your Honor.”
After the trial that day, Clay had gone to Nel’s house and looked around. What he was doing was technically illegal, but his house was considered a criminal scene and abandoned since he was in jail.
While in his bedroom, he tripped and his hand latched onto his bedpost, which came off and fell with him. Cursing, he got up and looked at the broken head, then at the post. It didn’t look...that broken, Shine thought. He went to replace it and hoped no one would notice, but then he saw the hollow inside. He stuck his fingers down in it and felt something. He pulled it out and found that it was rolled up pictures, painted by Nel, of the victims. All the women were dead.
The next day, he went to Nel and asked him, once again, “Did you ever have any contact with any of the women who were murdered?”
“No.” He lied, once again.
“Then explain this,” he showed him the pictures.
Charles Nel’s tan face went white. “You...you broke in! The police didn’t find them, you did! That is breaking and entering! Where’s your warrant?” he demanded, vexed.
“But what you did was a little worse, don’t you agree. Besides, you can’t prove anything, I can.” Clay was sure the Police Chief would rig him up with a search warrant just to catch that scum! Nel didn’t reply.
“Come on. I think you have some explaining to do.”
In the end, Charles Nel was found guilty on all counts of manslaughter and sentenced to death by lethal injection.
He confessed the reason he killed them, about the same way he died, was because he wanted to comply with their wishes to conserve their beauty for all eternity. He had said, as he was being led out of the courtroom, “Is it a crime to want to maintain something so glowing? I think it is more of a crime to let beauty wither and wash away by pale, sagging skin. It is not only a crime but a sin to see long, silky, flowing waves of brilliantly colored hair be replaced by white, flat, short, straw! Isn’t it?” Then he was led away.

As a result of this well known trial, Clay let himself get to big. Clay Shine was too popular, to vulnerable. Just the other day, he had seen his face plastered on the television set, promoting his firm. That was stupid.
Besides, looking back, he was too successful. If Mr. Whacker wasn’t so attached to Clay Shine, he would have no problem doing off with him. He was a big, rich, pretty-boy. Not someone Mr. Whacker would even consider mixing with, but he did and now, he had to make the decision he had always dreaded having to make.

Hence, Mr. Whacker decided, after much contemplation, Clay Shine was stupid. Therefore, he deserved to die.

So, an hour later, Mr. Wacker dragged his victim into his living room. He took his gun, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, put the gun to the victims head, and said good bye to Clay Shine...Forever.

“A man believed to be Clay Shine was shot at his home last night. The thirty-five year old lawyer was shot in the head and his home set ablaze. The fire burned everything. There were no remains. This is channel five news, a report from Diana Sowneburg, reporting live, back to you Mike.”
“Have you seen the news?” Mr. Whacker asked into a pay phone, turning down the portable radio.
“Yea. Where do you want me to send my money.” The muscle man asked.
“My Swiss account. I’ll give you the mailing address.” Mr. Whacker gave the address to him. He would be sure to change it after he got the money.
“Good.”
“Good.” Mr. Whacker hung up and smiled to himself as he opened the sound proof doors and walked into the world. He was going to change his name as soon as he was in his new state. Any money he needed could be found in his Swiss account.
Even though Clay Shine didn’t have many friends, Mr. Whacker had many people who owed him favors. Two in particular were a computer genius and an employee at the morgue. Together, Mr. Whacker’s plan commenced and succeeded!
He had decided that Clay Shine was a stupid man, but a relocated David Whacker, entering retirement, entering a place where he was unknown, was not stupid. Not stupid at all!