The Last Word

The Last Word

Chapter One

         Pamela was in a hurry to get her children dressed and off to school this morning. Wendy was dawdling, as was usual for the vivacious five year old. Pamela, a strikingly beautiful blond was pushing thirty-five and felt every year of it as she coaxed her young daughter to move along. Fortunately, for Pam, her husband Jim had son, Jeff. Of course, at age eight he didn’t need much help.
         Finally, Pam got both children dropped off at their respective schools. She mentally ticked off items on her long list of things she had to do before she could indulge herself and spend time at the new bookstore in town.
         Later this afternoon Marilyn Somerlove was doing a book signing at the Book Nook right here in Placerville. Pam couldn’t wait.
         Last night, at her weekly meeting of the Placerville Writers’ Club they had the honor of having Marilyn as guest speaker. It was so exciting. She has written five murder mysteries, all best sellers. She is so knowledgeable about murders and crime scenes. Pam got goosebumps just listening to her talk about the way he researched her books. The thought of being near her again this afternoon was the all she could think of.
         Pam needed to hurry up and finish her to-do list so she could get to the bookstore early. She had been to the Post Office and to the dry cleaners. She still needed to go the bank, do some shopping for supper, and stop at the library. She had just over an hour left.
         Who are these people? Something is wrong, terribly wrong. They are dressed in black, right down to their black hoods and they are brandishing semi-automatic weapons! No! I need to get out of here before they see me. Hide, where can I hide? Why, didn’t I come earlier, or just use the drive-through?
         Six gunmen, but only four of them are wearing hoods. Why are those two letting us see them? NO! They mean to kill all of us; they don’t care if we can identify them. They are screaming out orders, there is so much noise. My heart is beating so hard I can’t hear anything besides blood galloping through my veins. My ears are bleeding from the blasts, what do they want us to do? I can’t hear? Ugh, just landed on my knees, my mouth is bleeding, okay, okay I’m moving just don’t hit me again.
         What? No way! I’m not getting undressed. We look at each other with the mute commiseration of friends. No way. Well, maybe, here goes. Now they’re telling us to fold our clothes and put them on the desk. The gunmen fixated on their fierce mission push and beat us. I got one of them! I hope the scratch is long and deep! I get cussed again, and receive a horrific kick.
         I think that the gunman is not a man at all, but a woman. How could a woman do such a thing? I am terrified I’m going to die. I don’t want to die. Sitting here on the floor, with all these all people, all of us naked is worse than anything I ever imagined. Ten men and fourteen women are sitting defenseless and alone, yet in a group. All but eight of us work here at the bank.
They are circling around us, aiming those guns at us. Prodding us this way and that way as if we’re posing for a picture.
         Pop, pop, pop. I never thought they would massacre us so quickly, no talk, no threats, just death.
There is so much more that I planned to do today. I’ll never finish it. Who will I wonder? Actually, Jim has no idea of what I do or rather did with my time. Wendy and Jeff, my darling babies, whatever will happen to them?
         The ceiling of the bank is very dismal from my viewpoint here on the floor looking up, funny I never really noticed how asymmetrical the ceiling tiles are. Over there is a small water stain, another one there, sad really if you think about it. I mean, really, all this money here, or at least it was here, yet no money to spend on repairs.
         What are they doing now? I recognize that voice. I just can’t place it, it is vaguely familiar though. They aren’t even attempting to rob the bank. All they wanted to do is murder us.
         She called that guy Josh, told him to move us around so that we would look better? What?
I know her. It is Marilyn Somerlove! She must be setting up a scene for her next novel! No! She actually plans murders and then watches the police solve them to sell books. She is pointing at me. Why? Oh, look she is the one I scratched. I got her right under her chin all the way down her chest. Yes, I drew blood and she is mad. Well, Marilyn I am already dead. There is nothing more you can do to me.
         Where are the police? Don’t they know that we are lying here anticipating their response to the silent alarm. They were supposed to save our lives. A little late for that. I am not alone here, yet of course, I am very alone. I have always heard that at the moment of life threatening crisis your whole life flashes through your mind. Well, I am here to tell you that it is not true; events transpired so rapidly that nothing went through my mind. I felt totally brain dead. Ha-ha that is funny, a dead person contemplating about feeling brain dead.
         Finally, the police have arrived! They’re battering down the door. No, wait they’re trying to unlock it, why? To avoid hurting the doors? Who cares, I sure don’t. I’m lying here in a pool of blood, mine, and some of the others who are sharing this small piece of floor in this huge lobby the size of Texas.
         Where is Marilyn and her gang? How did they get away? She’s probably on her way to her book signing and here I lie here helpless, never to be able to go anywhere or do anything again. Life is not fair, neither is death.
There’s suddenly a cacophony of noises as dozens of feet scurry across the floor, the constant robotic noises coming across police radios, and the idle chit chat among the officers. Once the totality of the carnage sinks in silence enshrouds the bank.
         Captain Jethro Goldman takes command barking out orders. Search for survivors, surely they all can’t be dead. Moments tick by; an officer fastidiously feels my neck for a pulse. Of course, there is none. Doesn’t the fact that half of my head is missing give you a clue? Yeah, I know they have to follow the rules and check each of us. None of us survived.
         Captain, I know who killed us. Come here I’ll tell you. Ahhhh—he can’t hear me. This is so frustrating. I have to get them a clue somehow. She can’t get away with this. And, to think that just a little while ago I thought she was so great.
         Cover me up already, I may be dead, but let me have some sense of propriety. Under the pretense of investigation, I hear the officers talking about how so many of us are either naked or missing most of our clothes. They wonder where the clothes might be, none seem to be lying around. News flash, they took them as trophies! As talismans of their excruciating violence. No, they aren’t bloody, either; they made us disrobe before they shot us down in cold blood. Now why do they say that people are shot in cold blood? While we are living, breathing beings, our blood is hot, now it is cold. So foolish, I never thought about it before though I must admit.
         The forensics team has arrived. They’re paying careful attention to each of us; finally, someone is listening. Ouch! Not really but those flashes from the cameras are bright. I have always disliked having my picture taken and now I have to suffer the indignity of having my naked body shot from every angle.
         They don’t even know who I am! How are they going to notify Jim? He doesn’t know anything has happened to me yet. I’m sure he’s heard about the burglary and the murders, but did he even know I was going to the bank this morning?
         Those rotten, no good, blood-thirsty killers must have taken my purse, as well as my clothes. This is too much, not only did they take my life they took my identity also.
         Things have gotten quiet, or at least as quiet as a huge crime scene can be. Here come the bags, ugh! Their stench stands out even here, where the air is tinged with the smells of blood, guts, gunpowder, and other unmentionable smells. In addition, they are as ugly as sin. Hey, be careful with that zipper that hair is, or rather was attached. It's so dark, lonely, and scary as all get out. Gentle please, I know I am dead but I still have feelings, or do I? I think I do, therefore I do. I am the one in this bag and what I think is all that matters.
         Brr! I am so cold, what is this? A refrigerator, yep, it sure is. Ah, bright lights again, it feels good to be out of that bag. This must be the medical examiner, he sure isn’t like Ducky on NCIS, but he is courteous. He has the sense to keep my private places covered as much as possible. Thank God for small blessings.
         Dr. Bob introduced himself, how quaint. He is asking me if I know who did this to me. Yes, Yes, I know can’t you read my mind? I can give you all the details and the descriptions and even names. We will make a great team.
         Somehow, I don’t know how, but I know that we will solve this murder. I just know it. What? Who is that?
Detective Dave Mashburn just entered the autopsy suite with Marilyn Somerlove. He is telling Dr. Bob that she is a great murder mystery novelist and is going to be consulting with the Placerville Police Department on this case.
         Dr. Bob, come here. I have something to show you. Do you see that great big scratch on Marilyn’s neck? Just look under my fingernails, you have a surprise coming. We are going to solve this case and instead of consulting Marilyn Somerlove will be the Placerville Police Departments Prime Suspect. Hurry Dr. Bob let’s start on my autopsy I have so much to tell.