Shred of Evidence

This should have been the last place in the world where they would have come for me.

Doylestown, Pennsylvania is a bedroom suburb north of Philadelphia, a bleak vista of center-hall McMansions that surrounds a two hundred year old town center with a courthouse, a modest Civil War monument and a warren of narrow streets lined with shops, upscale retailers and overpriced restaurants. Saturdays were always busy, but today the sidewalks were jammed, perhaps a sign that people were finally turning off their TVs and getting on with the rest of their lives.

Read the rest of this entry »

Joseph Ortiz crept from the Central Park tree line near the Angel of the Waters. He ducked his spidery body behind a park waste basket, peering over the top to where the Tunnel Bombers huddled in front of the fountain. Wind whipped across the giant pool of water, tiny waves spilling over the side and splashing at their feet.

He aimed a .38 at the leader, Dreadhead, inching closer for a clean shot to the back of the Rastafarian’s head. The angelic centerpiece in the fountain cast its shadow over Joseph and he looked up. With the sun directly behind it, Dreadhead’s body blocking out the glare, the features of the statue became black, the silhouette outlined in day-glo yellow.

Read the rest of this entry »

March, 1998

Lyle Brockington was the kind of guy who wore a smoking jacket and laughed with clenched teeth. There weren’t many of those types of guys left, the Hugh Hefners of the world, but here was one sitting in front of Detective Bill Martin. Relaxed and cocky, the guy wore the jacket and slippers at work. Sure, he was the head of a major New Jersey banking company, but Martin still felt that was the height of affectation.

Martin and his partner Jackson Donne sat across from Brockington’s huge desk, studying the man over the backs of framed pictures. The office, in the only tall building in New Brunswick, Easton Bank, looked over the Raritan River. Early March, and Martin could still see a few chunks of ice floating south.

Read the rest of this entry »

I jumped when the candle died but used the cover of darkness to steal a quick sip from my flask. If Marilyn hadn’t been the wife of my ex-partner, I would have laughed in her face when she tried to hire me for the job.

Muscle a blackmailer? Sure. Steal incriminating evidence? No problem. Act as go-between? Give me the address.

Attend a séance? You’ve got to be kidding.

Read the rest of this entry »

The new kid had been hinting around that he was interested in doing some overtime work with us for a while now. He’d been particularly pushy during the last couple of weeks. I had been holding him off. I figured he wasn’t desperate enough.

Read the rest of this entry »

A girl like me can always get work. Good breasts. A thin waist. Legs.

But for the big bucks you need the face. No bags under the eyes. And the teeth. The teeth have to be right. Mine are crooked right in front. They come together and stick out like the prow of a sailing ship.

Read the rest of this entry »

I’m an ex-gangmember-turned-writer living in Phoenix, Arizona. I’ve been published in 3AM Magazine, Suspect Thoughts, Outsider Ink, Muse Apprentice Guild, The Murder Hole, and Plots With Guns. My screenplays have earned a special mention in the 2002 American Gem Short Script Contest and placed as a finalist in the 2003 Anything But Hollywood Contest. Although I’m currently busy finishing up a B.A. in Communications, I still make time to write crime fiction as well as edit a recently revived crime mag called HOODZ© Magazine.

Homepage: http://jacksondonne.4t.com/

David White is an 8th Grade English teacher. His stories have been published in Thrilling Detective, HandheldCrime, Hardluck Stories, and SHOTS UK. He currently resides in New Jersey.

Homepage: http://www.victorgischler.com

Victor Gischler is the author of Gun Monkeys and The Pistol Poets. His 3rd novel Suicide Squeeze will be available in hardcover this April. He drinks black coffee, smokes vile cigars, curses like a sailor and wears cheap clothes. Ain’t he neat?