Fatal Flaws Read online

  FATAL FLAWS

  Written by Max Booth III, John Cesarone, Neal James, Jason Masoner, and Nathan Weaver

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Contents

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  AFTERWORD

  PREFACE

  Sometimes ideas come like a bolt of lightning, screeching across the sky, touching down and burning one’s head. Turning a living being into a human lightning rod. Yes, it’s true, but that has little to do with what you are about to read.

  The idea was simple—collaborate.

  You see, I had this idea that a group of solid authors could weave together a great story, by writing one chapter after another in a rotation format. Where one author would leave off, the other would pick up and continue onward. And even if these authors were given little-to-nothing in the form of a plot or purpose, they could pull out something original and unique.

  On Monday, February 15, 2010, I started the following thread in a writer’s forum:

  Story Idea #99899200198991863516731

  So, I wonder what kind of cool story we could all tell, if we used the old "write one sentence and pass it on" method. Except, it would be more like write a chapter and pass it on. Would anybody be interested in doing this?

  Four authors responded to the call: Max Booth III, John Cesarone, Jessie Masoner, and Neal James. I provided a simple premise and the first chapter, and with that we were off writing chapters with the only guideline being that each submission had to be about 2,000 words in length.

  I think what surprised me most through it all was how well the styles of the different authors seemed to meld into one. The story wasn’t strangely disjointed and incoherent, but it moved with a common thread and purpose. It was as if all five authors instantly understood where we were headed.

  What you are about to read is an Emerald Dragon String-Along, and the first one at that. And my hope is that this will not be the first and last, but the first in a long line of collaborations. So, if you’re an author and the String-Along concept appeals to you, then join us online and maybe you can take part in the next String-Along story. We hope you enjoy our little tirade.

  Nathan Weaver

  1

  He slid out of his uniform and quickly shoved it all into his duffel bag; the name-tag read Officer Peter Krite. He'd been a beat cop for ten years now, and eight of those had been wasted on hopeless anticipation that something would give. Unlike most beat cops, though, Krite wasn't looking for a promotion. He was praying for a break.

  After washing the day away in the shower, he slid into a pair of jeans and a plain white tee. He tied some green Converse sneakers firmly to his feet, and then put on a sporty looking biker's jacket. Not the kind you see Bubba wearing in the gang, but the kind you see action heroes wearing while making their getaway. He used to own a motorcycle, a Suzuki V-Storm 1000 to be precise. It could take him back and forth between the streets and dirt. And that's what he liked about bikes, the recreation of it. It was an easy way to own what was before you - the future. You could tackle it and take it your way. Maybe it's rough, maybe it's smooth. Whatever the case, he got himself a bike that could take him through all roads. But that was all before Maggie came into the world.

  She was their firstborn, and when the news came he quickly sold the bike to put some extra buffer in their bank account. He vowed he'd one day take a bike to the streets and dirt roads again, but for the meantime having money for the kid was more important. Two years later, when they were about to get caught up and have a buffer once more, Eliot came into the world. That's when he sold the pool table and made provision for a third bedroom, hoping they wouldn't have to turn the office into a fourth one. In a series of fortunate and unfortunate events, it was clear that that would never happen. Plans have a way of planning themselves without time for a discussion on the matter.

  It was a Friday, so, true to his custom, he put all five of his uniforms into the duffel bag. He also squeezed in his gun and utility belt. He liked to take the uniforms to the dry cleaners on Saturday, and clean his gun and utility belt items on Sunday evenings. He liked to start new weeks out fresh, though mentally he never did. He would then walk from the locker room, up three flights of stairs to Homicide, and then down a long corridor to a lonely office. On the outside of the door were small, simple letters which read COLD CASE. He knocked twice and entered when he heard a voice beckon him in. He stood with the door open, and looked to the lone detective, Rodney Fox, sitting behind the desk. Rodney was about twenty years Krite's senior and had the white hair to prove that fact. It didn’t take long for Rodney to simply shake his head, no. Krite nodded in silent understanding, and then closed the door.

  The long corridor always seemed longer on the way out.

  Rodney felt compelled; it was the anniversary, after all, so he pulled out a casebook filed under three names and the usual nine-digit case number system Salem Police Department had used for some thirty years. He read each name slowly and deliberately in his mind. Krite, Elizabeth. Krite, Adaline. Krite, Eliot. He opened the casebook, and a few things stood out in the initial report and death certificates.

  March 3, 2004.

  12:06 AM Time of Arrival.

  Dead on Arrival.

  Rape.

  Sodomy.

  Paedophilia.

  Lacerations from the left of neck to right of spine, scratching it. Used knife from kitchen, a weapon of convenience.

  Assailants took their time, made it last.

  No signs of theft.

  No signs of forced entry, possibly known to victims.

  Date of birth March 3, 1998.

  For Rodney, it was all the usual things again; nothing new jumped out. He hadn't had a lead on the case in three years. And even that turned out to be a dud. The case was frozen stiff as a corpse in Canada.

  As usual, it was raining hard outside the station as Krite sat down in the covered bus stop. Though it was only one block from the station, this didn't stop vandals from leaving their mark. Krite knew every marking too. He knew which ladies to call for a good time, who was gay, what needed to happen to niggers and, in response, what needed to happen to rednecks. It was because of his familiarity with the bus stop that he immediately noticed the pretentious Hello My Name Is sticker. It stood out like a sore thumb. The name on it was SAM and it wasn't written thereon, but rather was pieced together using letters cut from different magazines or newspapers. The name reminded him of Sam. And though Krite didn't regret much, he really wished he could forget Sam. Every now and then she entered his dreams, and he awoke mad and frustrated with himself. Feeling the guilt all over again.

  He felt his cell phone vibrate in his pants pocket, and pulled it out. It read that he had a text message from Paxton. He hesitated at viewing the message; he couldn't remember having anyone in his contacts list who went by the name Paxton. It reminded him of his old history professor, but he couldn't think of a reason why he'd have his number. And then he remembered his name was Prichard. He opened the message.

  If you want to know who killed your family, you'll do as I say and to the letter.

  He felt a rush of heat over his body that he recognized as fear and loathing. Before he could think of how to respond another message came in from Paxton.

  Put the Sam sticker on and get to 2nd street now.

 
His bus came to a stop in front of him. The door opened, Missy looked down to him with a large smile. She always reminded him of the servant girl in ‘Gone with the Wind’.

  "Come on in, Missa Krite!"

  He looked to her, then back to the last message from Paxton. He didn't know what to make of it, and knew he was headed into some sort of trap. But that was better than nothing…perhaps. It felt like he had been sitting there for several days trying to decide whether to listen to Paxton or walk back into the station. Or maybe even join Missy.

  He heard Missy shout "good riddance" as he crossed the street in front of the bus and ran out into oncoming traffic. It was a good fourteen blocks to 2nd Street, and he didn't want to question whether now meant be there now or start walking now.

  2

  Krite set off for 2nd street at a solid trot. He was a pretty good runner back in his day, and he figured he could still make decent time. He stopped for red lights or heavy traffic when he had no choice, but dodged and weaved when he could. A few drivers cursed him out after near-misses, but he paid them no heed; all that he knew was the running, his destination pounding in his mind’s eye. Visions of his dead family faded in and out of his consciousness; begging him for help, all the while sinking into a deep fog with wailing pain on their faces.

  His path took him through the roughest part of the city. He passed hookers, druggies, dealers, thugs. He watched junkies shooting up in alleys and working girls being beaten up by their pimps. He saw a possible robbery in progress, and nearly stopped to call it in, his cop instincts still intact. But then he remembered the text message, burned into his brain. Now, it had said. He kept running.

  He ran all the harder when his muscles began to ache; when battery acid was pumping through his veins, and the duffel on his back was made of concrete. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain and filth all around him. He was a cop, yes, but he was also a husband and father. Widower, said a voice within him. Father of corpses. He told the voice to shut up, and kept running.

  Krite arrived. He stooped over, gasping, his hands on his knees, wheezing. He hadn’t run like that since high school. He tried to keep in good shape, but a cop diet is not conducive to running marathons. Gradually, his breath came back to him and he straightened up. Now what, he thought.

  His cell phone vibrated again in his pocket. He tore it from his pants and read the message.

  You’ll see a man on crutches with a red envelope. Get it.

  Krite looked around. He saw a gang of young toughs dividing up a bag of some sort of contraband. He saw a twelve year old urchin with a cell phone, watching the streets like a hawk. He saw a drunk in a gutter, laughing hysterically at some private joke. Basic evening on 2nd Street; lowlifes living their low lives. But he didn’t see anyone on crutches. He heard a dog howl in the distance, a serenade of car horns, and the occasional gunshot.

  Then he heard a metallic squeak from behind. He whirled. There was an elderly gnome of a man, bearded and shabby, pushing a shopping cart full of refuse. He was dressed like a thrift-store nightmare crossed with a scarecrow. He leaned heavily on one battered crutch; another crutch stuck obscenely out of the cart. His head was twitching as he cursed the world about him, spittle flying from his cyanotic lips.

  Krite made for the derelict, closing with him in a few minutes. He stood erect, blocking the man’s path. The derelict, oblivious to all but the invective he was hurling at the world, ran directly into Krite’s steadfast form, then looked up in surprise.

  “What the fock, matey?” he whined in a creaky, raspy voice. Krite looked at a scab-ridden face, bedizened with pustules and cracked yellow teeth. He held his hand over his nose against the stench. “Get ert o’ me way, matey, or I’ll have to crack ye!” The derelict shook a bony fist in the air.

  “Steady, old timer,” said Krite. “Nobody wants any trouble. I think you have something for me.” He scanned the contents of the shopping cart with darting eyes. It looked like a collection of broken appliances, rusted cans, shattered glass, and other bio-hazards.

  “Argh, stand aside, ya scupper,” said the old coot, coughing up a large wad of phlegm and spitting it onto the sidewalk. “I’ve business to attend.” And with that, he attempted to push Krite aside with his cart and continue on.

  “No, no, wait!” said Krite, grabbing the cart. “Really, I think we need to talk.” He reached into the cart, mindful of sharp corners and potential tetanus infections.

  “Ahhh, keep yer mits off’n me stuff, ya grouse!” screeched the geezer. “I’ll be callin’ a cop, I will!” He swatted at Krite with his arthritic fists, which Krite ignored and continued rummaging through the pile of trash.

  There it was! The red envelope! Krite saw a corner of it sticking out from under a broken toaster, and reached exultantly. He snatched it to his chest. “This is what you brought for me, isn’t it, Granddad?” he asked excitedly.

  “Gimme that back, ya crackin’ thief!” growled the gnarled gnome, and began to swing at Krite with his crutch. “Murderers! Assassins! The streets ain’t safe fer decent folk, cornswarm ye all!” He swung his crutch madly, crashing it into Krite’s face.

  “Stop it!” yelled Krite, protecting his face with his hands. “Stop it, you old coot! Weren’t you sent here to find me?” The crutch continued to rain blows on his head and shoulders. “Stop it!”

  But the coot would not stop. His violence and invective continued to escalate until Krite began to fear for his own safety. When a particularly savage blow landed in his solar plexus, his instincts took over. A move learned during his basic training came back, unbidden, to his nervous system: he crouched, twisted, and drove a fist straight into the coot’s face, crushing his nose and sending him tumbling backwards in a limp pile of bones and a fountain of blood. The geezer lay twitching; not dead, but in dire shape.

  Krite stared at his own fist, his mouth agape. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. He, an officer of the law! And now a citizen was hurt. His gaze darted this way and that. Who had seen? Nobody but the druggies and lowlifes, he thought. He could walk away. Nobody would be any the wiser. And he had the envelope. He stuffed it into an inner jacket pocket.

  He turned and started to run, but got no further than three paces when he had to stop. He heard the injured gnome moaning on the ground. He saw a trickle of blood oozing from the man’s twisted mouth into his gnarled beard; he saw the panting of the diaphragm. For a few eternal microseconds, Krite wondered what to do; then he pulled out his cell phone and dialled 9-1-1.

  “There’s been an accident!” he barked. “A man was attacked. 2nd Street and Pine, hurry.” He considered hanging up and running, but knew that the phone would be traced; he forced himself to remain calm, identified himself by name and badge number. “Thank you, yes. No, I won’t be on the scene. I’m in hot pursuit.” And with that he took off at a run, back toward the Police Station as fast as he could go.

  Krite looked neither right nor left; he didn’t stop for traffic at all; let them stop for him, dammit! He was dashing towards the station, but not really; rather, he was dashing away from the scene of his crime. Shame burned his ears crimson; he had attacked a citizen, violated his oaths. Or had he? The old fool should have just handed over the envelope! That’s what he was there for...wasn’t it? The old fool. He deserved to die. NO! Shouted a voice deep within him. You are a police officer, goddammit. Tears of confusion fled down his face as he raced back toward the precinct.

  Think, dammit, think, he told himself. What do you do now? All is not lost. You told the dispatcher you were on duty. But you weren’t. Well, maybe you were? Who says you weren’t? The duty log, that’s who. Now, his mission clear, Krite knew what he had to do. He had to change the duty log. Easily done. Just get back to the station, as soon as possible.

  Krite arrived at the station house, again panting like a freight train, his legs like rubber bands. He leaned up against the great granite columns of the building, catching his breath and nearly vomit
ing. Finally, composed, he forced himself to walk casually inside.

  The duty officer at the front desk, O’Malley, gave him a disinterested glance. “Hello, Pete,” he said. “Thought you checked out an hour ago?”

  “Ha, I wish!” laughed Krite, trying to sound casual. “Had a meeting with a CI, had to go out of uniform. You know how it is.” O’Malley nodded sagely.

  Krite made his way to the squad room. It was deserted at this time of night. He found the duty roster in which he had so recently logged out. Fortunately, nobody else had logged out after him; that made things simpler. All he had to do was change the time in his own entry. A couple of quick pen strokes took care of it; sloppy, but cops are never known for their penmanship. For all the world now knew, Krite had spent the last hour meeting with his snitch in the 2nd Street district, and just happened across the assault on the old geezer. Yeah, that’s right. He was one of the good guys, doing his job.

  He waved casually to O’Malley on his way back out. “Night, Pat.”

  “Night, Pete.”

  Out into the night, his duffel feeling lighter and his mood lightening with it, I just might have pulled it off, he thought to himself.

  The twinkling lights of a tavern beckoned from across the street. He could go back to the bus stop and home as usual, and there read the contents of the envelope. But he just couldn’t wait. The envelope was a Rosetta Stone, burning in his jacket, needing to be read. He ducked across the street and into the tavern.

  The dark interior welcomed him like a loving mistress; he pulled up a seat at the polished bar and ordered a double scotch. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. As he flicked his lighter, he noticed that his hand was shaking like a leaf. He managed to get the cigarette lit just as his drink arrived. He gulped it in one shot and waved to the barkeep. “Encore,” he said. The barkeep obliged.