Murdock.

As I walked in to Mr. Killy’s office, I thought about all of the things that could have led up to a visit with the clueless octogenarian.

It could’ve been the missing wallets of six members of the football team, the arson set in a chemistry lab to cover stealing a kilogram of phosphorus, or maybe the curious case of the malfunctioning sprinkler system (laptops are easier to steal when someone thinks they’re in danger of getting wet).

Fortunately for me, I wasn’t in the vice principal’s office for any of those reasons. And neither was vice principal. I just hoped I was lucky enough to avoid getting caught.

Oh, you think it’s easy to be lucky?

Well, you’re right, it is. To be fair, the degree of difficulty in being lucky can often vary based on what someone’s definition of “lucky” is. There’s no luck in chess; one player is simply not as stupid as their opponent

But rigged luck? That’s easy. Especially when you’re as skilled as I am.

I logged on using a flash drive I had swiped from an IT worker’s wallet and made my way onto Killy’s bank account. Yes, I said bank account. Tiny thefts from trust funds of athletes with rich daddies weren’t going to cut it anymore, now that I was in my senior year. I would have to pay the full rent on my apartment in Southie soon, no more student discount.

I glanced at the clock and realized I had about five minutes until my luck would run out and someone would walk by the doorway. I quickly located the funds that were transferred after last week’s Charity Fund.

A bunch of preppy white dudes begging other preppy white dudes for money.

My lungs felt cold with temptation as I saw the amount pop up on the screen. I thought about how long I could live with that kind of money.

I set up the wire transfer and shut the laptop screen.

Just as the computer powered down, I heard, clear as day, the overly-careful footsteps of a heavy-set person. I thought about slipping out of the window behind me, melting into the shadows cast by the overcast December sky. I had about ten seconds to make a choice.

Here’s to luck, I thought.

I pressed myself to the wall of the darkened office, hoping my skin wasn’t pale enough to be seen against the light-colored paint. A fat set of jittery fingers wrapped around the doorknob and I heard a key rattle into place.

As the door opened, I thought about the two knives concealed on my belt, but when a scent like cologne mixed with sweat and overbearing masculinity drifted by my nose, I smirked.

Tanner Oglethorpe, I thought to myself. This is just perfect.

I saw his bright red letterman jacket almost close the door, walking over to the desk and opening the laptop. I slunk away from the wall and crouched, slipping a phone from the back pocket of his jeans. I then planted myself against the desk. I heard the laptop start to whir, and I knew that this was my chance.

As silently as I could, I took one of the credit cards from the IT worker’s wallet and slipped it in between two of my latex-covered fingers. As smoothly as I could, I threw it behind me, over the varsity quarterback’s head. It rattled against the window, and as Tanner twisted around in fear, I sprinted, darting through the crack in the door and walking quickly around a corner.

The only thing I could think about as I accessed an ATM off of Cambridge Street half an hour later was why Tanner was in the office anyways.

He wasn’t looking for me, I thought. He’s too stupid for that. What was he doing on the computer?

I had transferred the money into the same IT worker’s account and withdrew it as calmly as I could. My mind was still stuck on why Tanner was even in the building, let alone sneaking into the vice principal’s office to mess with his computer. As the ATM graciously spit out the set of hundred dollar bills, I took my rubber gloves off and threw them in the trash.

All in all, I had taken around six grand from the half a million or so that had been donated to Cambridge Prep. As I got off the Red Line near West Broadway, the familiar smell of fried food greeted me in the crisp air. I walked the block and a half to my apartment building and at the door, I saw a familiar figure, tall and lanky, leaning against the brick landing.

Of course Silas was waiting for me. He was getting better at realizing when I was out stealing and not just “going for coffee.”

“Did you manage to not kill anyone this time, Felix?” He asked, his tanned face trying hard to look as pissed off as his voice was.

With his short blonde hair and violently blue eyes, he looked like he belonged in Los Angeles, not South Boston. But he had gotten expelled from his old school in California and ended up in Cambridge before his dad had kicked him out. He had gotten drunk and wound up at Cambridge Prep on the first day of junior year.

I took him to my place out of pity, and even though I didn’t have much money to throw around, I let him stay.

“That cabbie didn’t die,” I argued. “He’s technically still alive.”

“Yeah, in a coma!”

“He was going to rat on me to the Police,” I responded. “Besides, he’s in a jail hospital. He dealt drugs with his taxi, remember?”

“Two wrongs doesn’t—” Silas started, but I had heard that before.

“Silas, two wrongs are currently paying for the rent.”

He looked at me and grinned. “I guess that’s true. C’mon, I made a pot of tea.”

He opened the door and I followed him in. He was still grinning as he started to open the door to our apartment, saying,

“You know, I actually tried calling you this time. But your phone was off.”

“It always is when I’m on a job,” I answered, my brow furrowing.

The door swung open, unlocked, and Silas stopped in his tracks as soon as he could see inside. We both saw something eerily familiar lying on the carpet ten feet from the door. A bright red letterman jacket, the sleeves and chest spattered with freshly-dried blood.

“Murdock?” He asked, “you didn’t join the football team, did you?”

“No,” I responded slowly. “And you didn’t remember to lock the door.”

“Of course I remembered to lock the door,” He responded indignantly, his eyes darting everywhere. I checked one of the pockets of my black jeans, and found my normal phone. The phone I slipped from Tanner was still tucked in my other pocket with my wallet. But when I checked my belt, one of the two knives wasn’t there.

On an impulse, I checked the pockets of the football player’s jacket. The gold-colored switchblade was in the right front pocket, sticky with blood. As soon as I opened the knife, Tanner’s phone chimed a received message.

I flipped the old phone open and read the text:

Throat was slit when I found him. Killy’s office. Saw your knife and put it in his jacket to help cover your tracks, but Police will start looking for you later today. Eyes everywhere. Sent December 18, 2012.

“Later today?” Silas asked, his voice racked with fear. “What, are they trying to frame us?”
I clicked through the phone after I read it, checking to see if I could find its’ number.

“No.” I said, realizing what was happening.

“No?” Silas asked incredulously. “No? This guy knows about us, they probably killed Tanner, and now the Police is coming after us.”

“Silas, look at who sent the text,” I told him.

“Why would I need to do—”

“Just do it!”

He murmured the number under his breath, and his brow furrowed. The phone’s number, and the sender’s number were the same.

“Now look at the send date,” I ordered.

He whispered the date, his eyes wide. “That’s a week from today.”

“Yeah,” I confirmed, thoroughly confused. “So what the fuck is going on here?”

Notes

Here goes nothing, again. I am going to write this out fully, and actually edit it this summer for Camp NaNoWriMo. But until I get down on paper what I really want the story to look like, this will be the first drafts and re-writes.


Enjoy,
Grafon