D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

His transmitter buzzed again. Sophia. “Nick, are you busy?”

“Actually, I was on my way to arrest a murd–”

“Oh, good. We really need to talk. There’s this distance between us, and I can’t stand it anymore. We’ve been friends for years, but I can’t say that I really know you.”

“Do we really have to deal with this now?” he growled.

“Nick, I need more of you. You can’t expect me to give and give without getting anything in return. How many times do I have to say ‘I love you’ before you’ll believe me?”

“I can’t handle this right now. I’m about to wrap up the case, and I need to focus. Our relationship will still be there tomorrow.” As Nick entered the darkness of a tunnel, Sophia flickered and faded away.

Margery met Nick in the restaurant lobby. She led the way to the butcher shop, wringing her hands nervously. She gestured to a huge machine in the corner, a five-foot high, stainless steel bowl with a narrow step ladder bolted to its side. The rim of the bowl was coated with a layer of rusty blood. “I think Todd was trying to pulverize the bones.”

Reluctantly, he climbed the ladder and peered inside. The blood had turned the mass of lumpy dough a dark, reddish brown. Bits of bone and intestines were spread throughout the sticky mess. The muscles and tissue had been reduced to something like ground beef. In the center of the dough, visible under a layer of blood and muck, was Clayton West’s skull. His face had been torn by the mixer’s blades, but it was still clearly him. Nick’s stomach lurched. “Whatever you do, don’t sell this bread. At least, not at full price.”

As they returned to the lobby to escape the smell, he wondered how many pills he would have to take to get the image of Clayton West’s shredded skin out of his head. “Does Mr. Sweeney know what you’ve found here?”

“No, he’s at the contractor’s. Apparently they’re overcharging us for the repairs to the office.”

“Wow. The contractor’s cheating you and your husband’s a murderer. Not the best day you’ve ever had, is it?”

Arriving at the contractor’s office, Nick found Todd Sweeney arguing with a grotesquely overweigh man in paint-splattered overalls. “I do not want any bloody marble! Why the hell would anyone use marble on an office floor? Who do you think I am, the bloody Pope of Restaurateurs?”

“Sweeney,” Nick interrupted. “I have a break in the case, which we should discuss in private. Come with me.”

“Whatever it is, I am sure it can wait!”

“Actually,” he said, drawing his stunner, “no, it can’t.”

“Is that one of those electroshock guns?”

“Yes. And, trust me, it hurts like hell. It also gives the arresting detective a great opportunity to abuse and/or humiliate you.”

Todd rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Let’s take my car.”

Back at the restaurant, Margery was in Todd’s office, busy screaming orders at the repair crew. Nick took Todd to the lobby, where they could be alone, and handcuffed him to a chair. “Why did you kill Clayton West?”

“What? I had no idea he was even dead.”

“Don’t lie to me. You killed him, dragged his body to the restaurant, and tried to destroy the evidence in an industrial bread mixer! …Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”

“There is a body in the bread mixer?” he sputtered, baffled. “How revolting! We usually just add little bits of meat for flavor. A whole person would just be unpleasant.”

“It really is. And it smells awful.”

“I understand how this appears to you, but I am not a bloody murderer!” he insisted, struggling against his bonds. “Anyone could have brought a body in here last night. In case you forgot, there is an entire wall missing!”

“I know that. But you’re the one with a motive! You killed Clayton to cover up your attempt to frame him for the murder of Renée Flockhart, who you killed to cover up your affair!”

“Why would I kill Renée to cover up my affair with Jessica?”

“You’re sleeping with Flockhart and Campbell?”

“No, just Jessica. …And my upstairs maid. And the girl at the drycleaner’s. And occasionally my wife. But mostly Jessica.” He shook his head sadly. “That first night you came to the restaurant, Jessica flirted with you to make me jealous. She gets upset with me, now and then, because I refuse to get a divorce.”

“Why would someone bring a body in here if they knew you had security cameras?” Nick knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Todd say the words.

“The cameras are decoys,” he reluctantly replied. “They move in response to motion, but they cannot actually record anything. Believe me, I may be cheating the insurance company, but I am no killer.”

“Other than you, who knows about the fake cameras?”

“With Renée gone, that just leaves–”

“Might we have a word with you, Mr. Wergild?” Nick turned at the sound. It was Eric and Stanley, the authors/hitmen. They were standing in the doorway, grinning dementedly and holding pistols big enough to fire rail spikes, which they probably did. “This time,” Stanley said, “no mistakes. No catapults, no deathtraps, no longwinded and slightly clichéd explanations of our evil plans. Just us shooting you in the face.”

“Out of all the people who have tried to kill me,” Nick said, forcing a smile, “You guys have been the most persistent. I say, after all that trouble, you deserve it. But can I offer you a suggestion first? Don’t shoot me here. The restaurant has an attached butcher shop.” He pointed to a door down the hall. “Why don’t you shoot me back there? The floor and tables are covered in human blood. A security patrol would never be able to isolate your DNA in all that mess. You’ll get away with murder, guaranteed.”

Todd stared up at Nick like he had suggested that they all go skinny dipping in a swimming pool full of lemon juice and broken glass. “You must have one hell of a plan,” he whispered tensely.

“Not really. But I’m sure I’ll think of something. If I don’t, at least I saved your carpet from some nasty stains.”

Eric and Stanley conferred for a moment. “The butcher shop sounds like a good idea,” Eric said finally. He waved his pistol at Todd. “And your friend there is coming with us. We can’t have any witnesses. I’m sure you understand.”

“Guys,” Nick said, “my employer here is handcuffed to a heavy chair. Being elderly and rather feeble, he can’t possibly drag it all that way. Would you mind if I released him?”

“First,” Stanley said, “toss your stunner over here.” Nick pulled the black tube from his pocket and rolled it across the floor. “Now you can unlock the handcuffs. Slowly .”

Nick fumbled in his pocket. “Where is that darn key? I can’t – Oh, here it is.” He unlocked Todd and retrieved his handcuffs from the back of the chair. “You know, you guys are better hitmen than I thought. You got inside without my seeing you; I never even had a chance to draw my weapon or trans security . Dozens of people – nay, hundreds – have tried to kill me, but it looks like you two will actually succeed.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Stanley growled. “We need to kill you guys and dispose of your bodies before seven; we have dinner reservations.”

The gunmen prodded Nick and Todd down the hall and into the butcher shop. Stanley gestured for them to stand by a huge, steel table, where Gordon’s work with the bone saw had covered the floor in a Rorschach test of dried blood. “Alright, who wants to go first?”

Nick put up his hands. “Wait a second, guys. I have another idea.”