The surprise ending of a good short crime story can grab the reader's heart and induce
pain, joy, despair, and even revelation. That twist reminds us of what life is really all about.
That people wear masks, and that the persona hidden behind the public face is capable of
anything: murder, incest, infidelity . . . Anything.
In short, the "twist" in the crime story abruptly breaks us out of our stubborn
existential complacency. MURDER NEVER GOES OUT OF PRINT perfectly captures
this existential moment. Can you see the surprise coming?
The Short Story is a -
Dagger in The Heart
MURDER IS NEVER OUT OF PRINT
©Copyright Tim Sheard 2007
I have a tale of murder for you, dear reader; a dark disturbing tale of violence and betrayal. But be
forewarned: you may find danger in the reading...Whatever the outcome, don't say that I didn't warn you.
I was walking down Second Avenue on the Lower East Side this morning on my way to our little
bookstore, Murder In Print. It's not a particularly large enterprise; it can't compare to The Mysterious
Book Store up on 56th street, but we take pride in our selection. Some of our first editions are quite
valuable, and we carry a solid selection of foreign imprints - titles you won't see at Barnes and Nobles.
We've developed a very loyal clientele; without them, we’d be out of business in a month.
As I approached our storefront, I felt a cold sensation, like when you hear running footsteps coming
toward you on a darkened street. The big red and blue neon sign over our shop was still lit, which could
only mean that my partner Allison hadn't dimmed the sign last night. Whichever one of us works late
always turns it off - the Con Ed bill is brutal - and we leave just a pair of night lights on inside.
Maybe I'm a worry-wort. Living in Manhattan can make anyone a little paranoid, despite Mayor Giuliani's
prating about the dropping crime rate and the marvelous quality of life, but I had a bad feeling about the
sign.
Unlocking and entering the shop, I heard the sound of classical music. That was odd. Allison hadn’t
turned off the radio. She never forgets the radio.
I called out, "Allison! Are you here? Allison?"
Nothing seemed amiss. The rows of books were neat and trim. I always love seeing the colorful
jackets; the drawings of the corpses and the men with the pistols and daggers. The damsels in
distress. It's all so deliciously evil.
I hurried to the counter, lifted the end section and looked in. She was lying on the floor, face up, her
lips parted, almost in a smile.
I knew she had to be dead, there was so much dark brown blood on her blouse, and a knife stuck in her
chest, but I felt I had to be sure, so I reached for her wrist to check the pulse.
Her flesh was so cold. It wasn’t stiff, the way you might expect, but limp and icy.
Poor dear Allison.
I feel nauseous. I thought I might faint, but I said to myself, please God, don't let me pass out. I couldn't
bear to wake up to find her there, like a horrible dream. This could be a dream, couldn't it, dear
reader? I could be dreaming. Perhaps if I pinch myself...can you feel pain in a dream? I don't ever
remember feeling pain in a dream, or being tickled, or any sensation of that sort.
But no, it wasn't a dream: I could never imagine that cold, lifeless hand, those waxy gray fingers, that
brown blood.
I picked up the phone intending to notify the police. I realized right away that I didn't have to bother 911;
it wasn't an emergency. What is the precinct number? Allison made that list of emergency numbers -
where is it. She always is - was - so organized. So thoughtful. Let me see: poison center, to report a
fire, drowning...here it is, our local precinct.
I dialed the first number. “Beep.” The second. “Beep.” The third. With each tone my fingers moved
more and more slowly. One tone short of connecting I cradled the phone.
Was I crazy? The suspicion of the detective on a murder investigation always centers on someone who
was close to the victim: the spouse, son, neighbor... business partner. Allison's half of the business will
pass to me, naturally, it's in our contract. Plus, the murder is bound to boost sales. The notoriety will
get great headlines in the Post and the Daily News. It could even make the national press. Geraldo
might ask me to do an interview. The store will be mobbed by curiosity seekers. Business will be
boffo! I
There might even be a book deal in it for me. Look at the exquisite irony in a purveyor of books about
murder being killed in her place of business, and the unidentified killer being sought. You may think me
cold-blooded, dear reader, but please forgive my selfish ruminations. I’m still in shock over the death of
my partner.
You may as well take pity on my, for I am certain to hang for the murder. There’s an even greater irony.
The very facts that promise to boost my business will look damning in the eyes of a jury. The
prosecutor is bound to use my financial windfall to poison my character. He'll tar and feather me.
Even worse, I don't have an alibi. Last night I was home alone potting a geranium and penning a book
review for our in-house newsletter, Grave Tidings. I didn't even receive a phone call. I have no alibi.
And when they find out about that incident with my ex- upstate... The jury found me not guilty, true. You
would think that would clear my name completely, but 'not guilty' isn't the same thing as 'innocent.' No
doubt the prosecutor will make that distinction perfectly clear to the jury as well.
What can I do? I can't run, I have nowhere to go. No money, my credit card is maxed out...
I've got to think...But I can’t concentrate with that damned Mozart playing...let me turn the damned radio
off.
I can't think with that damn radio on; let me turn it off.
What can I do...what ... can... I-
Wait! Call me crazy, dear reader; call me a wide-eyed dreamer, but why can't I solve the mystery?
Surely I can follow the clues, rule out the red herrings, and identify the killer myself. That way, when I
finally do call the police and they come storming in here, I'll have the name of the perpetrator ready to
hand over to them.
I'm a real life expert, don’t forget. I’ve read my share of murder investigations. Several were true crime
stories. I did my Masters Thesis at City College on kidnappings. I even came up with the Inverse
Square Law of Kidnapping Victim Recovery. Did you read about it? It got quite a lot of discussion in the
police journals and the true crime publishers. I'd been studying actual kidnapping cases and
discovered that as the time the kidnapping victim remains missing doubles, the probability of finding
him alive is reduced by the square of the time. In other words, when one day turns into two days, the
probability of finding the victim alive isn’t cut by half but by one fourth, and so on. It's called an
exponential progression.
My discover may not rank up there with the finding that everyone has a unique set of fingerprints, but it’
s been supported by other researchers and cited in several major crime publications.
You may think it a fool’s errand...I can almost hear you laughing at me, but I believe that I have all of the
skills needed to solve this crime, and that is precisely what I am going to do.
First, I must search for clues. Let me see: the floor is clean - no telltale cigarette butts, matchbook or
muddy footprint muddy on the carpet. Allison was a wizard with the vac. If somebody came in chewing on
a bagel she'd practically follow them around the store with a dust pan and brush.
I could search for fingerprints, use her talc powder to dust the surfaces, but without access to the police
or FBI database, it wouldn't tell me anything useful.
Speaking of fingers, is there any sign of sexual transgression? With all the perverts running around
New York. What was I reading the other day? New York has the highest number of deviant individuals
of any city in the world. For some reason all the sickos want to come here to live.
I'll have to lift her skirt...(Sorry Allison!)...No, thank God. It doesn't look like a case of rape.
If there was no rape, it still could have been a classic crime of passion: the jealous lover. But Allison
wasn't getting any mysterious phone calls. No flowers or chocolates delivered to the store. She hadn't
started using a new perfume or working out like a maniac to flatten that tummy of hers.
Although...I do remember a little guy with rumpled clothes who'd come around several times peddling his
book. He wasn’t a homeless type; his clothes were clean, they just looked like he’d left them in the dryer
overnight. I didn't want to handle it, but Allison was such a softy. e store. He had self-published a book
and wanted us to carry it. I didn’t think it was a good idea. God knows, shelf space is a premium with
what landlords get for square feet in the city these days, but Allison was always the kind one - the “good
cop.” She would take used books in trade for our sidewalk tables even when she knew they wouldn’t
sell, and she took a dozen copies of this guy’s book.
Just what we need, another money-losing edition. You are too kind to be in business, Allison. You
should run a soup kitchen or a half-way house for homeless girls. This is a dollars and sense
enterprise we have here. If we give our books away, we go under, remember?
I know, I just feel for the guy. You never know: someday he may be really famous, and we'll have these
first editions-
What was his name? Let me try and find a copy...here it is. “Some Cuts Never Heal”, by Anthony
Allen. Funny name. And look inside the flyleaf: there’s an inscription.
“Dear Allison, You are the only one who believed in my literary dreams. Thank you. I’m going into
hospital; the doctor is going to edit out a little redundancy. Should I run out of words, please keep my
name alive. Take the remaining copies, they are with my brother in Queens (728-9789) and do with
them as you will.
Your humble servant, Anthony.
No, it wasn’t the self-published author.
Could she have quarreled with her ex? That's unlikely; there's had been an amicable divorce. Alternate
weekends for the kids, no alimony or child support. He still remembered her birthday, and he loved
Allison's mother. Nobody kills the daughter when they're keen on the mother-in-law.
It wasn't the ex.
Suicide? No, that's not Allison. She was always chipper, even when she had the flu. She was one of
those odd types you rarely see. Deep down she was happy. Besides, the angle of the dagger is all
wrong for a suicide. In all the productions of Romeo and Juliet that I've seen, Juliet pulled the knife up
under her ribs. This blow came from above.
The knife looks awfully familiar, let me look at it again. Why, it's from our display case of murder
weapons. Most are props from Off-Broadway shows and old B movies, but the body of the revolver was
used by a real IRA gunman during the Irish Rebellion.
So, if the murderer grabbed it from the case, he (or she!) was acting spontaneously, and didn't come
into the store planning to kill her.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
We’re probably dealing with a crime that went awry. A robbery, for example. But the glass case of first
editions is still locked and nothing seems missing. The register? It has plenty of bills. Allison's purse is
even tucked away behind the counter. No, it doesn't look like a robbery.
I strongly suspect that the sales records in the computer will shed light on her last moments. Let me call
up the program...Huh! She had a good night. Sold a hardcover Tony Hillerman, the new Colin Dexter,
a boxed set of Christie...
But look at this: the last transaction wasn't finalized. There were three items scanned - Deadly as
Dynamite, Never Kiss A Corpse, and How To Write Best-Selling Mysteries & Thrillers, but there's no
amount tendered...No change due. Why would a customer lay the items on the counter and then not
pay for them?
They could have forgotten their wallet. But are forgetful people murderous people? I don't think so.
Forgetful people apologize, they ask you to hold their things until payday, and then they come back for
them.
This murder was not by an absentminded type. Look how the knife has been plunged into her chest.
This was a crime of passion. Perhaps even of madness.
But no money was taken. What does it mean?
I’m beginning to sense that you are growing impatient with my story, dear reader. Your temper is rising
and you want me to get to the end of my tale. Have patience. Soon, all will be revealed.
Was a credit card involved somehow? Let me call up the credit check and see what went out. There
were twelve credit card inquiries yesterday. The first eleven went through fine, but the twelfth was
rejected for being over the limit. And not just one card, but three cards turned down.
Do you see the significance of that? I have no doubt that the solution is as transparent to you as it is to
me.
Knowing that it was not a classic crime of passion or sexual assault, not a robbery, and not a suicide, I
can now recreate the scene of the crime with complete accuracy.
A patron comes in, selects three items and brings them to Allison, who is behind the counter (I'm pacing
now). The patron offers a credit card. It's rejected. Allison apologizes. She probably makes a little joke
about it. The patron offers a second card, which is also turned down. The patron, growing angry, offers
a third. Zip. No sale.
By now the patron is furious. The customer steps toward the door, seething. Noticing the display of
murder weapons in the case on the wall, the rejected patron grabs the dagger, whirls, leaps toward
Allison and plunges the dagger into her chest. The killer hurriedly scoops up the books and escapes
through the door, making sure that it locks so that the beat cop won't find it open on his midnight
rounds. This cool, cunning killer then flees into the night.
There it is. The killer is a hard-core mystery buff. Intelligent, passionate, yet graceful under pressure.
Ensnared by too much debt, he (or she) must have that rush of wonder and revelation which you only
get from a good crime story.
In other words, the killer is-
You, the reader! You didn't have enough cash with you last night and you were over the limit on your
plastic money, but you had to have your fix of murder, so you killed for it!
But you won't get away with it. Here are my hands reaching out from the page to grab you by the throat
and hold you 'til the cops get the cuffs on you, you fiend!