Story A Day Challenge – Day 7: Mysterious Assassin

“Who’s a good boy? Is it you? Is it you? Aww, it’s you!”

The gentleman smiled, petting his loyal companion Radcliffe’s tummy and delighting in the furious tail wagging that ensued. It was probably his favorite way to unwind after a successful job. Playing with Radcliffe and enjoying a late evening milkshake at Shifty’s Diner.

Shifty’s was a little hole in the wall with silverware that was permanently stained and some of the worst coffee known to man. But their milkshakes were delightful, and their waitresses smiled no matter how miserable their mood, especially Lizzie. The gentleman quite liked Lizzie. Plus, they allowed Radcliffe to sit at the booth with him. That was an important consideration. He took another sip of his milkshake and watched the world pass by outside. It was rush hour, and people were running to and fro, heading home or running errands. The diner was quiet, though. That was part of its charm.

“Anything else for you, hun?” Lizzie asked in her singsong drawl.

“Some bacon would be nice,” the gentleman said with a twinkle in his eye.

Lizzie flashed him her sweetest smile. “Well, sure.”

She disappeared into the kitchen as the gentleman rubbed Radcliffe’s tummy again.


The house was swarming with blue uniforms and crisply pressed suits. It was one of the oldest houses in the area and its occupant, Mrs. Bolger, was a notable name on the local high society scene. She and her husband had helped to found The Boutonniere Society, where the rich and the snobby mingled, berating the not-so-rich over imported champagne. Her fame was about to become more widespread, though she wouldn’t be able to enjoy it.

Mrs. Bolger was sitting in a luxurious leather armchair in her reading parlor, hair tied up in a neat bun, a small heap of society magazines lying by her feet. She was dressed in a simple cream colored night gown, which was wrapped in a maroon robe. At first glance, it might seem that she had fallen asleep while reading. The bullet hole in her forehead told a grimmer story.

“Christ. What’s the situation, Tommy?”

Detective Martin Atherton was irate. He had been looking forward to a quiet night of cheap beer and ‘I Love Lucy’ reruns when he got the call. Officer Tom Bates gave him a quick summary.

“No sign of forced entry, or any kind of struggle. Looks like she was shot point blank with a small caliber bullet. We’ve recovered the casing.” He held up a small plastic bag. “Forensics should have some answers for us by tomorrow. No fingerprints or shoe prints. We’re doing a full inventory of the place. Seems like some jewelry might have been taken.”

“Hmm. Pretty elaborate for a simple robbery.”

“Ah, well, that’s not all sir.” The young uniformed officer rubbed the back of his neck, looking nervous.


Officer Bates pointed to an end table by one large picture window. On the ornate wooden table sat a simple beige card with the initials ‘M.A’ neatly written on it in black ink, almost as if they had been printed.

“Crap.” Detective Atherton was not happy.

“Mysterious Assassin again, sir.”

An unknown killer, dubbed ‘Mysterious Assassin’ by the police because of his calling card, had wreaked havoc in the city a few years ago. Detective Atherton had been the lead investigator on the very first ‘M.A.’ murder, and had become obsessed with the killer. He had requested the lead on every case since. It had been one of the biggest unsolved crimes of his career. After a 5-year murder spree, Mysterious Assassin disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived. No new murder victims turned up bearing his trademark signature.

Rumors about the Assassin’s identity circulated throughout the city. For a brief period, people even believed Martin Atherton was the killer, covering his own tracks. It was a poorly thought out theory that was easily disproved; the man couldn’t be in two places at once, after all. For his part, Detective Atherton seemed glad to be done with the case, solved or not. But his colleagues knew that he was always on the lookout for any mention of Mysterious Assassin.

Detective Atherton examined the scene thoroughly to see if he could find any other clues. The stolen jewelry was a new angle. Mysterious Assassin was a killer, plain and simple. Had his motivations changed, or was this a copy cat? The detective told Officer Bates that he needed to look through his old case files and see what similarities there were to the previous cases.

But he had not intention of looking through case files. There was something far more urgent to be done.


Shifty’s Diner always smelled of waffles. It didn’t matter what else was being made. The smell of waffles persisted. Detective Martin Atherton walked in and greeted Lizzie with a tip of his hat. Seeing her made the gloomiest nights brighter.

“The usual for you, Detective?” she called.

“You know it,” he said with a smile and walked over to a booth where a neatly dressed gentleman was sitting next to a very happy looking foxhound. He slid into the seat across from the gentleman, frowning.

“Hello, Morty,” he said in a tired voice.

“Hello, Marty,” the gentleman responded, beaming.

“You’re at it again.”

“Ah.” Morty was digging out the last of his milkshake with a sundae spoon. “They found her, did they? Sorry about that. A new contract came my way last week and it was too good to pass up.” He shrugged nonchalantly, focused on the milkshake.

“Who would hire you to kill a batty old lady?”

Morty looked up, seeming a bit hurt. “Marty, you know I can’t tell you that. Assassin-client privilege.”

“Right.” Detective Atherton sighed.

“You know what this means,” he said. “I’m gonna have to go through the whole act of chasing you again. Covering up evidence, squashing paper trails. Dammit, Morty, you know how much work that is.”

“I’m sorry, Marty. It’s just been so long since I’ve pulled a job. I couldn’t resist. I stole some jewelry, though. To spice things up.”

“Well, you could have at least killed her in a sloppy or brutal way to make it more convincing.”

Morty scoffed. “I am an artist. I cannot lower the value of my craft just to be conspicuous.”

Detective Atherton sighed again as a cup of coffee was placed in front of him along with a small stack of pancakes. He smiled up at the winsome young waitress.

“Thanks, Lizzie.”

“No problem, Detective. You doing ok, Morty? Radcliffe need anything?”

“Just fine, Lizzie.”

She smiled and went back to the counter. Detective Atherton took a large sip of coffee. It was awful. But in his own strange way, he was addicted to it.

“By the way,” Morty said. “I did make one small mistake. I forgot to retrieve the spent casing from the bullet.”

“I know.” Detective Atherton tossed a small plastic bag on the table. “I had to be very careful about swiping this. They’ll probably blame poor Tommy. He won’t get fired over it, I’ll make sure of that. But he’s in for an earful.”

Mortimer Atherton smiled. “You’re a good brother, Marty. Always have been.”

Marty grunted and shoved a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

“How’s Patricia doing?” he asked.

“Oh, much better. The doctors have told her to take it easy, but you know Patty. Never stops moving, that one. That reminds me. She asked me to check if you’re still coming over for dinner on Friday?”

Martin nodded. “Yes, I’ll be there. Seven, sharp.”

“Good. She’ll be happy to hear that.”

Mortimer smiled and motioned to Lizzie for the check. He left a handsome tip, as he always did, said goodbye to his brother, and left, Radcliffe in tow.

Martin asked for a refill on his coffee and ate his pancakes slowly. He was in no rush to go anywhere. He had a case to leave unsolved.

Cleaning Up

Edgar mopped the floor until it sparkled.

Every inch of the office was spotless, with not a stain, scrape or speck of grime in sight. He grinned. It looked perfect.

Satisfied, Edgar returned the cleaning supplies to the closet, packed up his bloody clothes and left before the janitor arrived.

Flawless Performance

Another writing prompt by the wonderful Laura Feasey. This week’s theme word is ‘dance’.

Mr. Whitaker sighed, slumping against the grand piano. His portly frame, clad in an ill-fitting bone-white tux, made the piano seem small in comparison. It wasn’t good enough, he thought. They weren’t good enough.

Their movements were too stiff. Their timing was completely off. It was a miserable performance, not worthy of his standards at all.

He slammed his fist onto the keys, and the resulting cacophony echoed the unrest that enveloped his mind. The show would begin soon. He could not let his audience down. They would expect nothing short of perfection.

Adjusting his ivory-colored bow tie, he walked into the green room. Once upon a time, it really had been green. Now the walls were a dank brown, covered in gruesome stains. A single light hung from the ceiling, flickering and teasing the room with the promise of light. His little dancers were all there, waiting to be outfitted. They looked up as he entered, staring at him with dark-rimmed eyes. He loved them so very much, which is why he needed them to be perfect. It gave him no pleasure to lock them in here. He hoped they understood that his cruelty was born out of his love for art.

Camilla, the star of the show, sat in one corner. Her hair hung around her face in greasy knots. Glazed blue eyes stared vacantly. As with the others, her hands and feet had been manacled together and her lips sewn shut. Mr. Whitaker smiled down at her, then lifted her over his shoulder and carried her out to the stage. He unshackled her limbs and tied them to the elaborate pulley system he had rigged up in the old music hall. Once she was fixed in place, he did the same with the others. All twenty of them. He went around to each of them in turn, checking their dresses and makeup. Everything had to be perfect.

Satisfied at last, Mr. Whitaker took his place by the piano. It was time for the show. He hoped the girls would make him proud. His chubby white-gloved fingers danced across the keys, activating the pulleys and causing his dancers to jerk like marionettes to the rhythm. The music echoed across the empty auditorium, accompanied by a chorus of rusty hinges and shifting fabric.

Mr. Whitaker beamed. It was the greatest show of his life.

Headed For The Altar

Michael was looking forward to his date.

Tonight would be a very special night for him and Camille.

The very first time he’d seen her, he knew right away she was the one.

Such beauty, such perfection.

She was exactly the sort of sacrifice the Dark Lord Gemnon would want.

Stress Relief

Marvin was having a terrible week.

He was struggling with a project at work, his landlord was hassling him about rent and his dear Aunt Jeanie had passed away.

He desperately needed to vent his frustrations. So he did.

It’s not like anybody would miss that drunk on the corner.



It’s so beautiful, so relaxing.

I lean back in my chair, feeling content. No noises to distract me, to take away from this moment.

The screaming and sobbing was painful to hear, but the silence afterward is rewarding.

Alas, the calm is broken by the sound of approaching sirens.

Eyes On You

The phone’s shrill shrieks yanked the sleep out of Barbara’s eyes.

She groped around in the darkness and finally turned on the bedside lamp. It was 3 am.

Still groggy, she rubbed her throbbing temples in an attempt to regain her bearings. It was time to put the phone out of its misery.

A voice rasped on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Barbara. You look so pretty when you’re asleep. I’ve been watching you for a long time.”

Silence followed, filled only by the caller’s ragged breathing.

Barbara smiled. “I know. Everything’s going according to plan.”

Another pause.