The Wrong Man

With the final word, Murphy slammed his fist into O’Co

“Maybe I should just stop fucking around and end this right now.” With an audible click, Murphy released the safety catch on the pistol with his thumb. He held up his left hand as if to shield himself from the blowback of brains and blood.

“Give me a reason. One way or the other, Mike-y boy. But give me a reason to make a decision.”

O’Co

“Good start, asshole. Keep going.”

“I’ll never have any contact whatsoever. She’s out of my life. I’ll stay away. What do you want me to say?”

O’Co

“Let me think about it, Mike-y boy.”

Murphy lowered his shielding hand and pulled his weapon back from O’Co

“Don’t move. I just want to look around.”

He walked over to the cheap table where the computer rested. A handful of unmarked rewritable discs was spread about. Murphy grabbed them and slipped them into his coat pocket. Then he turned back toward the younger man, who remained on the floor. “This where you keep your Ashley file? This where you screw around with folks who are a whole lot better than you?”

O’Co

O’Co

“What?” O’Co

“I can always find you. I can always run you to ground, no matter what nasty little rathole you crawl into.”

The younger man just nodded.

Murphy looked closely at him, staring hard, searching his face for signs of defiance, signs of anything other than compliance. When he was persuaded that there were none, he smiled.

“Good. You’ve learned a lot tonight, Mike-y boy. A real education. And it hasn’t been too bad, has it? I’ve pretty much enjoyed our little get-together. Almost fun, wouldn’t you say? No, probably you wouldn’t. But there’s just one last thing…”

He suddenly bent over and dropped to his knees, once again pi

“Bang,” he said quietly.

Then he slowly removed the weapon from O’Co

The cool night air hit Matthew Murphy in the face and he wanted to put his head back and laugh out loud. He replaced the.380 automatic in the shoulder holster, adjusted his coat so he would look presentable, and started off down the street, moving along rapidly, but not in any particular hurry, enjoying the darkness, the city, and the sensation of success. He was already calculating how long it would take him to drive back to Springfield and wondering whether he would get there in time to catch a late di

O’Co

The News-Republican building was on a desultory tract of downtown land, adjacent to the train station, with a depressing view of the interstate highway, parking lots, and vacant spaces filled with trash. It was one of those spots that aren’t exactly blighted. Instead, it seemed simply ignored, or perhaps exhausted. Lots of chain-link fences, swirling debris caught by wayward gusts of wind, and highway underpasses decorated with graffiti. The newspaper office was a rectangular, four-story edifice, a cinder-block-and-brick square. It seemed more like an armory or even a fortress than a newspaper office. Inside, what was once quaintly called the morgue was now a small room with computers.

Once a helpful young woman had shown me how to access the files, it did not take me long to find the record of Matthew Murphy’s last day. Or, perhaps, last moments might be more accurate.

The front-page headline read EX – STATE POLICE DETECTIVE SLAIN.

There were two subheads: BODY FOUND IN CITY ALLEY and POLICE CALL KILLING “EXECUTION – STYLE.”

I filled several pages in my notebook with details from the spate of stories that day, and several follow-up pieces that appeared in the next few days. There was, it seemed, no end to possible suspects. Murphy had been involved in many high-profile cases during his time on the force and, in retirement, had continued to make enemies with a daunting regularity as he worked as a private investigator. There was little doubt in my mind that his murder had been given top priority by the Springfield detectives working the case, and by the state police homicide unit that had undoubtedly taken over. There would have been significant pressure on the local district attorney, cop killings being the sort of make-or-break cases that define careers. Everyone in law enforcement would want to be involved. Killing one of their own slices a small part from each of them.

Except as I went through the stories, they seemed too thin, and what should have happened did not.

Details began to be repetitious. No arrest was made. No grand jury indictment a