The Perfect Crime

1.

The manuscript package lay on his desk. The same hopeful author had mailed the same unsolicited package to him over eight times in the past year.

Hoover Morris loathed the existence of unsolicited manuscripts. He hated their presence in the publishing world. He’d been Senior Editor of Poseidon Publishing for twenty years, and his patience wore thin. Who the hell did Sam Drake think he was? Mr. Drake was persistent, a requirement for authors. But his pestering had lost its appeal. Morris felt like he was being stalked, not queried.

He’d lost tolerance for Drake after the third manuscript came through. He wrote a curt letter to inform Drake his work was waiting for him to pick it up. Yet Drake persisted. As if an editor at a major publishing house had nothing more to do than screen mail from new writers. He had twenty manuscripts waiting to be edited in full by the end of the month. Material from authors who had approached the company appropriately and had been accepted.

Drake didn’t respond to courtesy. He should’ve rejoiced to receive the brief letter. However, the next week, there was another package from Sam on his desk.

He had considered obtaining a restraining order due to the time he consumed just considering how rude Drake was. He had to put a stop to it. He couldn’t take it. The mailroom had screened his packages out for a time, but they ran out of room to store them. Since no return postage was ever included, they began trashing them upon arrival. Yet somehow, one always landed on his desk.

How could he stop the manuscripts?

He walked out to his secretary and prepared to order lunch. It would be a long day. He flipped through the various menus and take-out cards from surrounding delis and delivery services.

“Sam Drake to see Mr. Morris.”

Morris’ heart stopped. There was the culprit. The stalker. He came to the publishing house. Morris quickly turned as the secretary looked at him. He couldn’t speak. There was the man who hounded him week after week.

“Mr. Morris, could you sign for this?”

The UPS delivery man walked toward him. That was how he got the packages in. He worked with UPS.

“What is it?” Morris grew angry. This was the bastard who’d made his mail hour unbearable.

“It’s a delivery, sir. Registered and confidential. I’m required to get your signature.” He handed Morris the plastic box to write on.

Morris signed it quickly and without concern for how neatly his handwriting appeared. He preferred to sign formal documents legibly and clearly, but not this time. Not for that aggravating asshole.

“Thanks,” Morris spat and yanked the package from Drake.

He left the office and the door closed.

“Trisha, that’s him, isn’t it?” he demanded of the secretary.

“Who, sir?”

“Sam Drake. The bastard that keeps sending me manuscripts.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir. He’s the usual delivery man for UPS. He’s been giving us our packages for over a year.”

Hoover smiled. It all made perfect sense. Drake worked with the company to gain access to a publishing house. What better way for a new writer to break into print than to work inside the company? It was so clear.

Morris went back into his office and started calling old friends. He needed to get his life straightened out.

After an hour, Morris had located Drake’s residence and his personal information. A simple call to the Department of Motor Vehicles had granted him full access to his home address and private telephone number.

He eyed the delivered folder. He cut the top of the protective cardboard envelope and searched for sender information.

It was from Sam Drake.

Morris opened the letter and read:

Dear Mr. Morris:

I am sending this letter with full awareness of your busy schedule. I will keep this brief. It has occurred to me that you have held my manuscript for six months. I would like further information on its status. I am a very busy individual and have no time for constant waiting. Please respond, or I will seek a new publisher.

Regards,
Sam Drake

His pulse raced. His heart felt like it would burst from his chest. The impudent son of a bitch. How dare he make threats? It didn’t matter at all what he threatened to do, just the principle that his arrogance was so great. Did he honestly believe he had any power? His manuscript was not only unread, it would never be examined.

2.

Two Months Later

Hoover stared at his desk. Another letter from Drake:

Dear Mr. Morris:

I’m sick of this bullshit. I want an answer.

Sam Drake

He couldn’t take it anymore. His life had gone to shit due to that bastard. He had been reprimanded by the chief editor, and his position with the company was no longer secure. He couldn’t think properly due to the arrogance of Mr. Drake. He had suffered a small heart attack and couldn’t stop dwelling on the fact that Drake needed to be punished.

That was the final straw, the last push to send him over the edge of vindictive rage. Oh, he would put a stop to it.

A permanent stop.

On his way home, Morris stopped by a gun shop. No one knew about his lust for ending Drake’s career. No one knew about the rage he carefully hid. Or the real reasons why his attention at work began slipping. He hadn’t mentioned his true source of negativity or madness.

He looked at the selection. They were much pricier than he expected.

The man behind the counter looked rough. Banners from various militia organizations hung from the ceiling.

“What do you want?” he bellowed.

“I need a gun.”

“Well?” The man impatiently motioned toward the case.

Morris had an idea. “I need a weapon for hunting game that isn’t loud. Something I can take camping and fire without waking my wife. She always insists on going, but complains when I hunt.”

“I know the feeling. Have a number of husbands in that situation. Look, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

Morris was surprised when the man motioned for him to follow.

“This is a private selection, if you will. I keep it for other arms enthusiasts.”

Morris walked into the back room and felt like a child in a toy store. The possibilities were endless.

“This is a multi-capable silencer.” He pulled the cylinder from the upper shelf. “It fits a number of guns and is economical.”

“How is it with hunting? Does it interfere with weapon performance?”

“Not at all. Just silences the discharge. What do you hunt?”

“Deer,” Morris lied. He hadn’t been hunting in decades.

“That’s popular game. Deer can be very clever, more so than people imagine. Animals have a sense of life that people do not. They are primitive and accustomed to the greatest forms of survival. Not to mention, they can consume fields of food in a matter of hours. It’s good you hunt. Helps keep nature in order.”

“Huh?” Morris snapped out of his concentration on how he would do it. Just how he would use the weapon he chose. His mind was far beyond the back room of the gun store.

“Nature. You know, deer have no natural predators any longer. Wolves, bears, cougars, panthers, they’re a rarity, if they’re there at all. Nature was obliterated by our nature. The existence of agricultural life demanded all flesh-eating animals die. You can’t have wild animals near livestock or pets. Why do you think so many deer get in the road? They’re afraid of people, but there are too many. They consume food given to farm animals. Besides, a quick, painless death is much more humane than the brutal starvation they face.”

“Sure.”

Morris was indifferent. He didn’t care about anything but his own survival. The need to resume his once-peaceful job.

He purchased the silencer and a .357 magnum to accompany it. It would be a beautiful weekend that ended in rest and relaxation. He would take a vacation to celebrate afterward.

He would kill Drake.

3.

Drake Is Dead

Morris slipped into Drake’s neighborhood. He was an older man, but his agility hadn’t been affected by age. The weekly trip to the gym helped the most. The heart attack happened over a month earlier, and he’d been heavily involved in exercise since.

He lowered himself as he strode along the sidewalk. He’d worn a brown trench coat he planned on tossing in the trash and a brown wig beneath a brown fedora hat. While he didn’t look completely at ease in the clothes, he felt they blended well. He wouldn’t attract any attention.

He slipped off the sidewalk at Drake’s house. As he expected, the man lived alone. He peeped through the window and noticed the living room. A generic soda sat atop an empty table. The most damning evidence was the stacks of papers in the corner. A box of books sat nearby, various writers’ guides and reference books.

Drake stepped through the door and finished his drink. Morris aimed, gave a final look around, and fired. There wasn’t a single person around.

Perfection.

Morris grinned triumphantly as he ducked down from the window.

A door flew open. Morris had thought it was a closet.

A woman screamed, “Sam!”

Morris dropped below the line of the window in time to hear a child cry, “Daddy!”

He sprinted to his car and peeped back to see if anyone stood nearby. The block looked empty. He yanked the clothes from his body and stuffed them down the sewer gutter beside his car.

There would be no more manuscripts from Drake.

4.

The weekend passed. Morris watched the news about Drake’s death and felt his heart drop. The announcer seemed to be talking to him:

“The criminal who killed Sam Drake is still out there. Drake, a husband and father of two, is best known for his role as a mentor in literacy programs. Aside from his position as a UPS worker, Drake was a student at Poly-Core Technology College. He was majoring in the field of computer programming.”

He was sickened, stunned by the news that Drake wasn’t even majoring in writing at college. He had second thoughts about his feat. Did he really think clearly? Something was wrong. He wasn’t feeling so triumphant or joyous.

It was the perfect murder. He’d been capable of contemplating and executing the fabled “perfect crime.” He would have no further manuscripts on his desk from Drake. He calmed his unease with a reminder of what he had suffered due to those damned manuscripts.

Monday morning, Morris walked to work with a lilt in his step. He felt good. He had nightmares about Drake, but they would pass.

He committed murder. First-degree murder, a brutal and gruesome act of barbarism. The child’s cry of “Daddy” had echoed through his mind a time or two. He didn’t know Drake had a family. But the relief that Morris had no more manuscripts to deal with shrouded any guilt.

No more Drake.

He went into his office and noticed the usual routine. All the things he’d forgotten about since his attention had been directed toward Drake. He felt wonderful, so alive and relaxed.

He sat down at his desk, and a strange figure darted past his door.

He beeped the secretary. “Suzanne, who was that?”

“Who, sir?”

“I thought someone just went past my door.”

“No, sir. Sorry. There isn’t anyone out here.”

“Oh, must be a Monday, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

He could’ve sworn someone walked by the door. It was so vivid and real.

He looked down at the mail of the day, and his heart stopped. A manuscript package lay on top of his desk. The sender was Sam Drake.

“Suzanne, why do we have another Sam Drake manuscript? Didn’t he pass away over the weekend?”

“Who? Oh, no, that Sam Drake wasn’t a writer. Remember? He was our UPS man.”

“What?” His voice trailed off, his breath erratic. What the hell was happening?

He stood and walked out into the office. “You mean there are more?”

“Mr. Morris…” She began, giving him a strange and suspicious glance. “We publish many mystery novels. How many men and women do you think assume Sam Drake as a pseudonym?”

He swallowed hard. “One or two?”

“Try fifteen so far. That’s just the pieces that come to your office. We have one Sam Drake from fifteen different states who often sends us packages. You know how amateurs are. They don’t even put their address on the cover page.”

Morris went back into his office, his nerves causing him to shake. He hadn’t ended the problem. He had only created a new one, a much larger new one. His murder hadn’t been so perfect. While he did find all the accurate personal information on Drake, it was the wrong man. When looking at all the materials from Sam Drake, he had failed to verify any return addresses on the envelopes.

That was nothing. He would be fine. It was just a terrible mistake that he could forget and never attempt again. He would be fine. No one could trace any information or identification to him.

It was just a terrible tragedy.

Morris sat in his chair, unable to look at any more mail. Suzanne came back over the box.

“Mr. Morris, there’s a Detective Frazier here to see you.”

Morris trembled as he pushed the return. “Send him in.”

He had no reason to fear. It was probably nothing to do with the murder…

The accident.

Detective Frazier introduced himself and politely sat when invited. Morris eyed him for a second, then looked down at his mail. To cover his shaking fingers, he flipped through the envelopes.

“Detective, what can I do for you today?”

“I’m here to talk to you about a crime.” He looked serious.

Morris felt sweat break out on his forehead. “Crime? There’s no crime here.”

“I’m afraid there is, Mr. Morris.”

He felt hot and sticky. Did someone turn the heat up? Why was the room growing so damned hot?

“What in the world is it, Detective?”

Morris finally put the papers down and looked back at the detective.

“Your wife, Mr. Morris. I came down here personally to talk to you. She has a number of parking tickets. You are a highly regarded businessman, and I want to make sure you clear it up. She’s got a number for parking in illegal areas, speeding, and several other charges. This isn’t normal at all. I hope I haven’t imposed upon you. However, I’m sure you’ll want to clear this up.”

He trailed on, but Morris couldn’t hear him. The same shadowy figure kept darting past his office door.

“Of course I do. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Detective. I will clear it up.”

His eyes kept going back to the door.

“Are you doing well, Mr. Morris? Forgive me, but you don’t look so well. Are you sick?”

“It’s just another Monday, Detective. I’m sure you’ve had them. It just feels like it’s going to be a terrible day.”

He tried to smile, but knew he was grimacing. Why wouldn’t the detective just leave? Didn’t he have more to do than sit and chat?

Morris couldn’t bear to entertain. He was in no mood. That damned bastard kept pacing back and forth in front of his door.

He finally broke away. “Excuse me, just a moment, Detective.”

He reached over to his intercom. “Suzanne, are you positive there is no other person out there?”

“Very, sir. Is there something you need me to check on?”

“No, no. Thank you.”

The detective studied him more carefully. Morris knew he shouldn’t have asked while the officer was in there with him. What did he think? He couldn’t control the fear in his heart.

He finally spoke up. “Do you need anything, Mr. Morris?”

“No, of course not.”

“I am supposed to protect all citizens. Forgive my persistence. It’s just… you look so pale.”

“I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

The shadow darted past his door again.

“Excuse me for a moment.”

He spoke to the detective without looking at him. He glanced out into the office.

“Are you being stalked, Mr. Morris?” the detective asked frankly.

“No, no. I’m fine.”

Morris quickly walked back and sat behind his desk. He had to calm down. He couldn’t grow too excited. He would look guilty. He would be lucky if he didn’t already appear guilty of something.

“Terrible murder this weekend. Did you hear about it?”

Morris’ pulse picked up speed again. “Yes, I did.”

“Just terrible. We’re hoping for clues, but nothing so far. It’s an enigma. I guess you never really know.”

The shadow paced faster. It seemed every two seconds he passed from left to right, from right to left. Morris watched the spectacle in the office while the detective droned on about the murder…

It was an accident, damn it.

The shadow’s pacing became more rapid. It went quickly from one side of the doorframe to the other. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand knowing what the figure might want. He hated the fact that no one could see it.

What the hell was it?

It paced back and forth. Aggressively and mercilessly, it walked.

The determination in those steps frightened Morris. To make matters worse, the silhouette resembled the posture and appearance of Sam Drake, the UPS driver.

The figure stopped and started. The erratic behavior of the form made Morris even more nervous. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand it. That damned detective wouldn’t stop groaning about the murder.

It wouldn’t stop.

The manuscript had found its way to the surface of the mail when he looked down. There it was.

It would never stop.

He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t live with the chaos. He couldn’t…

“All right!” Morris screamed, slapping the desk and sliding the clutter from the top. “I did it. I murdered the son of a bitch!”

He shouted at the top of his lungs, “I did it! I did it! I did it!”

He screamed until he was out of breath.

The figure stood in the door, its arms crossed as though a tremendous job had finally been accomplished.

Mr. Morris knew there was no such thing as the perfect murder.