Host to Homicide
by
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He could see the man was wearing blue jeans, and a dark blue sport shirt. He began to speak in a direct manner, almost soothing in its tone. "I see you have joined us, Mister Ward. I apologize for the drabness of the surroundings, which I’m sure, are not up to your usual standards of luxury. You are probably uncomfortable, and I also apologize for that, but it couldn’t be avoided I’m afraid. You probably want to know where you are and why you’re here." Don Ward nodded his head, his eyes now wide open, terrified. "Where you are doesn’t matter. As you can see, it’s a kitchen. It’s why you’re here that does matter. Do you remember that I suddenly came up to you just as you were leaving for your morning jog and said good morning to you? Do you remember that much?," he said, pleasantly. Ward nodded. "You probably don’t remember anything after that because I sprayed a rather strong and potent knockout mist in your face. I have to say you went down in quite a heap. It was hard work lifting you into the van. Oh, and you see you’re rather limited in your ability to move. That’s because you are on a specially fitted, formica table. I designed it myself. I hope the cushion gives your head some comfort. It would be quite uncomfortable to rest it on the hard, cold formica. Still, all in all, it’s a very sturdy table. I make very sturdy tables when I want to." "Now, as to why you are here. You see, Mister Ward, you have been found guilty by just about everyone with a shred of Christian decency left in their souls, of unspeakable crimes against humanity. Just like the defendants at Nuremburg. Oh, I’m not saying that you actually killed anyone, but you have mocked and desecrated. You have rendered countless aberrations, sucking out tales of misery and wretchedness for your own personal profit. You are, indeed, a bloodsucker, Mister Ward. You have made your living, nay, your fortune, exploiting and basking in the misery of others. You have destroyed many people’s lives in the name of commercial entertainment’s bottom line. You have been charged with, and found guilty of, the greatest of all crimes....the abandonment of decency and care toward your fellow human beings." He strained against his bonds. It only became more uncomfortable, cutting into his arms, shoulders and thighs. He shook his head, saying no in pantomime. But it was of no concern to the man standing over him. "I can see this is upsetting you. Well....good. I suppose, if I took off the tape and removed the gag, you would offer to have me on your show so that I might air my protests to your millions of viewers." Ward lifted his head off the cushion, frantically nodding in the affirmative. "Yes? No. Too late for that. You should have realized what unspeakable acts you were perpetuating years ago. Too late now, Mister Ward. Oh, did I forget to tell you? Ah....your guilty verdict? The sentence is death." He shook his head hysterically from side to side, sweat pouring down the sides of his face, some into his matted hair, his skin glistening and red. "However, just to show you what a compassionate guy I can really be, I will tell you this. If you decide to remain awake during your procedure, it will be excruciatingly painful for you. You will probably black out several times because of this fact, but there wont be any way of telling for how long or how many times you black out. And I must emphasize, it will be agonizingly painful," he said. Then he paused and changed his tone of voice. "Now, about what a compassionate guy I can be. I will be more than happy to give you something that will put you to sleep for the entire procedure. This way you will feel nothing....at least while you’re asleep. I can’t guarantee how you will feel when you wake up. If you wake up. You might not even wake up. You might expire before that. For your sake, I hope so, because it will be rather nasty business for you to see if you do. But, I can’t guarantee that part of it. And besides, when and if you do wake up, I will be long gone." The man paused again. "Now, what’ll it be, Mister Ward, pain....or sleep? The choice is yours. Nod your head if you want sleep." Don Ward, tears streaming from his eyes, nodded his head. "Good. Then let’s begin, shall we?" The man produced a syringe and a small medical bottle. He held the syringe up and poked its needle into the inverted bottle, drawing the solution into its chamber. He then injected the solution into a vein in Ward’s arm. "Nighty night." Less than a minute later, Ward was in a deeply, anesthetized sleep. The man then opened a small travel bag on the floor and withdrew a felt-lined box and opened it. He took the implements he needed. Several stainless steel knives of varying sizes, all sharpened to razor fineness, several rolls of gauze, a bottle of alcohol, a medium sized modeler’s saw, just in case, talcum powder and a half dozen white towels. He placed the cache in a methodical fashion on the space provided next to his patient’s body. He then went back to the bag and withdrew a clear, plastic raincoat, a plastic rain hat and a cardboard box of one dozen pairs of surgical gloves. He put on the raincoat, buttoning it securely. Next he put on the rain hat, tying its straps securely under his chin. He then opened the cardboard box and withdrew a pair of the surgical gloves. He sprinkled some talcum powder on his hands, one at a time, so that the gloves would slide over his fingers and onto his hands easily. After all, it was hot outside and in so he needed his skin to be smooth, without abrasion, as he put on the gloves. He was careful not to spill too much powder, but it didn’t worry him at all. He would thoroughly clean up the instruments and the room after the procedure, taking the instruments and other implements with him when he left. He picked up the scalpel and began.
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About the Book
A diabolically versatile serial killer is targeting talk show hosts for extinction. The industry is in panic, their revenues threatened, their very existence under attack, not only from the killer, but from certain sectors of society who, in some ways, side with the killer’s grievances. To him talk show hosts are the sleazy practitioners of the art of destroying people’s lives before a television audience. As New York City police detectives Charlie Marchetti, nighttime alcoholic, and his partner Angela Buonfiglio set out as lead investigators assigned to catch the assassin his tally of victims keeps steadily rising. The pressures on them from above to solve the case intensify. Then, in his twisted contempt for Marchetti, the killer begins writing letters to the detective--his way of upping the stakes in his insatiable thirst for gamesmanship, knowing that Charlie will never figure out the meanings behind his messages. The killer is too clever for any mere civil servant detective. Or is he? Charlie and Angela find out the hard way as they come face to face with a murderer determined to add them to his list of victims.
About the Author
Richard Wolf is a novelist and playwright. His numerous plays and musicals have been performed in New York and Los Angeles. He is also the author of the novel, One Wild Ride, a mystery involving a Hollywood screenwriter.