The Price of Bullets

by Tim Matson

The day started hot, with the mist off the blacktop disappearing with the first rays of the sun. The first to wake up coughed violently for a minute, then spit up the residue of last night's cheap cigarettes and fortified wine. He went over to the rain barrel they had set up, cupped both hands in the standing water that was none too clean, and splashed his face. He pulled a black comb out of his back pocket and tried to get the snarls out of his tangled hair.

The good spots were taken early, and if he wanted to make enough money to eat and to get his wine, he had to get there before one of the others did. The hair was all he attempted to straighten out. The rest of him was part of the look. Dirty blue jeans faded with age, red T-shirt with the name of a defunct restaurant on the front, and a pair of old Air Force deck boots he had stolen from the Salvation Army. He went back over to his area and noted with satisfaction that all the rest of them were still sleeping off last night's activities. He had played it smart: let them have the most of the hits off the bottle and faked taking the tokes of whatever was being passed around to smoke. He grinned as he thought it would be a good money day. He was going to get the best spot next to the off-ramp the rich people always came down. Maybe he would get a room, actually get a hot shower and a sit-down meal.

And maybe, just maybe, go talk to that counselor down at social services and get his life back on track. Getting a straight job didn't sound too appealing, but living under an overpass next to the freeway was really starting to suck. If he could keep away from the booze and the drugs last night, maybe he could do it for good. He was really feeling good about himself as he grabbed the cardboard sign next to the dirty blankets and department store plastic bags filled with the few possessions he owned and trudged down the embankment to the intersection next to the off-ramp.

Get enough money today and start a new life tomorrow.

The intersection was next to an industrial park, and the people going to work there were usually pretty generous. When he'd gotten up early enough to secure this spot before, which was rare, he had made close to seventy five dollars. A fortune. The last time he had shared his wealth with the rest of them, but not this time. This time he was going to turn it all around.

He reached the intersection, consolidated the plastic bags and blankets into a semi-neat pile, and raised the cardboard sign up to his chest so the drivers could see it clearly.

HOMELESS. ANY AMOUNT WILL HELP.

Quick and easy to read as they drove down the ramp. The first few cars passed by without even acknowledging he existed. The drivers, both male and female, didn't even bother to look at him. He was used to this. The ones that yelled obscenities at him got on his nerves.

“Get a job, you fucking bum!”

“Lazy-assed doper! Get the fuck off the street!”

People didn't understand. It wasn't his fault that his luck was so bad. He tried. He tried so very hard to fit in and do the things that they did, but it never worked. But after today, when he made his money, he was going to try again. This time get the help the state offered, do his treatment, and start a new life. He smiled as he thought of it.

A new life.

There was a lull in the traffic, and he lowered his hands to his waist. It was hard to hold that sign up for so long. After a minute, another car slid down the ramp. It was a big black sport utility vehicle with chrome everywhere. The windows were tinted, and he couldn't make out the figure at the wheel. He brought the sign back up to his chest and half-smiled at the oncoming vehicle. He saw something odd hanging from the hood ornament, moving slightly in the breeze. As it got closer, it came into focus: a wreath with a striped candy cane wired onto it.

He almost laughed out loud. Surely someone who was that into Christmas, even on this hot August morning, would be willing to give him some money. Sure enough, the SUV pulled up beside him, and the window slid noiselessly down. He looked expectantly at the driver with a tentative smile on his lips. His eyebrows rose when he saw him.

It was a guy dressed in a Santa Claus outfit.

He had a full white beard, a red suit with white fuzzy trim, and a matching hat. Just like the Santa his parents used to hire at Christmas before they died in a car accident.

“Morning,” he said.

“Ho, ho, ho! Good morning!” Santa bellowed out in a loud voice. “Have you been a good boy this year?”

He really smiled now, playing along. “I'm trying, Santa, I really am.”

“That's good! Do you know what good girls and boys get when they are really good?”

Hopefully a lot of cash, he thought, but said, “No, Santa, what do they get?”

“Lots of money to help them out!”

“Great,” he replied.

“Too bad you haven't been good. Ho, ho, ho! So you get something else!”

“Aw, c'mon, mister, I'm really hungry and just trying to...”

That was the last thing he ever had to worry about, because Santa pulled out a large caliber automatic, pointed it straight between his eyes, and pulled the trigger. Brains and blood sprayed out the back of his head, splattering the stop sign beside him, and with his eyes still filled with surprise, he fell to the ground.

“Ho, ho, ho! Bad boys and girls die! That's what they get for Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!”

He reached over with a white-gloved hand, reached in a red fabric bag, pulled out a small, cheerfully wrapped present, and threw it on the chest of the homeless man. And with that, the big black SUV pulled away from the intersection and drove away.

Some time later, a black SUV pulled into a parking ramp next to a large, nondescript gray building. After he showed his parking pass and parked the vehicle, the driver straightened out his tie in the rear view mirror, winked at the reflection there, smiled, got out, and went to work.

***

Detective Gallow pulled a red handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and looked at the body lying on the ground. The eyes were still opened, and the flies and the ants were fighting for a spot on which to feed. Detective Gallow looked across the intersection at the strip mall and then back to the overpass, putting things together.

“What do you think, Jack?”

Jack Gallow shook his head and turned to his partner, Detective Sandra Reese.

“Seems like a lot of trouble to shoot a homeless guy. Do they have everything bagged?”

She looked over to the techs as they loaded their equipment back into the van. “Yep. What wasn't stolen off the body. We finished questioning the rest of them. They had a little community going here, but that doesn't mean they weren't above grave-robbing. We got the shoes back, but if he had a wallet or any money, that's long gone.”

She looked down at the body and wrinkled her nose. “Whew. Sure does stink. I can't tell if it's the heat or if the guy just doesn't bathe very often.”

“Probably a little of both,” said Jack. He looked at his partner. Perfectly pressed suit, with a crisp white shirt, and not a blonde hair out of place. How she did that in this heat was a constant mystery to Detective Gallow, and he still hadn't figured it out after the four years they had worked together. He was lucky if he could last until noon without sweat stains underneath his armpits and his suit jacket and pants wrinkled before he got to work.

The guys from the meat wagon were giving him the impatient look, and he nodded at them so they could haul the body away.

“Let's go. There is some other stuff I want to accomplish today and, unfortunately for our homeless guy, he's a little further down the list until we get the labs back.”

Sandra looked at him. “Sucks to die poor and homeless, doesn't it?”

Jack wiped his forehead with hanky again, and shook his head. “Wish it were different, but it ain't.”

***

That evening the humidity was threatening to turn the air into water, and storm clouds rumbled in the distance. Despite the inevitable rain, the man was in a good mood. He was sure to get wet tonight, but with the check that he picked up along with food stamps, he would be full and drunk, so the rain would be just a minor detail.

He shuffled across the parking lot, looking for a likely prospect. He was going with the “My car is broke down, and I just need enough money for a cab fare to get home line” tonight, and it was working well. Very well. Eighty-five dollars and counting. He had even dressed for the part: blue jeans, T-shirt and work boots. As if he had just completed his shift at the factory or warehouse job, and was looking to get home. Maybe just one more mark to grift and he would call it a day and head to the liquor store.

A black SUV was sitting with the motor running several parking spots away from the rest. Perfect. The guy would have enough money that ten or twenty bucks would be a drop in the bucket. He walked over to the SUV and put a practiced hangdog expression on his face. The expression that said this is just a minor situation, but if you could be a good guy and help a brother out....

As he approached the truck, the front window slid noiselessly down and a face appeared the in the fading light. The man almost laughed out loud.

Santa Claus. Boy, if this guy wasn't good for twenty bucks, who would be?

“Excuse me--sir?” the man asked politely.

“Why hello, little boy! What can Santa help you with?”

Even better. A nut case. Easy pickings.

“Well...uhh...Santa, my car broke down, and I was wondering if you could help me out?”

“Let me guess, little boy. You need some cab fare to get home so you can have someone drive you back out with some tools to fix it.”

The man's eyes opened wide. “Why yes, Santa. That's exactly--”

“Ho, ho, ho! I think Santa has heard that one before. Have you been a good little boy?”

“Yes! Yes, I have!” the man cried.

“I don't think so!” Santa snarled. As he spoke, he brought the automatic off his lap, pointed it between the man's eyes, and pulled the trigger. His aim was slightly off and the bullet plowed through the man's nose, spraying bits of cartilage and blood on the automatic and Santa's glove. The man launched backwards to the pavement, his head creating the sound of a baseball bat against a grapefruit.

“Such a bad little boy! Ho, ho, ho!” The hand with the bloodied glove pulled back inside the truck, set the automatic in the shoebox that was on the floor on the rider's side, picked up a small package with a bright bow and images of Christmas trees on it, and tossed it on the man's now silent chest.

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! Ho, ho, ho!”

***

Jack narrowed his eyes against the glare of the spotlight the crime scene boys had put up.

“I'm curious to see what's in the package. Too small to be a bomb, I think.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Sandra replied. “”Plastic explosives can be very small.”

“You're right. The dog here yet?”

“Just pulling up.”

They both watched as the bomb squad dog got out of the squad car. The German Shepherd looked expectantly at his master, who looked inquiringly at Jack.

“The Christmas gift on his chest,” he said in answer. The officer nodded, and directed the dog over to the body. The dog gave a quick sniff to the blood that had pooled beneath the man's head, then craned his neck to smell the package. Two or three sniffs and the dog sat on his haunches and looked expectantly again at the officer.

“Not a bomb, Jack.”

“Thanks, Jeff. I'll see you later.”

The officer directed the Shepherd back into the squad car while Jack and Sandra looked back at the gift. Sandra looked up at Jack.

“Be my guest,” Jack said.

Sandra nodded and pulled on a pair of latex gloves as she walked over to the body. She squatted down and gingerly lifted the package up to see if there was anything underneath. She shook her head and lifted up the package.

“Light. But there is something inside.”

“That's the fun of Christmas, Sandra. Not knowing what you'll get.”

“You really don't know what you'll get in August, don't you think?”

“One thing this guy got. Dead. Let's take it back to the lab. That rain is going to hit any time.”

“You got it.” She was just sealing the plastic bag when the first drops hissed on the hot pavement.

***

Jack's brow jumped. “That's it? A lump of coal?”

“Yep. No prints, the wrapping paper is the same kind that you can buy at any Wal-Mart from here to California, and it wasn't bought recently. Christmas wrapping paper is a seasonal thing. They only sell it at certain times of the year. This stuff could have been bought years ago, and left sitting in the perp's closet. Same with the bow. The weird part is where the heck would you find a lump of coal. Most houses are heated with natural gas or electricity, and trains stopped using it a long time ago.”

“I think that would be a needle in a haystack. It'is the symbolism we should looking at here.”

“What's that, Jack?”

“In olden times, if you got a lump of coal for Christmas, it meant that you were a bad little boy or girl, or so the story went.” He ran his fingers through his hair and thought. “This guy had a record, right?”

“Yes. He was a grifter. Petty scams, panhandling, shoplifting, purse-snatching. He also had a couple drunk-and-disorderlys. He's also on the dole with social services, and just got a welfare check and food vouchers.”

“He was homeless?”

“His address is listed at a shelter downtown. I think they have to have one to get the check.”

Jacks' eyes narrowed. “Homeless? Panhandling? Maybe he was shot for begging, huh?”

Sandra looked back at him and said, “You thinking about the other guy as well?”

“Yep. Well...maybe. It's a little strange for two beggars to get killed on the same day in the same way, isn't it?”

“What about the package?”

“I don't get that at all. But I've got a glimmer. Did we get the ballistics report on that one yet?”

“It's back on my desk.”

Jack's lips grew thinner. “I want to see it.”

***

“I love it when you're right, Jack.”

“Yeah. But now what?”

They were back in the squad room, Jack sitting down with his aching legs stretched over another chair, Sandra leaning against her neat desk. The two reports had identical findings. They proved that the two men were shot with the same gun--but why? Sandra glanced down at her partner and watched the wheels turning in his eyes. Jack was good at picking up the thread and following it to the spool; she, in turn, was very good at weaving it together as the thread began to form the garment. It's what made them such good partners. But, for God's sake, why would anyone want to kill homeless people?

His brow furrowed. “When was the time of the first death?”

“From witness statements, not that any of them owned a watch, about six-forty-five in the a.m.”

“And the guy in the parking lot?”

She looked at another sheet of paper. “About the same time, but in the p.m.”

He looked up at her, his eyebrows widening. “Strange, that.” He looked across Sandra's spotless desk, and smiled. “I think we can knock off for the day and go home and get some sleep. It's gonna be an early one tomorrow.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me on this one. I got a gut feeling.”

He lifted his legs off the chair, stood up and frowned at the new set of wrinkles in his suit. “Meet me at the diner at six. We'll get some breakfast and wait for the next one.”

Her thin eyebrows arched a question, but didn't ask it

***

The sound of a siren a few blocks away pierced the fog in his head and forced his eyes open. He lay there for a full minute, trying to remember where he was, and then closed his eyes again, trying to stop the world from spinning around him. Still drunk from the night before, he'd had the incredible foresight to get back to his “home” by the deserted warehouse. Part of a brick wall had caved in, forming a hollow in which he had built a rudimentary roof and walls that were almost watertight. Memories of last night came back to him, and he cursed himself for getting so drunk he got kicked out of the shelter. They wouldn't even let him have a hot meal, considering that he had spent the government cheese money, and it was still several days until the first of the month. He only went there when it was raining, and a free meal was a free meal, after all.

He groaned and rolled on his side, fighting waves of nausea. The spinning quickened briefly, and then slowed to a stop. Just a few more minutes, then I'll get up and get going, he thought. Gotta get something to soak up this old booze.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, a figure was standing in front of him.

Santa Claus.

He blinked and thought, Well, I've finally gone over the edge. You hear about the ones that go crazy from living like this, and now it's me.

“Good morning, little boy!” Santa boomed.

“Huh? What?”

“Have you been a good little boy?”

The homeless man began to giggle, then laughed until his sides hurt. “I'm going nuts! You're not real! I finally slipped over the edge!”

Santa began to laugh with him, until the man began to cry.

“Why did it have to get to this? I didn't want to go crazy!” he sobbed.

“Oh, you poor little boy! Do you think you can be a good little boy? Do you think you deserve a present?”

The man got up on his elbow, blinked, shook his head, and blinked again. “Jesus Christ! You're real!”

“Ho, ho, ho! Do you believe in Santa Claus, little boy?”

“I didn't before,” he croaked. “But I do now!”

“That's too bad, little boy, 'cause there ain't no Santa Claus, and there ain't no free handouts!”

Santa reached inside of the red suit, pulled out a shiny automatic, and shot the man in the face. The bullet ripped through the man's cheek, right below his left eye, causing the eyeball to pop from its socket. The impact took the man off his elbow and put him flat on his back. He convulsed once, his back arching, and then settled back into the dirt.

Santa reached into one of the pockets of his red suit, pulled out a shiny package with a silver bow, and tossed it on the man's chest.

“Merry Christmas, little boy, and rest in hell!”

***

Jack was just taking a sip of coffee when the radio squawked.

“Report of shots fired. Washington area of the warehouse district.”

Jack set his cup down and said to Sandra, “That's us, I think.”

Sandra grabbed the radio that was sitting on the table and Jack tossed a twenty on the table. He waved to the waitress, and they went outside and got in the unmarked squad car.

After Jack started the car and put it in gear, Sandra said to him, “You haven't said a word all morning about this. Nomally I'd let it ride and see what happens, but why exactly do you think this is for us?”

“I don't know for sure--like I said before, I just got a gut feeling--but there are a lot of homeless people that live out at the warehouse district. It's a city within the city for those guys. The timing is what gave me the idea. They're getting shot during business hours.” He looked over at her. “I know that it's just a theory. Not much to go on after only two of them, but let's see what we see when we get there.”

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up beside a black-and-white with the lights still flashing. A patrolman was just walking back to the squad car, his hand next to his holster. His face showed surprise when he recognized them. “Detectives! I was just about to call this in--”

“Whaddya got?” Jack asked.

“Homeless guy, shot in the head. As soon as I saw that, I got back and didn't touch anything.” He took off his hat and wiped his brow. “Weird thing, though....”

“What's that, Officer?” Sandra asked.

“He's got a little Christmas present on his chest.”

Sandra looked at Jack and asked, “Who called it in?”

“Couple of truck drivers loading up some stuff a few buildings down. Called on a cell phone.”

Jack nodded. “Go get a statement from them, and see if they saw anything else. We'll call the crime scene people.”

“You got it.”

As the officer walked back to his car, Jack stared back at Sandra. “Are you ready?”

“Let's get to it.” She shook her head. “That was very good, but covering the million places that there are homeless people is going to be impossible.”

“Yeah, I know. Call the techies. I need an ID on this guy as soon as possible. I got an idea.”

***

Back at the squad room, Jack was sitting with his feet up on the desk.

“Jack, don't put your feet up on my desk, do it to your own.”

He grunted and moved his feet. “What does the sheet say?”

“William Hayes. Forty-eight years-old, a veteran of the Gulf War.” She looked down at him. “He's a vet, so the ID was quick, and so was the rest of this.” She looked back down at the sheet of paper. “In treatment twice for alcoholism and drug abuse; apparently it didn't take. Registered for public assistance, gets a disability check once a month as well.”

Jack nodded and rubbed the back of his neck with the red handkerchief. “Does he have a contact person down at Social Services?”

“I'll make some calls and get it.”

“Anything from the truck drivers at the last scene?”

She picked up a copy of the statement. “Nothing really. A single shot was fired and one of the truck drivers is part of a citizens' patrol group, so he recognized it as gunfire. They saw several cars in the vicinity, but nothing specific. Our officer got a list of descriptions anyway, which is pretty good police work. Other than that, nothing.”

She handed Jack the report, sat down behind her desk, and reached for the phone.

He studied the list, his face full of concentration. “Sandra? See if the other two vics have social workers as well.”

She pursed her lips. “Sure.”

Jack leaned dangerously back in his chair, and Sandra could see the wheels turning through his eyelids.

***

“You didn't think we could keep it quiet forever, did you?” Sandra asked.

Jack folded the newspaper in half and took a sip of his coffee. “Nope. Unfortunately, one more may die before we can stop this once and for all.”

They were back at the diner, the radio hissing and barking with calls. Last night's victim made the paper. Not the front page, but back on page three.

“Really sucks to die poor and homeless, doesn't it?” Jack said.

“You said that before.”

“Uh- huh. When are they getting back to you on the social worker?”

“This morning. Trying to get information out of the welfare system is like pulling teeth.”

“Privacy Act. Good law, but crappy for us.”

Sandra shook her head. “I thought city workers were all on the same side.”

“Only when it comes time to get our paychecks.”

“I got the judge on speed dial if we need the warrant.”

“I doubt it, but good to know.”

Jack's cell phone beeped. “Yeah? Where? Okay, okay. Thanks for calling.” He looked at Sandra. “Are you ready?”

“Yep. Where to?”

“Bridge overpass near Lowertown.”

“It's one of ours?”

“With a nice, shiny bow.”

***

“You're not gonna believe this.”

“What's that?”

“All the vics had the same social worker.”

Jack smiled at her. “I guessed that.”

“I figured that's where you were going. That's not what I'm talking about. It's the social worker's name.”

Jack sat up. “And...?”

“Steven Klause.”

Jack's mouth formed an O. “Sandra, I think we have enough to go and talk to this guy. What do you think?”

“Smartass. Almost too much. Let's go.”

They drove the car up the parking ramp, looking for a black SUV. They found it on the third level.

“Plates match?”

Sandra looked down at the sheet from the DMV. “Yep. That's it.”

“That judge on speed dial? Let's give him a ring, okay?”

Sandra pulled her cell phone out of her purse while Jack looked for a spot to park the car. He was just turning off the ignition when she hung up.

“All set. The techies are on the way with the paper.”

“Good. Let's go have a chat with our friend Steven Klause.”

***

The office occupied by Steven Klause was as nondescript as any other government office. Small, beige walls, and a standard metal desk. There were papers and files scattered across the top of the desk, and more file folders in bankers' boxes stacked on the floor. A small monitor and keyboard were fighting for space to breathe in the clutter.

Jack and Sandra walked into the office, sat down on the two chairs that were in front of the desk, and had their first look at the man who was almost certainly a serial killer.

It was almost anticlimactic because there wasn't much to see. A balding, overweight and depressing man sat in front of them. Too many years of fluorescent lights, bad food, and office coffee had created the being in front of them. If you had passed him in the street, you wouldn't have seen him in the sea of accountants, tax men, and mid-level managers that existed in every city in the United States.

He gave them a tentative smile; a wishful, hoping smile that tells you I think it's all right, but it usually isn't that way with me because my life basically sucks. I don't have any close friends, I've never been married, and if my mother was still alive I'd be living in her basement and rubbing the corns on her feet when she complained enough about them.

All of this passed to Jack and Sandra without a word being spoken; there was no need to speak the obvious. Steven's eyes fell to the top of the desk, looking at nothing.

When he spoke, it carried the dust of ages of pain and disappointment.

“You're finally here.” He looked back up at both of them, the weak smile playing a game on his thin lips. It broke a little wider, and he said, “I've always wanted to say that. I saw it in a movie somewhere.”

Sandra's eyes bored into his. “We are searching your car, Mr. Klause. Would you like to tell us what we are going to find there?”

Steven Klause made a tent with his fingers and stared at it. “A box with small Christmas presents and a Santa Claus suit. In each of the presents there is a lump of coal.”

Jack rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Steven, do want to tell us why? Why would you want to kill all those innocent men?”

Steven's eyes rounded in anger. “Innocent? I think not! Do you know what I do here? I give money away. Hard-earned tax-payer dollars. Do you know how much I have given away? Millions! Can you imagine? Do those people that died deserve it? No!”

He opened up his hands and held them palms out to the detectives. “Wasteful! Those men were drunks! Bums! But under this administration, we just keep handing them out free money. They in turn spend it on cheap wine and drugs. Wasteful! Do you know how much money I have saved the taxpayers by killing those shells of humans that would have died of alcoholism or exposure anyway? Thousands and thousands of dollars! All it cost was the price of bullets. Do you know how much bullets cost?”

Jack shook his head. “Do you know what it costs the taxpayers for a man to sit on death row?”

“Approximately one million dollars. I know this as well. Don't worry about that, officers.”

It happened so fast, Sandra didn't have time to react, but Jack was expecting it. He shielded his face with his right arm, and Sandra's with his left. The noise of the gunshot was deafening in the small room, but neither one had any blood splatter on them at all.

Sandra gasped in horror, but Jack just said, “Huh.”

She looked at him in shock. “You knew he was going to do that. Why didn't you try to stop him?”

He looked back at her, his face expressionless. “To receive is as good as the giving.”

END