21 Tales Page 2

  I didn’t expect a reply to my email. I guess I must have been feeling a bit queasy about the whole thing and at a subconscious level had decided to put a stop to it. I was more than a little surprised when I got a terse reply back from Ms. Okiti to fax her a copy of the dead man’s death certificate and the insurance policy.

  The insurance policy was easy. I was able to get a fairly realistic policy printed up in no time. The trick was filling in all of the contact information and then blacking it out with a pen. As far as the death certificate, I found samples on the Internet, and then used a graphics package on my computer to create a fairly realistic looking one. It took some time, but I was happy with the results. I faxed both of them to the number I was given.

  Over the next four days we went back and forth over a number of issues until we were able to settle things. First, Celestine Okiti wanted to pay me my ten percent cut after she received the insurance money. I flatly refused, reminding Celestine Okiti that her and her associates were scam artists, hardly to be trusted. With the deadline of my booked flight approaching, she finally gave in. The next issue was how my ten percent was going to be sent to me. They wanted to send a check and I wanted them to wire the money to a bank account that I had opened for Pete Mitchel (I had obtained a fake driver’s license for Pete Mitchel which is actually quite easy to do in Massachusetts, and had used it to open a bank account). Since they gave in on the other matter, I gave in on this one. I rented a mailbox in Pete Mitchel’s name and sent Celestine Okiti the address.

  During those four days, I guess I must have been acting somewhat manic. I could tell Cheryl knew something was up, but I didn’t want to tell her anything. She’d think I was nuts and wouldn’t be at all happy with what I was doing. She tried a couple of times to ask me what was keeping me so occupied, and I just told her that I was working on a new crime story. I could tell she was annoyed, but she left it alone.

  To be honest, I never expected them to send a check. Even when I called up the store where I rented the mailbox and was told that I had a letter waiting for me, I still didn’t believe that they would send me a check. But when I picked up the letter and opened it, there it was. A check for seventy-two thousand dollars made out to Pete Mitchel. I drove home and put the check in my desk drawer. I then sent Celestine Okiti an email message, telling her that after the check cleared I would send them the necessary documentation to collect the insurance money.

  I had a restless night as I tried to decide what to do. The next morning, though, I drove to Pete Mitchel’s bank and deposited the check. Over the next couple of days, Cheryl made comments about how quiet I had gotten. I couldn’t tell her about what had happened, so I told her I had some stuff going on at work.

  After I heard the check had cleared, I transferred the money to a Swiss bank account I had opened up. I also destroyed Pete Mitchel’s email account. I kept the email messages, though. I was still planning on using them for a short story.

  Things pretty much settled back to normal after that. About a week later I had gotten home early from work and was sitting at my computer when the doorbell rang. There were two black men standing outside my door. My guess they were Nigerians. They were both tall, thin. Both were wearing slacks and polo shirts. Either one or both of them had on a heavy, musky cologne. The smell was overpowering. Both of them looked angry.

  “We’re here for our six hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars, Mr. Mitchel, or should I say, Mr. Wilson,” the one closest to me said.

  So they had tracked me down. They must’ve been waiting at my rented mailbox and followed me home after I had picked up the check. I looked at the two of them scowling at me and I just started laughing. “I can’t believe you fell for my scam,” I told them. “Especially since it was so much like your own scam, using the same next of kin angle. Jesus, how stupid can you be?”

  They both looked stunned. I watched with amusement as my words seeped in and the anger in their faces boiled into pure hatred. It was shining in their eyes. “We want our money, now!” the same man demanded, his voice rising.

  My neighbor, Carl Moscone, had opened his door and was staring at us, making sure everything was okay. Moscone is a retired Boston Cop. He’s a big man, almost as wide as he is tall. I waved at him. The two men on my doorstep noticed him also.

  “You’re not getting a dime,” I said, still laughing softly. I couldn’t help it. “You know, at first I was just playing around, seeing if I could get enough emails to get a good crime story. It never occurred to me that you would actually send me any money. But now I’m having fun. And I’m going to have even more fun spending your seventy-two thousand dollars. First thing I’m going to do is buy my wife a very expensive mink coat. Every time she wears it I’ll think of the two of you standing there looking like saps.”

  The two men were aware of Moscone staring at them. It seemed to effect them. The man closest to me asked in a low voice how I would like it if he called the police. That just made me laugh harder. The harder I laughed the more infuriated they both got, but I couldn’t help it. It took a few moments before I could talk.

  “I’ll call them for you right now if you want,” I said when I could. I had to wipe tears from my eyes I was laughing so hard. “I’ll show them all the emails that went back and forth between us. I’ll explain to them how I decided as a lark to see if I could scam you instead, and how you actually fell for it. I’m sure they’ll get as good a laugh out of it as I am. You want me to call them?”

  Neither of them said anything.

  All of a sudden the amusement had dried up within me. “Get out of here,” I said, now dead serious. “If I see either of you again I will call the police.”

  “It is not over,” the one closest to me said. “We will get our money.” And then they both turned and left. I watched as they got into their car and drove away, then I went next door and shot the breeze with my neighbor. He asked about the two men. I told him they were scam artists who struck out with me, and left it at that.

  The next day I had a bunch of issues pop up at work. It took me until seven that night before I had them under control, and I didn’t get home until eight. When I opened the door I couldn’t help noticing how quiet it seemed. I called out for Cheryl and got no answer. There was a light on in the kitchen. I walked in and saw the butcher knife lying on the counter top. Its edge faced me and I could see a red smudge running along it. Then I spotted the severed finger. It took me a moment to realize what it was. I don’t why. I guess it looked like a finger, but it just seemed odd lying there. It was placed on top of a note. The note was written in small, neat letters, and informed me that if I wanted to get my wife back without any more missing parts I had better pay them the money I owed them. The note ended by asking if I was still laughing. I picked up the phone and called the police.

  The detective looked incredulous as I told him the whole story. I showed him all of the emails – the ones I had received and the ones I sent. I didn’t leave anything out. I told him about the fake documents I created, the bank account for my fictitious Pete Mitchel, the rented mailbox, the seventy-two thousand dollars, I told him everything. When I was done he had me tell my story to another detective, and after that to an FBI agent.

  It turns out the police found Cheryl less than three hours after I had called them. It was probably due to a combination of the Nigerians being sloppy, since this was most likely their first kidnapping, and not considering that I would call the authorities. In any case, my neighbor Moscone had written down their license plate number from the day before, and they had used the same car for the kidnapping. The police found them in a small house in Chelsea. They had hacked Cheryl into pieces and were in the process of packing the pieces into boxes when the police broke in. I guess they were planning on mailing Cheryl back to me, piece by piece, after I paid them their money.

  At the time the police didn’t tell me anything, and I didn’t find out about Cheryl until the next day. That night they took me in for mor
e questioning. I was asked several times if I wanted a lawyer, and each time I declined. At one point I was asked if I’d be willing to take a lie detector test. I told them I would. They then left me alone for several hours. I was then brought to another room, hooked up to a polygraph, and questioned. I answered each question truthfully, and they seemed satisfied with the results.

  I think it was past nine o’clock the next morning when I met with the District Attorney. He looked uncomfortable as he told me about Cheryl. It was the first I heard of it and it took a moment for it to register. When I finally made sense of what he was saying, I just started sobbing. I couldn’t help it and I couldn’t stop myself. I just sat there sobbing uncontrollably, sobbing until it felt like my chest was going to break apart.

  In the end the District Attorney decided not to press charges against me. While I acted criminally in trying to defraud the Nigerians, it was hard to muster much sympathy towards them. He was also convinced that I didn’t intend for any harm to come to Cheryl. When the Nigerians were arrested they had confessed fully and bitterly, explaining why they had hacked my wife to pieces. The D.A. decided not to hold me criminally negligent, even though in his opinion I acted stupidly. We agreed that I would turn over the seventy-two thousand dollars to a local youth group. I think it really got to him the way I reacted when I heard about Cheryl. He knew my reaction was genuine, he knew I wasn’t faking it, but he completely misunderstood the reason behind it.

  I was lucky to pass the lie detector. I was lucky that all they were trying to do was verify my statement, and I had been completely truthful with my statement. If they had had some imagination I would’ve been sunk. To be honest I never expected the Nigerians to send me any money. Up until the point where they told me they were mailing me the money, I was just playing around. But from that point on I guess my mind was spinning with different ideas of how I could make it more than a scam. I knew that they wanted to send a check instead of wiring funds to my bank so that they would be able to follow me when I picked up the money. And I saw the Nigerians watching my mailbox when I picked up the check. I saw them when they were following me home; I even slowed down several times so I wouldn’t lose them. And I had no intention of spending any of that seventy-two thousand dollars on a mink coat for Cheryl. I told them that to infuriate them, to give them ideas. And I found reasons to stay late at work to give them time to do what they were going to do.

  The thing of it was Cheryl and I had drifted apart over the years. We didn’t really talk much any more, and we didn’t really like being with each other. It had been over a year since we’d had sex, and even longer since I cared about it. A divorce would’ve been costly and unpleasant. So while I had to give up the seventy-two thousand dollars, I was paid six hundred thousand dollars from her life insurance policy. Her parents are now suing me for it, claiming I negligently contributed to her death, but my lawyer doesn’t think they have much of a case. I’m not worried about losing the money.

  No, the D.A. wasn’t even close to understanding why I broke down the way I did. It had nothing to do with Cheryl’s death. It just hit me all of a sudden as to what I had done and what I had become. It took me a while to get used to it. But I’m fine now.

  Flies

  We had a dead mouse in our basement, and the inspiration for this story came from the swarm of flesh-eating flies that came afterwards. And like my noir hero in this story, I hate those damn flesh-eating flies!

  As I was trying to figure out how to finish the paragraph I was working on, a fly flew past my ear and another two landed on the monitor in front of me. Carol found it pathetic the way I reacted to flies, but I couldn’t help it. Flies unnerve me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get any work done knowing they were buzzing around, ready to land on me at any moment. This specific type of fly I recognized. Larger, sort of greenish, with a big head. We were once infested with them. It turned out we had a dead mouse in the basement. According to our pest control person, these were flesh-eating flies, and any time you had a dead mouse you’d end up with hundreds of these.

  By the time I grabbed and rolled up a magazine, the two flies on the monitor were gone. I slowly walked around the room until I spotted them. Two on the window panes I got with the first strike. Another on the wall required three swings before I hit it, and the damn thing left a red smear behind. I was thinking how I was going to have to use some disinfectant to clean off the mark when I noticed Bowser standing in the doorway with his head cocked to one side, staring at me. Bowser was a white Bull Terrier, and as bullheaded as they come.

  “It’s not my fault,” I told him. “It was her decision.”

  He just stood staring at me, letting me know that he wasn’t going to let go of his grudge. Watching him, I felt myself losing my temper

  “This is your doing, isn’t it?” I yelled at him. “About all these bloody flies! You got into the basement again, didn’t you?”

  As he realized my discomfort, he started chortling. Anyone who’s ever had a Bull Terrier will tell you that they do chortle. A soft wheezing-type noise. Unmistakable. After that, he sniffed in disgust and scampered out of the room.

  Bowser was ostensibly my dog. Carol had bought him for me when I decided to try writing fulltime, thinking that an author should have a dog like a Bull Terrier lying by his feet. He was really Carol’s though. Any time he could he would plop down next to her, or when she was in the kitchen, squeeze himself between her and the cabinets. Me, he would tolerate. I was good to rub his belly or give him food from the table, but that was about it. I had the basement door closed. How he ever got down there was beyond me, but he was a bright dog and somehow had figured out a way.

  I knew I’d have to go down to the basement and take care of what he had left behind, otherwise I’d have flies bothering me all day. There was no way I’d be able to get any writing done with flesh-eating flies buzzing around my ears. I started to get up, but felt my strength drain out of me. I just didn’t feel up to it. Later, after I rested a bit, I would take care of it.

  We still had a dirt floor in the basement and I think that was how we were getting mice. Not that we were getting a lot of them. A few here and there, but enough to be a nuisance. I had bought the materials so I could put down a sub floor and pour a layer of cement over it. Carol had laughed when I told her I was going to do that, but I don’t see what was so funny about it. Maybe I don’t work much with my hands, but I’m capable, I can read how-to books as well as the next guy. In fact, I was planning to take a break from writing in the next day or two so I could put down the new flooring. Get my hands dirty for a change.

  I got the disinfectant and scrubbed the red spot on the wall until it was gone. Then I picked up the dead flies with tissues and flushed them down the toilet. As I sat at the computer, I tried to get my mind back into writing. I was a hundred and eighty pages into my novel and I had to push myself to get it done. I’d been struggling with the damned thing for almost two years.

  When I quit my job two years ago to try writing fulltime, Carol at first was supportive. Before that I had worked eighteen years as a software engineer, writing short stories whenever I could squeeze in the time. Mostly crime fiction, a few sci-fi and fantasy stories. I was starting to get published in magazines and was also achieving a few other successes. One of my stories made honorable mention in a best mystery fiction list, another was picked up by an anthology published by a large New York house. After eighteen years of pure drudgery developing software, I got lucky. A startup I was working for got bought and I made some pretty good money with my stock options. Not enough to live extravagantly, but enough to quit and give writing a shot.

  Carol’s support faded quickly, though. It was as if I was always in her way. I tried to hang out mostly in my study, but it didn’t matter. Any little thing I did would get on her nerves. If I went into the kitchen to get something to drink, next second she’d be standing behind me, exasperated that I was interfering with her making dinner or whatever. If I tri
ed helping out by cleaning up something or tidying up, she’d be ready to explode because I wasn’t putting things in their proper place. It went on and on like that. Eventually she started finding reasons to be out of the house. One of those reasons was David Bryce. Supposedly he was just a friend, someone to play tennis with, or to accompany her to a new restaurant. After all, I would be too busy with my writing and she wouldn’t want to disturb me. I guess it was possible they were just friends, at least at first. Bryce is a good-looking man, and Carol, quite frankly, isn’t at all attractive. She’s one of those nondescript women. Looks no different than any one of a hundred women you might find on the street.

  The real bone of contention between us came six months into my fulltime writing gig. I had spent eighteen years dreaming of the day when I would have the time to focus on my writing. I guess Carol spent a lot of those eighteen years dreaming of when she would have the opportunity to travel. And not just to Disney World, or even Hawaii, but to more exotic locales like Africa, India and Bangkok. I don’t know why she was so hung up on those places, especially Bangkok, but she was. She knew I had no interest in going to any of those places, but she didn’t care. Actually, I don’t think she even wanted me to go with her. I think she preferred that I would tell her to go off with Bryce if she wanted to, but I wasn’t going to do that. As it was, all the pressure and stress she put me under affected my writing. I was originally hoping to get my book done in six months and that was now dragging out to over two years and with no end in sight. And she let me know about it. God, did she let me know about it.

  Last week it all came to a head. She was sick of me, found me repulsive, and would rather be touched by a corpse than by me. As if that came as any surprise. After all, she had stopped having sex with me over a year and a half ago. Not that we ever really had much before then.