Epilogue

Murder is not an exact science.

It's more of an art with simple principles and guidelines.

The two story house was spacious with a wide living/dining room and a tiled kitchen on the bottom floor.

Two bodies lay on the floor, a man with a bullet in his head and a strangled woman with a brown belt around her neck. Three men in black ski-masks stared at me as they waited for instructions.

This is why it's annoying when acting in a group. Even if everyone knows what they have to do, they still need someone telling them to go do it. I never understood why that was until I had to kill someone during a famous orchestra's symphony.

"You two, finish setting things up. You, sweep the first floor."

Even though each musician knew what they were supposed to play and when to play it, they still needed a conductor to direct them. Since then, I've accepted that most people are idiots who need someone to hold their hands.

"I'll clean upstairs."

This is one of the guidelines to follow.

Don't use names during an operation.

Murder has become much harder to get away with these days. Before, we could just wait to make sure no one else is around, but now smartphones, satellites, and even radio toasters exist. You never know what kind of busybodies may be listening in, so better safe than sorry.

Better yet, don't talk if you can help it. If you can't, speak in code.

The slim man with shifty eyes placed one gun in the woman's hands and made her shoot a blank before making her hold a second gun several times. He then took the second gun to the backyard to hide it.

That's another guideline to follow.

When planting evidence, don't make it obvious.

The entertainment industry has made everyone believe they can be the next 'Sherlock Holmes'. People start raising eyebrows if a crime scene is 'too easy' or obvious, so always go the extra mile when planting evidence. Make them work for it, and no one will second-guess it.

Jealous wife kills cheating husband, hides the gun in a panic and commits suicide out of guilt. The blank places gunpowder residue on her, and the actual gun we used has her fingerprints.

I know it's a little cliché, but the classics are 'classic' for a reason.

A tall, muscular man lifted the woman and carried her to the front hallway with her husband's belt still around her neck.

Of course, the missus wasn't actually jealous. Their open marriage was actually her idea, but since an open marriage wasn't good for publicity, only their bodyguard knew about it. Good thing he is too busy hanging her body from the stair banister to 'Tweet' about it.

Everyone else believed it was a happy, monogamous marriage, except for the policeman who will be tasked with looking into Mr. Petroni's past phone record and his eighty-three calls to his highschool sweetheart.

The third man with an astute gaze and calm demeanour made himself busy combing through the living room and kitchen's various machinery and phones for anything incriminating or worth noting down, being careful to avoid the pool of blood under the dead man.

It's important to make sure that there are no hidden surprises left for the investigators to find.

Once you leave the scene of the crime, you can't go back and 'fix' anything. Did they have a secret surveillance camera in the kitchen? Or maybe a folder of dirt on your favorite crime boss stuck to the underside of the couch?

Better safe than sorry, right?

Meanwhile, I climbed the stairway and went through the other rooms, skipping the bathrooms to save time.

That's another one to follow.

Don't dawdle.

Who kills someone, and then decides to sit back and enjoy a tub of Rocky Road on their victim's couch?

Get in. Do what you have to do. And get out.

Nearly all contracted killers are caught because of spending too much time on the 'Do what you have to do' part.

The less time you spend, the less time there is for something unexpected to happen.

That's why it's okay to skip the bathrooms. Bathrooms are frequently used by people, so no sane person would hide anything there, especially those with frequent visitors. This is why I don't waste time searching them.

I walked towards the second-most important room in the house and entered it without turning the lights on.

Their kid's room is first on my list.

Angelica Petroni, eight-years-old, is currently at her friend's house for an extended sleepover to celebrate her birthday. Politicians often send their kids away when they sense danger, and, well…their senses were spot-on.

Of course, I waited for this opportunity since that's one less headache to deal with and cheaper on the customer. Plus, I'm not fond of killing kids, so this works out for everyone, including the kid…for the most part.

I scanned the room's walls and floor to confirm there were no trap floors or secret safes that could hide something.

The bodyguard had already checked the house several times before today, so all this is probably an exercise in futility, but who can blame me if I don't trust the word of a homicidal thug?

After checking the closet, I move on to the most important room, the deceased couple's bedroom.

Both of the Petronis are, well, I should say they 'were' politicians. Crooked ones. They were what many would call a power couple. Complementing one another, their combined influence probed into all kinds of circles. Circles like the one that my employer is part of.

Alfredo Armani and the Petronis had a mutually beneficial relationship. They helped each other out in their own ways whether it came to legal matters or money, but like most good things in this world, their constructive collaboration came to a quick end when the Petronis had the sudden urge to clean up their act.

They say the moment you go soft, your days are numbered.

Here's a perfect example of why you shouldn't let your conscience interfere with your work! Especially if you're in bed with a piece of work like Alfredo Armani.

A smile came to my lips from beneath my ski-mask.

His name always cracks me up! Alfredo!

Turns out it's his birth name, but he didn't bother changing it, even in his line of business. He claimed that being named after a type of pasta made others more trusting of him. I wonder if the Petronis would agree with him.

I stifled a chuckle and began scanning this room's walls and floor.

Once I finish with this room, I can get out of here. As long as I find nothing in here—what the hell?

A cold draft breezed through the room from an open window to the right of the king-size bed.

They never open this window…

I walk over to the window and peek outside to find an empty fire escape and a tall, gated fence at the bottom.

Today had to be the day the Petronis decided to let fresh air into their bedroom? If I didn't come upstairs, the investigation might've taken a turn away from suicide!

Reaching for the top of the window, I slammed it shut and locked it once more.

Problem solv—what was that?

A shuffling noise from the closet captured my attention. I frowned, lifting my gun and flashlight at the door.

Here is where the most important principle for committing murder comes in.

Be ready to improvise.

I approached the door with careful and quiet footsteps.

Find me a criminal who claims all his plans were completed without a hitch, and I will show you a liar.

The rare visitor, a nosy neighbor who heard a loud noise, even an insistent pizza man at the wrong house—many things can happen that will throw a wrench in an otherwise perfect plan. Even the team you work with or your employer can slip up and land you in a pile of shit.

I grasped the closet's doorknob with bated breath.

So take a clue from the Eagle Scouts and be prepared for anything.

I pulled the closet door open and pointed my muzzle and spotlight at the source of the sound. The sight in front of me caused my left eye to twitch, and I lowered my gun and kept my flashlight trained on the spot between two dresses.

Crap!

"Why are you here? Shouldn't you be at a sleepover?!"

On the closet's floor stuffed between a pair of hung-up dresses, a startled little girl stared back at me with a pair of hesitant, brown eyes. Tied in twin pigtails with pink ribbons, her jet black hair was clinging to the walls of fabric sandwiching her. Because of the flashlight shining on her face and the fact that the room's lights were off, she squinted her eyes without showing any signs of being startled from my face or the ski-mask covering it.

When dealing with unexpected people you meet in places you shouldn't be, make them take the defensive position. Act like they are the ones doing something wrong or are somewhere they shouldn't be, and they'll quickly release everything you need to know: who they are, why they are there, whether they saw anything they shouldn't have, etc. This is especially true for an eight-year-old girl.

She pushed her head out in front of the dresses and addressed me as if I were one of her parents' bodyguards, "I-It was supposed to be a surprise. Samantha's mom brought me back. Where is mama—er—mother and father?"

This is why you need to be ready to improvise. People just don't understand how rude and unwise it is to interrupt a murder in progress, but I guess I can't scold a little girl who wanted to spend her birthday with her family.

We're going to need to tweak the Petronis' story a bit. Wife kills husband in jealous rage. While trying to hide the weapon, distraught wife is surprised by little girl and shoots her. Guilt-ridden by her actions, wife kills herself.

Wow! I've outdone myself; this story might be even better than before!

Just need to kill the girl now before their time of deaths get too far apart and drop the gun at her feet instead of the backyard. I don't like to kill kids, but I have to be professional about this. Plus, I can charge extra for it.

"Hello? Are you okay?" the little girl asked out of worry from the long silence.

Drat!

I cleared my throat.

"They're downstairs. I'll make a reason for them to come upstairs and surprise them. By the way, is that your mother's dress?" I asked the little girl before the silence stretched too long, nodding at the dress to her left, my gun still lowered but with my finger on the trigger.

This little girl had done nothing wrong. Just wrong place, wrong time…the least I could do is give her a painless death and an open casket.

Angelica turned her face to look at the dress. Her right pigtail, no longer smushed against one of the other dresses, displayed the hairpin of a popular fox mascot for kids, Foxina the Underwater Diva.

I held my breath as soon as I saw the character hanging on her pigtail, and my arm felt like it was too heavy to lift and take aim.

With a cute tilt of her head, several seconds passed while she examined the sparkly dress intently for some reason, as if the dress in her mother's closet could be anyone else's dress. Then, she turned her face back to me and nodded with a smile. "It's her dress. I've seen her wear it before."

Damnit.

I lost my window to shoot.

I returned her smile with a nod and holstered my gun after turning off the flashlight. "Stay hidden here, and don't make a sound till your parents come back. Then, you can surprise them both."

She nodded a single time before crouching in between the dresses once more. "Okay!"

Now is the time I decide to have a conscience?! Ugh, if the others knew about this…I'd be ruined. They say the moment you go soft, your days are numbered.

Whatever!

I closed the door and walked to the door when I jerked to a stop.

Double crap! Almost forgot.

I moved back to the window and opened it to the height it was at originally.

Damn kid is too short to close it herself.

I made my way out of the room and down the hallway.

I can make this work, too…probably. I'll just pretend I hadn't seen her and just carry out with the operation. No one will take the words of a little girl seriously, especially after she hears her mother had killed her father and committed suicide.

They'll just assume it's some sort of denial defense mechanism shit. The 'actual' killer happened to talk to her and let her go after killing her parents? She'll be lucky if they don't put her in a mental hospital for little kids.

Yeah, this is fine. Everything's still fine…

I walked downstairs with a strained gait, and the other three had finished their tasks and were waiting near the front door for me. The dead mother hung perfectly still from the banister above our heads, her husband's belt still wrapped tightly around her neck.

I looked at the burly man, Steely Stan, former thug turned bodyguard for the powerfully wicked. He got his nickname back in his youth when he violently mugged individuals using a crowbar made of steel.

"Return in thirty minutes, release the package and crack a pig's rib or two. No one can blame you if some drool leaves your lips," I spoke in code once more.

It's important in setting up a scene to not only make it believeable but also cut out other possibilities. If poor 'ol Stan was asked to leave by Mrs. Petroni to allow them some privacy and return an hour later, then the evidence would suggest that her manslaughter was likely a crime of passion that led to guilt which ended in killing herself shortly after. The poorly hidden gun in the backyard would show that the murder was not premeditated, and her sudden decision to kill herself would solidify that.

The nail in their coffin would be Stan's attempt to revive the recently deceased suicidee, cracking a rib or two and leaving his saliva on her mouth to show some sincerity.

I turned to face the man with the piercing stare and proper posture, Cautious Calvin, one of several Chief Forensic Investigators for the FBI and planted informant to Mr. Armani. He got his name by having an entire evidence-holding room burn to the ground and framing his supervisor, a former Chief Forensic Investigator.

"We'll leave it to you to make sure the cake recipe is correct. Tack on a few more minutes to make sure it's cooked thorougly."

The time of deaths between Mr. and Mrs. Petroni may be a little too close, so having someone on the inside to make sure the time difference fits is important as well as keep a close ear to the investigation, maybe provide a little push in the right direction.

Most dirty cops are paid to modify or get rid of evidence, but Calvin likes to be more involved. Personally, I don't care either way, but an accomplice who shares the noose probably cares more about the little details than some bought-off donut eater.

I looked at the skinny man who hid the gun earlier. His eyes darted left and right to make sure everything in the immediate room looked alright.

Paranoid Pete murdered his cheating wife and pinned it on the person she fornicated with, his own younger brother, all while somehow maintaining an ironclad alibi for himself. The real kicker was that the little boy who frequently rode his tricycle on the front lawn across the street from the crime scene had gone missing that very same day.

To this day, no one knows what happened to that boy.

When it comes to Paranoid Pete, it's probably best you don't pry. He'll kill a target's entire family because it is easier and cleaner, but I know it's because he has a taste for blood.

Our eyes met, but we exchanged no words.

I hate working with unprofessional people like him. A taste for blood is pretty much a pre-requisite in this career, but one shouldn't let it interfere with doing good work.

"Pleasure doing business with you all." I ended our dialogue with a nod which they returned. I grabbed the front doorknob while patting myself on the back for a job well done.

Yeah, I know. I'm amazing!

Payout is big this time, too. Perhaps I should retire now and open my own strip club or drug ring and let the next generation gather money for me.

Somewhere between the start of my inner monologue and my opening the front door, a soft slam reverberated through the air, causing me to wince and freeze in place. The three other men glanced upstairs at where the sound came from.

"What was that?" asked Pete.

They looked at each other and then at me to see what I would say.

"Air flow between the rooms caused one of the doors to shut after I opened this one…probably," I gave a plausible explanation out of my ass.

I don't have any good excuses for 'the damn kid can't sit still for more than two minutes!'

Pete hesitated at my explanation before speaking once more. "I'm gunna make sure." He turned to climb up the stairs, and the others followed him.

Damnit Pete, stop being paranoid!

I followed them up the stairs and past the hanging corpse.

Good thing the bathroom door was closed. There's still a chance they'll buy my crappy excuse.

They swept through each room one at a time with Paranoid Pete leading the charge.

Triple crap!

I left the window open!

A cold sweat began to slide down my neck.

We reached the parent's bedroom, and the chilly night air wafted past our faces, bringing Pete and Calvin gaze onto the open window. Steely Stan was slow on the uptake, but the other two looked at me with a questioning gaze.

"To think I missed an open window. Perhaps, my age is catching up with me," I feigned negligence.

I can't admit to purposely leaving it open and putting our entire setup in jeopardy, and if I show them the girl now, they would know that I planned to let her live.

Both things were potentially fatal mistakes for me.

Fifty-eight is an incredibly old age for a working contract killer. If I can't use it to my advantage in times like this, then what good is it?

Calvin closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief while Pete glared at me before walking to the window and closing it. Stan finally realized what the hubbub was about after I mentioned the window.

SLAM!

With their curiosity sated, we exited the bedroom and made our way to the stairs when a creaking sound from behind us echoed down the hallway.

Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap!

The last to leave the room was the first to lead us back; Paranoid Pete and the others charged into the Petronis' bedroom and turned the light on. The closet that was budged open closed back up abruptly.