by Elaine Togneri
How smart do you have to be to kill a genius? I’m about to find out.
I’m not sure if a musician actually counts as a genius. It’s not like David Leefield is good at math or science or anything real. Playing a sax shouldn’t count. So he can write songs and play anything after hearing it once. Big deal. Clearwater’s Ruth Eckerd Hall might call him a musical genius. I call him dead.
As I drive into the parking lot of Brimm’s Funeral Home, I turn my head to the left so I don’t have to see the landscaping any more than I need to. Even though Brimm’s is located amid the urban decay of US 19, every blade of grass is a vivid green and the same exact height. Shrubs appear annoyingly hand trimmed into perfect leafy balls. Undertakers always purvey the greatest pretense on the newly bereaved, as if bodily fluids aren’t being drained away in the basement and corpses aren’t pumped full of preservatives before being dressed like mannequins and put on display. A total ruse denying how messy death is. I know the reality firsthand.
I’m a stranger to Florida. Two years ago, the fire I couldn’t beat back with my gloved hands roasted my brother alive in the bowels of the earth. I still hear the pop as stirred-up coal dust ignited him into a ball of flame. His skin melted and left his body raw. He died three long, horrible days later. It destroyed our family. Mom didn’t last another four weeks. Six months later, I left the Leefield coal mines and Tennessee far behind. Another reason I hate the green. It reminds me too much of home.
The Genius’s wife died three years ago. Now her aunt Tilly has fallen to the Grim Reaper’s scythe. David is in Brimm’s to say his final goodbye, giving me my best chance to observe and evaluate his strengths and weaknesses. If only I could park my rented black SUV with my eyes closed to avoid the grounds’ false perfection, but I can’t take the risk.
I pull into an open spot and hurry toward the white entrance door. Even that short walk in Florida’s heat beads sweat on my forehead and dampness under my armpits. Life is as disgusting as death. Per Brimm’s website, Tilly’s service will start in five minutes. Time enough to fake signing the guest book and take a seat in the rear of the room, preferably under an air-conditioning vent.
I fade into the crowd of forty-plus mourners, the back of the Genius’s head barely in sight. He’s shorter than he looks onstage, and I shift to keep his blond-streaked hair in sight. He bears little resemblance to his brother Steven. A minister stands and mumbles through a litany of prayers and readings before asking family and friends to speak on behalf of Aunt Tilly.
When David takes his turn, I settle into my seat. His neck bends slightly and his hands rise in front of him as if he’s holding his alto saxophone. All the years of playing and wearing the strap that secures the weight of the instrument have bent his neck, but built up his finger muscles. I won’t underestimate his grasp. He’s of average weight for his height and has no advantage there. Dimples appear and disappear on his face as he blah blahs about Aunt Tilly. I’ve seen him perform and he frequently dips and moves around the stage, demonstrating strong balance and leg strength. For this speech, he stays in place, looking like a viper coiled, ready to pounce. More formidable than one would suppose for someone who has spurned the family business to spend his time playing music.
He returns to his chair and after a final long-droned prayer, the service ends. People form a receiving line, and I join it to satisfy my cameo conceit. He doesn’t know me, but he will. At the end, it gives me a charge to see a flicker of recognition, often mixed with a hint of question or confusion. A perk of the job.
When I reach David, I grasp his hand and confirm my evaluation. Quite a grip. “So sorry for your loss,” I say.
David nods. “How did you know Aunt Tilly?”
I’m not impressed. Too simple a question for a so-called genius, and one I’m obviously prepared for. Tilly’s obituary stated she taught English at Pasco-Hernando State College for many years. “One of her students,” I say. “She helped me a lot.”
He nods again, watching me closely before a young woman behind me rushes forward to kiss him, grabbing both his hands. Strong hands that will soon be stilled and cold.
It’s then I decide a close encounter is contraindicated. I nod to the funeral director on my way out the door and reach a hand into my pocket. Extracting a simple pushpin, I pause by David’s celebrated yellow BMW. Like I said, I do my research.
I bend as if to tie my shoe and press the pin between two worn treads. When he pulls out, the pin will pierce even farther into the tire’s skin. Between the heat and rainy season’s unrepaired potholes in Pasco, a blowout is inevitable. He’ll be doing seventy on the Suncoast as he returns to Tampa and careens out of control. Goodbye, David. Say hello to Aunt Tilly.
I drive to the combo gas station–convenience store close to the parkway to wait. Time for a bathroom break and ham sandwich. No fried pickles available at a place like this, not that I’d trust any Florida cook to make them right, other than the one at Ron’s BBQ. I walk around the store for a bit, buy some pork rinds, then sit in my SUV with the air running.
Another half hour passes. Seems like the wait has been far too long, and I’m considering retracing my route, when I finally see David’s BMW pull into the parking lot. Thankful for the SUV’s tinted windows, I watch as instead of parking next to the gas pump, he ends up right next to me. I clasp my phone to my ear in a phantom phone call. He exits the car and walks around the vehicle, pressing and prodding the tires. He glances at the building. No mechanics at gas stations in Florida because they’re all self-serve, just like Tennessee.
A tall man in a greasy uniform comes out of the store. David calls to him. “Are you a mechanic?”
“Air-conditioning installer. What’s up?”
“My tires don’t sound right.”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“The hum is off.”
The man shrugs and says, “Maybe you got a stone in the treads or a slow leak.” He jumps into a van labeled Keep Your Cool Air-Conditioning ending the conversation with, “Take it easy, buddy.”
David bends down and inspects the tires, one at a time.
Damn. I don’t wait for him to find the culprit. My opportunity’s blown by his super sense of hearing. A mistake. I don’t like making mistakes. I’m too smart for that.
I slam my SUV into Reverse and roar away, heading for the Tampa airport. I’ll put on my old man outfit and change rental companies to pick up a different car, maybe a Caddy. I’ll catch up with David tomorrow. In the meantime, I already have plan B, a murderous alternative that can’t be blown by a sound. I flip on my favorite internet station and listen to Appalachian balladry, the one thing I still like about Tennessee.
David charged four new tires yesterday. I know because I have access to his credit card account. One of the pieces of information I hacked from his insecure online presence. Once I was an uneducated coal miner, a sucker for a company that didn’t do crap to protect employees. The owner, Steven Leefield, even denied my brother’s family settlement claim, saying he should have known to clear coal dust before mining. They had no inspection or dust collection program to avoid an explosion. I don’t know how I managed to get out as the mine collapsed. Afterward, all Steven Leefield did was close up shop.
The government sent us to a coding school as part of a transition program to convert us into computer geeks. That joke of a program didn’t lead to a job, but it did give me knowledge of the dark side of tech. I know David’s hotel. I know his schedule. I know where he keeps the reeds for his prized instruments. I know his secrets. He can’t hide and soon, Steven Leefield is going to know what it feels like to lose a brother.
Tonight David and his band play Ruth Eckerd Hall. A not-to-be-missed opportunity. I hack the hotel registration file and locate the band’s rooms. They have several, but I’m only looking for one. Hunched over and walking feebly through the hotel dragging a bag, I ape the cadence of an elderly man and ask for a room on the fourteenth floor, the same as David’s. I take the elevator up.
As soon as I arrive in my room, I order room service: two bottles of beer and a shrimp cocktail. The room has a black-and-white-striped rug, heavy curtains over white sheers and a king-size bed with a burgundy duvet. Nice but I won’t be sleeping here. It’s early afternoon, and I’ve got plan B tonight.
I throw my bag on the bed and head to the glitzy bathroom. It’s all gold-dotted wallpaper and gold fixtures. The sink appears clean, but I run hot water to rinse it anyway. I towel dry and push the stopper to plug it. Never hurts to be careful. I toss the towel into the tub and return to the bedroom.
A tap sounds on the door and a voice calls, “Room service.”
I open the door and point at the desk. “Over there, please.” After he places the platter there, he heads out the door and I hand him a couple of bucks. Can’t tip too much or too little. I must estimate the “just right” Goldilocks amount. My brother used to joke and say that from the fairy tale his daughter requested every night before the mining company stole him from her life. Enough. I need to get to work.
The tray. I open a beer and pour a glass for me. I walk everything into the bathroom and drain the other bottle into the sink. The damn plug isn’t flush, and some beer goes down the drain until I press to seal it securely. I sacrifice some liquid from my glass and add the shrimp, tails and all. I mash the shrimp with my hands until the foam dissipates, and the resulting stew is pulpy and amber. My plan is to soak his reeds so they absorb the essence of shellfish and the odor of beer. I know David’s habits. He drinks a couple of brewskis before each performance to relax. More importantly, he has a deadly allergy to shellfish.
Now for the dangerous part. At the last Black Hat USA convention, I picked up a microcontroller that when plugged into the DC port under the lock, reads a hotel room’s key code and transmits it back. Open sesame.
I call David’s room. No answer. I check the hall through the peephole. No one around. I make my way down the hall, keeping up my old man act. I tap at David’s door. No answer. Without wasting time, I hack the lock. I’m in.
The room is dark, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. Along the far wall past the two beds, I see sax cases and next to them is his reed storage container that’s shaped like a small hard briefcase. I have to use his reeds, as I’ve read he spends hours perfecting them, whittling and licking until they suit him. He would notice replacements. Being a musical perfectionist, he changes reeds when his perfect pitch hearing catches a minor off note, normally every time he plays. I grab the case and return to my room. I take a picture of the contents before I plop all the reeds into the beer-shrimp stew.
I wait an hour and extract one. Holding it close to my nose, I take a big sniff of ale. Any shrimp odor is masked by the strong bitter scent of the beer. I drain the sink and allow the reeds to dry on a cheap towel I picked up at the dollar store, one I’ll be sure to toss in an anonymous gas station bathroom during my travels. I can’t wait too long to return the reeds, so I grab the hair dryer and use the cool setting to hasten the drying process. After a while I replace them in the case, taking care to match the picture I took.
With a plastic bag, I scoop the shrimp remains out of the sink and flush them down the toilet. I clean the sink, counter and toilet with a spray bottle of bleach. Several careful swipes and I’m done. Then I’m back down the hall with the reed case, finessing my way into David’s room again.
This time when I open the door, a man’s voice calls with a British accent, “Is that you, Dave?” One of the queen-size beds has a form under the covers.
I freeze. The guitar player. David’s reed case was on the other side of the room. I need to replace it there. I stand in the slight hall by the bathroom, out of view.
“I’m sick. Stay away so you don’t get this. Wake me up when it’s time to go.” The form rolls over away from me.
There’s no closet, just a bar to hang clothes on. A suitcase sits nearby. I set the reed storage container on top and back out of the room, easing the door open and closed. The situation is not ideal. I could have killed David’s roommate to get the reeds placed properly. But finding the guitar player dead would probably have canceled tonight’s concert.
I return to my room and mess up the bedcovers. I sweep the place, putting all my things and the trash into my bag. Laying the room key on the desk, I grab my suitcase. A peek through the hole shows the hall’s empty. I exit the room and return to my car. Having signed up for express checkout will make it look like I left early in the morning. I go back to the airport and turn in my Caddy with regret. But I’m careful. I change into my cool guy clothes, jeans, a T-shirt with a picture of David’s band on it and a long-haired wig. I rent a scratched-up Ford Fiesta from another vendor. I’ve got a couple of hours to kill. On my way to Ruth Eckerd, I stop at a restaurant and order dry rub ribs and corn bread. I arrive early to pick up my ticket at the will-call window.
My seat is toward the front but all the way on the edge with a view behind the curtain when it’s open. The band’s instruments are sitting waiting for musicians as am I. The woman next to me has drowned herself in a sickeningly sweet perfume, the kind morticians use to cover body rot. Her hair is long and she finger-combs it incessantly. Thankfully before I yank her hand off her head, the lights dim and the band is onstage. David introduces the players and they start with a crowd favorite to oohs of recognition. The woman next to me hums along, shaking her head. My eyes are only on the Genius. He’s quite good, maybe excellent. Too bad. But his death will be good for album sales and for me.
I wait for him to choke or miss a note through the whole first set. Nothing. Not even when he switches to a soprano sax. When the intermission comes, I stand and rejoice as the woman beside me rushes off with her friends to get drinks or use the restroom. Who cares? As long as she’s gone. Stretching my legs, I wander along the edge for a look in a gap between the curtains at the side stage. No one around for the first five minutes, but then I see David with his reed case. He removes the mouthpiece of the sax and the used reed. He pulls one out of the case, considers it, then tosses it and does the same two more times. He seems to like the next one. He twirls it around in his hands, decides he doesn’t like that one either. What is he looking for?
Finally, he finds one to his liking, but puts it in the smaller instrument that’s only used on a couple of songs. He pulls a reed from his pocket, inserts it in the alto sax and then he’s gone.
The second set starts, and I take my seat. I wonder how long it will take for him to choke to death once he uses the soprano sax. David plays a couple of songs, and then with a nod to the band goes offstage, rubbing his fingertips. He must have more than a food allergy if they are swelling. A contact allergy too. Almost there. This is going to work. I can’t wait.
The band highlights each of its members with the drummer announcing their names. I lean forward to look to the side stage. David’s drinking water. Someone throws him a tube of something and he rubs it on his hands. He drifts back onstage and plays his heart out on that sax.
I wait and wait, but he’s not picking up the smaller one. Instead he comes down the stairs into the audience and plays right next to the first row, then up the aisle to the last row in the front section, down my side. He never misses a note. But those eyes aren’t closed in the ecstasy of the song, they’re peering into our faces.
My cool guy hair is a wig he hasn’t seen. I grin like I’m into the music and point with both thumbs at my shirt. I don’t dare talk in case he recognizes my voice. But the woman next to me outdoes me. She is shouting, tossing her hair and throwing kisses. Finally she comes in handy as a distraction. The Genius plays on by and returns to the stage.
“Is that part of the act?” I ask the woman.
“He does it all the time,” she squeals. “That’s why I got these seats. He is so cute.”
I nod, unconvinced. How far does his genius go? Could he have recognized me? I don’t mind if he does at the end, but not until I finish my job. Plan B is evidently a bust.
I’m tired of waiting. No more making it look like an accident. Hey, aren’t we in the “Gunshine State”? Gun shows everywhere, and private owners who believe in everybody’s Second Amendment rights. No problem. I won’t get caught, but if I do, I’ll just claim I’m standing my ground, a convenient Florida law.
I slip out of my seat never to return. It’s too late for a gun show, but the darknet is always open for a visit. I’m sure I can find local black markets for guns and make a connection. If I’m lucky and David isn’t, by the time he returns to the hotel, I’ll be in the parking lot, armed and ready.
I find a Starbucks and order a ristretto on ice, purely for the caffeine jolt. Lots of open space, so I grab a table where no one can look over my shoulder. In spite of the innate slowness of anonymity, I find what I’m looking for and arrange a meet before I can finish my drink, which barely covers the bottom of a small paper cup.
The transaction works out well, and I drive to the hotel, apprehensive about doing this at night. But the dark of night is nowhere near the darkness of the mines. When your headlamp goes out, you can’t see your own hand in front of your face. I have moonlight and time to let my eyes adjust to the dark.
I turn off the Ford’s courtesy lamp and am cast into darkness. My plan isn’t genius. Just watching for David’s car. Positioning myself. Shooting him as he gets out. I fill two clips and snap one into the gun, the other in my pocket.
I’m glad this job’s coming to an end. Success will taste sweet.
Cars come and go less and less frequently. My head leans against the headrest and my eyelids forget I’m loaded with caffeine.
An engine purrs. I jerk up. It’s the BMW. I grab the gun and ease the door open. I’m out into the cool night air, crouching behind vehicles as I follow his quest for a parking spot. He finds one and I position myself perfectly.
His door opens. I shoot. A grunt, and the body falls.
But then the passenger door opens. I see David. He scoots down. Footsteps scrabble. The man I hit is too tall to be the Genius.
I dodge between two SUVs, dive to the pavement and look both ways for feet. Nothing.
But I hear pounding to my right. I run toward the sound and it stops.
I ease around the front of a Jeep and see brown loafers in front of me.
Hands grip my neck. Strong hands. I jerk around, shooting all the way. Headlights shatter, but David presses harder. He’s tough. As mean as his brother Steven.
“I know you,” he says. His eyes harden. “Your brother burned up back home.”
I can’t talk. My windpipe is collapsing. I thought I was a stranger. Another mistake.
I remember the gun and shoot him directly in the chest. But his hands keep strangling. Those strong, strong finger muscles.
I’m falling right into the bowels of the earth, bringing him along with me. The lyrics of the last ballad I heard mock me. “Poor boy, you’re bound to die.”
I’m smart enough to kill a genius, but not smart enough to survive.