THE KILL-O-WATT INTERVENTION

The distinctive creek of his basement door signaled her impending arrival. Jamie didn’t look up. He made one last adjustment to his invention. Melanie, his long-term partner, descended the stairs and asked, “Are you coming tonight?” Eager to see her react to his surprise, he answered, “Yes.”

Melanie squinted. Her head twisted from side to side. “Who said that?”

Jamie puffed out his chest. “T’was I. Doctor James Prescott Watt, inventor extraordinaire,” he replied with an exaggerated bow and a bad, fake British accent. “And if m’lady would allow me but five minutes to gather my accouterments, it would be my honor to escort you to tonight’s soirée,” he added.

Melanie shook her head. “Tonight’s soirée? You hate loud music—and dancing. What’s going on?” 

She had a reason to be suspicious. For years, Jaime had politely declined Melanie’s regular invitations to go dancing. It wasn’t the dancing. It was the loud music screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard, offending his ears and brain, the pain intolerable. Over the years, the young couple had developed a ritual. Melanie would make plans with friends to meet at some club with a “rockin” live band. Before leaving, she would stop by his basement lab and say, “Are you coming tonight?” and he would reply, “Alas, my love, I have an important experiment that requires my undivided attention. Please go and have fun with your friends and don’t worry about little old me.” She would kiss him on the cheek and reply, “Enjoy the silence, Doctor Dreamy”—a nickname he disliked, but heard frequently, thanks to his uncanny resemblance to the former TV star.

A year ago, as the five-foot-ten beauty ascended the stairs, Jaime felt a twinge. Melanie had casually mentioned that her girlfriend-posse had transformed into a collection of couples. The implication clear—she'd become a square-single in a round-couples hole. That day, Jaime made a pact with himself. Before the year was over, he would find a way to answer “yes” to Melanie. He had two PhDs, his own lab, and full access to the J.P. Watt Robotics Institute, founded by his parents, Doctors Julia and Prescott Watt. Surely, he could design something. That spark was the beginning of his latest invention, the Giga Music Filter Attenuating Optimizer (GMFAO)—pun intended.

The first version, the Mach One, filtered music out but allowed a cacophony of shrill voices through. Ouch! For months, he fiddled, adjusted, tweaked, and tinkered. The current version, the Mach-Ten, connected wirelessly to a modified red and white vintage Daredevil collapsible walking cane. When pointed at a target, only a singular voice filtered through to his earpieces. The folded cane was about the length of his forearm. On the way to the club, Jamie told Melanie that tonight’s destination, one of the city’s loudest venues, was the perfect place for his beta test. He could assess the Mach-Ten’s range and clarity, and she would be part of a couple.

Inventor endorphins pumped through Jamie's veins. He entered the club, adjusted his earpieces, and grinned. Silence! The amped-up music was no match for his technological wizardry. Tonight, he’d hear what he wanted to hear, period. Melanie had left him in the booth to “play with his new toy.” About twenty feet away, she danced and bobbed to the music. Jaime pointed his arm at the woman who had inspired the GMFAO. He could hear her singing along with the band. Ahh! Melanie’s beautiful voice. Aside from her passion for loud music, Melanie was perfect. She floated towards him.

“How about taking a break from the Mach-Ten and joining me on the dance floor?” she asked. With her brown hair held up ponytail-style in one hand, she fanned her glistening face with the other. “I promise. You won’t break a sweat. It’s a slow dance.” Jaime stood and, forgetting the Mach-Ten was in “listen mode,” wrapped his arms around her waist. 

A random man’s words ran up his arm and jumped to his ears. “I promise you; she’ll be dead by morning.” 

Melanie wiggled out of Jamie's embrace and dragged him toward the dance floor, while he scanned the crowd—part stunned, part curious, and part terrified. He had to find that voice again. Frantically pointing into the crowd, he searched for that same deep, raspy voice. He’d only need one sentence to recognize it again.

“I’ll get the check.” No.

“Would you like another drink?” No.

“I’ve got a lot riding on this, Marco.” Promising, but no.

“My customers always get what they pay for, Mr. Middleton.” Yes!

Whoa. His invention’s potential for eavesdropping was obvious, but Jamie never expected to be listening in on murder for hire. Who were they planning to kill? He watched this Marco character slip a bulky envelope into his pocket, down the rest of his drink, and push his chair back. Jamie didn’t know if the “hit man” was leaving to finish the job or not. He did know that he might be able to stop a murder and test out a new feature of the Mach-Ten, if he could get Marco alone.

He shouted in Melanie’s ear. “Sorry. We’ve got to go, now!” He didn’t want to involve her, but he’d need a distraction, and Melanie merely walking into a room created a jaw-dropping one. Marco lingered at the table with Middleton for a few more minutes, which allowed Jamie and Melanie to dash out the door. 

In the relative quiet of the street, Jamie explained what he had heard inside the club. He suggested a plan for combining a good deed with an additional Mach-Ten experiment. Like a seasoned pilot looking for a safe place to land, he studied their surroundings. “You sure you’re okay with this, Melanie?”

“Are you really asking me if I’m okay with helping you stop a murder?” she asked.

“Marco seems like a dangerous guy,” Jamie replied. 

That’s why I’ll be doing this Deedle-Deedle-Dumpling style.” She winked, slipped off one of her weapon-like heels, and trotted toward the club door—one shoe off and one shoe on. When Marco exited the building, Jamie “escaped” in the opposite direction. Panting, Melanie collided with Marco’s fireplug-like body. Jamie extended Mach-Ten, stopping long enough to hear their conversation. Melanie pointed at Jamie. “Call the police. That man stole my purse.” 

Marco squinted. “You mean that blind guy with the cane?”

“He’s not blind!” Melanie sniffled and whined. “My wallet, keys—everything’s in that purse.”

“Stay right here, little lady. That guy may not be blind, but he sure is dumb. There ain’t no way out of that alley.” Marco raced off. Melanie dialed 911. 

The alley was an ideal spot for Jamie’s “experiment.” He hypothesized that the Mach-Ten would work in reverse and added an inverse-wave function using a top-secret component he’d recently designed. That was why he had to get Marco alone and away from any potential witnesses. In theory, at full power, the Mach-Ten would emit an inaudible sound, like a dog whistle, intense enough to make a human pass out. When fully extended, his cane could direct the wave with laser precision. He slipped into a recessed area and blended into the darkness.

Marco’s elongated shadow preceded his entry. “I know you’re in here, Jacko,” he shouted. 

Jamie aimed his cane and pushed the button. The hit man’s eyes popped wide open. He grabbed his ears and dropped to the ground—out cold. Jaime pressed the timer on his watch, eager to record how long the effect would last on a man Marco’s size. He rolled Marco over and secured his hands behind his back using his leather belt. Now Jamie needed something to tie his guinea pig’s legs. He turned on his phone light and audibly exhaled. If he were going to find something, he’d have to do a potentially nasty dumpster dive. Jaimie crossed his fingers, lifted the lid, and searched for something with a long cord, preferably near the top of the smelly bin. 

“Come on. I need … there you are. Come to poppa.” Jamie yanked on a plug and almost beaned himself when an old brown can opener attached to the other end came flying from the trash heap. Marco, still comatose and breathing, resembled a beached whale. Jaime tied his legs with the cord and rolled him over. According to Jamie’s timer, his subject had been out for fifteen minutes. A police siren wailed in the distance, indicating that Melanie had executed her part of the plan without incident.

Jamie checked his watch when Marco stirred. He instinctively scratched his head. What if he had jumped to the wrong conclusion? Jamie rarely acted without first doing his research. What if this guy runs an exterminating company, and Marco was getting rid of a rat the size of Godzilla? Or, what if he’s a relative, telling a cousin that grandma wasn’t going to make it through the night? Or a veterinarian, and Fluffy must be put down after all these years? Marco’s eyes blinked. Jamie moved into the shadows, so Marco couldn’t identify him.

“You’ve messed with the wrong guy, Jacko.” An eerie wolflike glow radiated from Marco’s rage-filled eyes. Jamie laughed nervously, a mixture of fear and relief, now certain that his prisoner was not a vet, a relative, or an exterminator. Marco was a bad guy. He reminded him of The Godfather’s enforcer Luca Brasi—bound hand and foot and still throwing down threats. 

Red and blue flashing lights signaled a police car was stopping at the alley’s entrance. Jamie exhaled a sigh of relief, happy to leave dealing with Marco to someone more qualified. 

“Are you Doctor Watt?” whispered a plain-clothed officer, while flashing a badge.

Jamie nodded. They shook hands, and Jaime squinted a hint of recognition, “You look familiar. Have we met?” he asked.

“Don’t think so. Could be my twin brother Joe. He works for the Feds. By the way, your gorgeous friend is quite a detective, Doc. Follow me,” he said.

Officer Brian LaPiazza explained that while Jamie had been dumpster diving, Melanie researched the Middleton family. Tommy, the only heir to the “Middleton millions,” now sobbed in the back seat of a police car. Society snoopers eagerly reported volumes on the wayward grandson of Elizabeth Middleton who, like her British namesake, was blessed with Methuselah-like genes. The officer continued, “Grammy Liz recently canceled young Tommy’s credit line. He cracked like an egg when we told him that we had evidence he planned to send Grammy to that gold old folks’ home in the sky. Poor thing had to sell his classic Rolex to raise the money to hire your buddy Marco over there.” 

“Officer, I don’t know much about the rules of evidence, but isn’t my story hearsay?” Jaime asked. “I don’t have a recording.”

The policeman chuckled. “Yeah, but Tommy didn’t know that when he confessed. Good thing too, because it will be healthier for you if Marco’s buddies have no idea that you were involved in this.”

Jaime peered down the street. “What’s going to happen to Tommy?”

LaPiazza smirked. “You don’t know much about how these rich folks operate, do you?” 

Jaime shrugged. The police didn’t need to know his financial status. 

Two more police cars arrived and LaPiazza motioned for Jamie to follow him back towards the club. On the way, Jamie learned that this was not Middleton’s first arrest. As before, the police expected that Mrs. Middleton would slap her singular heir on the wrists, pay off his debts, get the charges dropped, and ship him off to Europe. Marco would be released, and for Jamie and Melanie’s safety, there would be no mention of their names in the file. Mrs. Middleton would offer to make a substantial anonymous donation to Jamie’s favorite charity. LaPiazza finished, “That’s rich-people speak for this never happened.” 

Melanie jumped out of the squad car parked in front of the club entrance and threw her arms around her accidental hero. “What a night!” Jamie melted into her arms. 

LaPiazza escorted the young couple to Jamie’s car. “So, Doc, Melanie didn’t tell us how you managed to take out Marco “Magic Fingers” Malone single-handedly.”

Jamie gave Melanie a quick squeeze. “Sir, all I can say is GMFAO.”

“You giggled him into submission?”

The young inventor winked at his partner in crime-stopping. “That and the fact that I really did have something up my sleeve!”

####

According to the U.S. Government, they have never heard of or worked with a Dr. James Prescott Watt. They also have no knowledge of any invention called a GMFAO Mach-Ten or any other number.

Not long after their encounter, Jamie and Melanie returned to their now favorite club. Newly appointed FBI Agent Joseph LaPiazza sat in a side booth. He glanced at them, adjusted his earpieces, hit the record button, and grinned.