Dilemma

Killing is easy. Disposing of the body is the hard part.

As Shane contemplated the corpse in his living room, he wished he’d thought the whole thing through. But then, impulse and passion never formed the bedrock of rational thought for anyone, had they? And he was certainly no expert. This was his first time. He hadn’t even meant to do it. Well, not quite. He’d considered it on occasion, the way a person might consider a new career—something you thought about from the comfort of your La-Z-Boy with a beer in one hand and the remote control in the other, while potato chip crumbs dotted the front of your Giants T-shirt and the taste of salt lingers on your tongue. As you click from one channel to another, bored with what’s on, not intrigued by Paranormal Caught on Camera or Ancient Aliens, your mind drifts, and there you are, thinking maybe you need to switch jobs or a take a whole new path in life.

Or maybe you think about murder. What would it feel like to see a life ebb before your eyes? Does that life drift slowly away—its last breaths carried out on a gentle receding tide, bathed by the soft light of a setting sun? Or is it seized by an undertow and dragged swiftly away to the depths of some dark and unknown place? Does anyone feel guilt, remorse when killing? Or just simple curiosity, wondering what the dying person is thinking, experiencing—while studying the person’s facial expression for clues?

Shane had never truly pondered murder before, but occasionally, he’d felt that push toward the cliff, his heartrate ticking up—boredom and curiosity nudging him to the edge as he teetered, urged to plunge into the mental abyss. Living alone at the age of thirty-five probably contributed to these occasional swirling drains of sewered thoughts. He’d never been in a serious relationship, didn’t care much for the people at the tech firm where he worked, and hadn’t spoken to his family in months. His parents didn’t care about him, he was sure of that, or they would call him. They always expected him to reach out, pick up the telephone, drive the forty minutes to Mañana to visit them at The Palms—the gated community where they hid behind not-so-secure iron gates and guard shacks. Well, they could just as well get their asses in their SUV and drive down to Fresno to see him. They visited his older brother and sister-in-law in Merced all the time. Why was his brother so fucking special?

He pushed back on the mop of wavy dark hair that hung around his forehead and ears, then brushed the back of his fingers against his stubbled cheek. It was June and the temperature had already climbed into the low nineties. Surprisingly, he wasn’t sweating. The shade helped. Sitting on the back patio, he tugged on his Michelob Ultra as he pondered his dilemma. He couldn’t do anything now, at least not carrying the body to his car. His garage was full of boxes. All of them filled with decaying memorabilia from his childhood and adolescence—outdated PC magazines, yearbooks dotted with signatures and see-you-next-years, a handful of award ribbons from tech fairs, Mickey Mouse ears from a trip to Disneyland. Nothing that would survive the ravages of time to be picked over by eager archeologists five-thousand years into the future. Along with the boxes were an unridden bicycle, a dead treadmill, and gardening equipment that he trotted out when the grass got too high, and the bushes sagged under the weight of their branches.

Because his garage had become a storeroom, he kept his two-year-old Nissan Altima in the driveway. Neighbors might see him popping the trunk and hoisting a large bundle into the back. Nighttime would give him some cover, especially with the lack of streetlights in his area. But where would he take the body? Maybe he could dump it by the airport. That was just three miles away. Yeah. He could leave it in the cell lot where people waited for arriving passengers to call them. No gates, no kiosk check-in like the regular parking lot, and in the middle of the night, who would see him? There might be surveillance cameras, though. Shit. Besides, the airport might be too close to home. Don’t murderers have a comfort zone, some area close to where they live where they ply their trade? He’d seen that on Special Victims or maybe Criminal Minds. The police would surely consider that.

Then it occurred to him to weigh down the body and drop it into a lake. Yeah. He’d seen that in several movies. If he attached enough bricks or stones, the body would stay down for some time and not get discovered. That’s what New York mobsters did to their victims before heaving them into the East River. There was Millerton Lake, about thirty minutes away heading toward the foothills north. On second thought, that wouldn’t work. Millerton Lake had guard shacks and was locked up at night. It probably had surveillance cameras, too.

He sighed, took another long sip of his beer and swatted at a bee that buzzed close to his face. Then it occurred to him. The buzzing sound. A saw. A wood chipper. Like in that movie Fargo, when one of the kidnappers killed his partner and shoved his body into a wood chipper. He smiled as he remembered the scene—the leg sticking out, the guy pushing on it as the cop approached. Shane wouldn’t get caught like the guy in the movie. No. He’d make sure of that. But where was there a wood chipper? No tree cutting going on in the city that he could remember. Maybe some place where wood was dropped off and turned into bark. No. That wouldn’t work either. He’d have the same problem being seen by someone, or, once again, being recorded by a security camera. And, of course, the wood chipper would be loud.

Damn! He really, really should have thought this through.

“Shane.” Pause. “Shane!”

He heard finger snapping. He blinked several times and shook his head slightly. He cleared his throat. His drinking buddy, Antonio, stared at him—dark eyes probing, his gaze slightly narrowed.

“Where’d you go?” Antonio asked.

“Huh?”

“I was talking to you about the Giants, and you drifted. Like you were in a fucking trance or something.”

“Oh.” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I do that sometimes.”

“I know.” Antonio eyed him. “You sure you’re okay? I mean, you even got glassy eyed. Didn’t even blink. What mental trip did you just take?”

Shane forced a smile. “Ha ha.” He stood. “I’m hungry. How’s a pizza sound?”

“Mountain Mike’s?”

“What else?”

Antonio rose from the plastic Adirondack chair. “You sure you’re okay?”

Shane said nothing. He simply gazed into his friend’s eyes, a silly grin stretching his lips.

Antonio shook his head. “You’re one crazy pendejo, amigo.” He entered the kitchen through the patio slider.

Shane watched him, his mind wandering, wondering . . . .