Crime of the Century

        Mark Morris walks into the CFC Credit Union at around noon on a bright August day. His bald head is dripping sweat. He’s wearing a big puffy jacket, something you’d see atop Mount Everest. He waits in line, bouncing on his heels. When he gets to the teller he hands her a note. The handwriting is neat, the teller doesn’t need to struggle to read it. It says: Under my jacket is a bomb. Give me 15000 cash or I’ll blow us all sky high. Please no cops or my son will die. You have 3 minutes.

           The teller looks up from the note and sees that Mark has pulled quite a large handgun from the pocket of his jacket. He’s waving it, pointing it at the security guard. The teller hits the panic button and walks to the back of the bank, towards the vault. She knows she can’t access the vault, not in three minutes, but she doesn’t intend for the man to be inside the bank in three minutes. She’s triggered the silent alarm, the police were surely on their way. She was going to give the man as much money as he could carry and wish him luck. The Credit Union had terrible health insurance, she couldn’t afford to be blown up.

           The teller takes her key and opens the deposit case. The vault holds the bulk of the bank’s cash on hand, but cash deposits sit in a case and wait to be put in the vault at the end of each day. She empties the case, about eight thousand dollars, more money than she makes in several months, into a white paper bag. She hurries back to the front, hands the man his money, and watches him go. The whole process takes about two minutes, no one but the cops being the wiser.

           Mark Morris walks as calmly as he can back to his car, a beat to shit Chrysler Concorde. Once he’s in the car he lets out a sob, lights a cigarette with shaking hands. He starts the car and peels out of the parking lot. He’s got an hour until he has to make the drop and he can’t afford to waste any more time.

           He struggles against himself, wants to punch the gas but knows the cops will be looking for his car, knows that any wrong move would be the end of it all. He’s got to make the drop, got to get to his boy.

           Twenty minutes after he sets off from the bank he arrives at the Miller Park, the drop site indicated in the ransom letter sent by the men (at least, he assumed they were men) who had kidnapped his boy. He pulls out the letter again, looks at the meticulously drawn map on the back. He exits his car and walks to the spot indicated, a little grove of trees. Leaning against one of the trees is a tape recorder. He picks it up and presses play.

           “Hi Mark, I’m glad you found this!” says the man on the tape. The man is talking into some device to disguise one’s voice, making him sound inhuman. “We’re watching you, buddy! Good job at the bank today, I really didn’t think it was going to work out. Really, it’s a miracle. I’m proud of you for making a pretty successful pawn. Come to think of it, I’m proud of myself for picking such a well suited pawn. I’m just very happy to be alive right now I guess. Anyway, you can leave the money in the hollow of one of these old trees! Please don’t tell me which tree, it’ll be a delightful adventure to find the case. Feel free to climb if necessary! And once you’re finished hiding the stash, come find your boy at 1103 Willow Avenue. You better walk, it’s only a few blocks and there’s bound to be heat on your old jalopy.” And the tape cuts off.

           Mark looks around, panicked at the idea of being watched. Some of the trees are dead, the wood rotting away. He picks a still live oak, a hole barely big enough for the cash. Once the cash is inside he covers it with dirt and leaves. Glances around again, see no one. He walks quickly away.

           The address on Willow Street is only a minute’s walk away. He keeps his head down. Sirens in the air, there must be a manhunt, a search. He feels optimistic, more optimistic than he’s felt since before his boy was taken. The note sent to him had said no cops and excepting the ones chasing him because of the crime he’d committed at the kidnapper’s behest, he’d brought no cops into the situation. And, perversely, Mark feels happier than he has in years, certainly since his wife passed. Twelve years since she died, twelve years trapped in a grey haze. The kidnapper’s note was the first surprise in all those years. He finds that he quite likes surprises, savors the metallic taste of adrenaline.

           His reverie is interrupted by the sounds of approaching sirens. Mark breaks into a run, desperate to reach his son. When was the last time he ran for anything? He can’t remember. A car swerves to a stop behind him but he doesn’t stop to look. It’s only a block from the big house on Willow, he can see it. A voice shouts for him to stop, a voice aged by smoke and drink, but Mark can’t hear it, he’s living in a silent world, a world without color, a world that suddenly seems far away. His shirt is wet and he’s grasping, grasping.

           The police stand over Mark’s prone body. Two men in blue, one tall and mustachioed, one short and holding a smoking gun. The tall cop curses.

           Detectives search the corpse. They find two pieces of paper in Mark’s shirt pocket, too soaked in blood to read. The car is searched, the park is searched, the route the cops assume Mark took is searched. Somehow, the money has disappeared.

           Days pass. The crime is forgotten. Small potatoes, a tiny bank job, water under the bridge. There are murders in the city every day that go unsolved, no time to worry about eight grand. Heat’s off. The park is silent and still when the car pulls up. A man exits the car, walks to the grove of trees. After a moment’s search he finds the bag containing the cash. He’s stunned that the cops didn’t find it but grateful for their stupidity.

           He smiles. “Guess my dad didn’t die for nothing.”

           Once he’s back in the car he lights a cigarette, starts the car. The teller is in the passenger seat. She counts the money. “It’s all there,” she says.

           Mark Morris’ son Drew drives to the liquor store, uses the first of the cash to buy some champagne. Then they hit the interstate, on their way to Canada, drinking dry champagne and celebrating the perfect crime.