Brutal Honesty

Imagine and hold what cannot be yours

Speak to yourself when you are alone

Look into the mirror and tellyourself

What do you see when no one else isthere

To impress, to shame, to lie to

When you are alone with yourself

Who do you see

When you look in the mirror

-I am yours, mes chers: I am become death, the destroyer of worlds. (Bhagavad Gita)

The poem was found only two feet from the victim's body. Blood had spattered onto the page which bore an absurdly long signature affixed to the bottom. I am become death? No duh. Celebrity Miranda Swift was lying dead in her own home, on her bedroom floor. A 5 time Academy Award winner, 8 time Oscar winner, 3 time Tony winner, Miranda's loss was going to strike the entertainment world harshly.

Natalie Schultz, FBI, was reading the poem when someone announced, rather rudely, that another had been found.

"What?!" Natalie stared at the other agent. "What do you mean, another?"

"At the next victim's house."

"Another victim? Already?"

The man nodded, feeling uneasy.

"Where? Who? When?"

"Ten blocks away. Celebrity writer Jonas Ephraim. Shot in the head. Maybe twenty minutes ago. A neighbor reported it."

"Holy crap," Natalie said with a sinking feeling. "He moves fast."

He just happened to be Mr. Dimitri Youngblood. And he was eager to be paid. The woman who had hired him stood on the stairs of the elegant Victorian home. It was shadowy, but not so much that he couldn't see her face. God, it was beautiful. She wore her raven black hair long down her back, and wore what must have been a five thousand dollar red dress. Her long white gloves and silken red sash all said one thing: rich. But it wasn't her he had come to retrieve. It was his cash. Twenty million, all told, ten for Swift and ten for Ephraim.

"You signed the contract. Give me the money."

"On one condition," she smiled craftily.

"What might that be?" 

"Two more must die. An additional twenty million, plus five bonus if you can complete the job without being caught."

"Who?"

"I will provide the addresses and what I wish to be left behind. Do what you will, just see to it they are dead. Do not patronize me, and do not betray me. The consequences will be severe, of course, if you even think on such a thing."

He was thinking it of course, but said nothing, only took the small box she had thrust at him. He walked out of the door without another word. The woman stayed behind, watching him leave in the black Lexus. "You will be the fifth to die, my friend," she whispered softly. "And yours will be the most spectacular of deaths."

Natalie had only finished comprehending what her coworker had told her when it started to rain outside. "Crap," she muttered. "There goes any evidence outside."

She placed the poem inside of a bag and marked it clearly in her tiny, precise handwriting. She looked up and saw her partner, Casie Schwartz, walking towards her. Casie also happened to be her cousin. Casie was the taller one, the blonder one, the prettier one. Natalie was shorter, and dirty blond, and hadn't managed to attract one boy, not since before kindergarten. Casie was on her fourth husband.

"Natalie? What'd you find?"

"Strange poem. I think the killer wrote it. Read it for yourself."

Natalie watched carefully as Casie read through the poem. When Casie was done, the hand trembled that put the poem on the table where it had been found. Her tanned face had gone pale.

"I wrote that poem."

Natalie dropped her coffee mug.

"What?!"

"When I was in fifth grade. Remember Michael? How he used to be such a big bully? I wrote that poem about him. But no one ever saw it. It was hidden in my closet, where no one could see it..."

"Then how did our killer get a hold of this?"

Casie sat down. "I don't know..."

<a href=http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474977214341&nav=Namespace>Part Two</a>