Murder On The Boardwalk

Neon lights illuminated the dark street as I walked down the sidewalk. Drunken choruses intermingled with music from Sound Waves, a popular karaoke bar on the boardwalk. I never could stand karaoke. Hardly anyone could truly sing. Most of the time it was the result of liquid courage convincing the banshees that they could sound as good as the original. Nine times out of ten, though, it sounded like nails on a chalkboard, and tonight was no exception.

I picked up speed. There were some couples out walking, enjoying the pleasant night. Apart from the horrible screeching from the bars, it was a great night to stroll along the boardwalk. The sea breeze was sending that refreshing saltwater smell inland. Something about that smell and the boardwalk’s proximity to the ocean always made me feel at home. The sound of the waves, the salty air, and the sand under my toes at the beach was all I ever needed.

Turning a corner, I saw Jimmy’s newsstand. Unlike the street I just came from, Jimmy had soothing, white lights casting a soft glow onto the headlines of the day. Looking up from his paper, Jimmy smiled and gave a wave of his hand.

“Hey Finn!” He said in his usual, jovial manner. “Can I interest you in the news of the day? I have lots of extras. You can read all about it.”

“Sure thing, Jimmy,” I replied, chuckling.

As I passed in front of his stand, I reached into my jean pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill, and tossed it to him. In turn, he tossed me a rolled-up newspaper.

“Heading home from a job this late?” Jimmy asked, eyeing my work belt.

“Yep. Last job took a lot longer than I thought.”

“Best to hurry!” Jimmy shouted as I started turning the corner. “Page one headlines after all!”

With no intention of slowing down or stopping, I unrolled the paper to the front page. In big bold lettering it read, “Hammerhead Killer Strikes Again!” This was the third or fourth headliner like that one I had read in the past month. Some nut had been going around caving people’s heads in and leaving behind his, or her I suppose, calling card: a normal, everyday hammer. For some reason, the sicko left it lying in what remained of the victim’s skull. The local community had thus dubbed him the “Hammerhead Killer,” and the name stuck.

A blaring horn tore me away, causing me to drop my paper as I realized I was about to step into traffic. The car blazed past with a string of curses trailing out the window.

Picking up and folding the paper under my arm, I impatiently watched the red highlighted hand as I waited for it to turn into a shiny, white man. I shifted weight from one leg to the next and walked in place while I waited. I always had trouble standing still. I’m not sure if it’s ADHD or some nervous tick, but it was impossible for me to not fidget. Finally, the light changed, and I walked across the street.

Turning onto the home stretch, I let out a yawn. I was ready to be in my bed in just another few minutes. A noise startled me from across the street. It sounded like a struggle in one of the alleyways. I thought I heard something that sounded like a cry for help, but I wasn’t sure.

Without stopping, I wondered if I should check it out. Holding the newspaper tightly with my arm, I decided it best to keep going. Someone else would deal with it. Best not to get involved with a crazed murderer on the loose after all.

It was best for me to hurry home to the embrace of my bedsheets. Sleep. Now that was a wonderful thought. As I fought to keep myself awake, a breeze blew in from the nearby the sea. However, the refreshing salt breeze carried along another scent this time.

What is that? I thought to myself. Smells almost metallic. Is that…?

I gave my eyes a good rub. Looking up, I saw that I had finally made it home. Entering the house, I dropped my keys in the bowl on the side table. I made sure the door was locked and bolted, and then I headed to the phone.

Plodding up the stairs, I undid my work belt and took my work gloves off, letting them fall where they would. Unbuttoning my shirt, I got a good whiff of B.O. I made it to the bedroom just in time to fall onto my inviting bed. Still partly clothed and very dirty and stinky, my last thought of the night was, I’ll just shower in the morning.

The raucous ringing of my alarm clock woke me up after what felt like just a few minutes. My bones ached and my head pounded, telling me I needed more sleep. But duty awaited. Half awake—scratch that—a quarter-awake, I clambered into the shower to wash off the stink of the day before. The hot water and soap felt so good as it washed off the muck and gunk from yesterday’s job. The job of a handyman consisted of mainly dirty, gross jobs for me. Brown, red, black, and all other colors of grime circled the drain as it rinsed off my clothes. My clothes.

Darn, I thought.

I had forgotten to disrobe before hopping in the shower. Rectifying my mistake, I finished up my shower and put on a new set of work clothes. I grabbed up my work belt and gloves, and I headed downstairs to get some coffee. The hot brown liquid was revitalizing as it coursed through my body.

Switching on the small TV I had in the kitchen, I listened to the news as I made a quick bowl of cereal. “Breaking News: Hammerhead Strikes Again?” was running across the bottom of the screen with a small shark animation tailing after it.

“Last night, units responded to a 9-1-1 call of a disturbance on the south side of the boardwalk,” the police chief said. “Upon arriving at the scene, officers found two male individuals and signs of an altercation. One of the suspects was beaten and unconscious, and the other was found with wounds from a blunt instrument in his cranium.”

Reporters and journalists erupted with questions. Eyes and ears glued to the TV, I crunched away at my cereal. After about a minute of the incoherent barrage of questions, the chief quieted them down.

“One at a time. Harrelson,” he said, pointing at one of the reporters.

“Chief, would this ‘blunt instrument’ happen to be a hammer?”

“Yes, it would.”

“And would this be the work of the Hammerhead Killer? Could this second man actually be him?”

“At this time, we do not have any definitive evidence linking either of these individuals to our ongoing investigation.”

“But,” Harrelson interrupted, “would you say it’s likely he’s the Hammerhead?”

“An investigation will be underway once he is awake and deemed fit to answer questions. Until then, this department has no other comment. Thank you.”

Another barrage of questions erupted as the police chief turned and walked away from the podium. I switched off the TV and put my now empty bowl into the sink. Looking at the calendar on the fridge, I saw I had another job listed on the other side of the boardwalk.

I picked up my keys and set out for the day, locking the door behind me. Absentmindedly, I patted my belt as I reached the sidewalk. Looking down, I noticed the spot between my screwdriver and level was empty.

Dangit, I thought. That’s the third time in the past month I’ve left it.

I would have to take a slight detour and stop off at the hardware store on the way.