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    Killer Eulogy and Other Stories
    Killer Eulogy and Other Stories
    Killer Eulogy and Other Stories
    Ebook102 pages1 hour

    Killer Eulogy and Other Stories

    By Warren Bull

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    About this ebook

    One definition of noir is "no happy endings." In this short story collection by award-winning author, Warren Bull, don't expect any last-minute reprieves - it isn't going to happen. Dark desires spiral inexorably down toward disaster. Bad choices lead to dangerous consequences, and a sucker never gets an even break.

    A clergyman chosen to speak on behalf of the dead is accused of murder. An author trying to make a name for herself attracts the attention of a stalker. A police detective investigating a series of seemingly unrelated murders finds an appalling and very personal link between the crimes.

    A brand-new collection of stories from the creator of Murder Manhattan Style.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUntreed Reads
    Release dateJun 10, 2013
    ISBN9781611875768
    Killer Eulogy and Other Stories
    Author

    Warren Bull

    Warren Bull is a multiple award-winning author with more than forty published short stories, as well as essays, memoirs, a short story collection and three novels to his credit. He is a retired clinical psychologist. Warren has lived in Illinois, North Carolina, California and Missouri. He comes from a functional family and is a fierce competitor at trivia games.

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      Book preview

      Killer Eulogy and Other Stories - Warren Bull

      Author

      Killer Eulogy and Other Stories

      By Warren Bull

      Copyright 2013 by Warren Bull

      Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

      The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

      Also by Warren Bull and Untreed Reads Publishing

      Murder Manhattan Style

      http://www.untreedreads.com

      Killer Eulogy and Other Stories

      Warren Bull

      Acknowledgments

      Thanks to my wife, Judy; my parents, Ivan and Dorris; and my siblings, Dennis, Peggy, and Tina, as well as other extended family members and my friends, for their enthusiastic support of my writing efforts. Thanks to Story Success and Border Crimes critique groups. Parts of this book have been previously published in Yellow Mama, Issue 27, August 2011; and Lost Coast Review, Fall 2011.

      COMPANY POLICY

      I knew the company policy about picking up hitchhikers. When I saw a clean-cut young man holding a sign that read, Wichita, I pulled over.

      Thanks, he said, climbing into the truck cab. It’s nasty out there.

      No problem, I said. Wichita is right on my way. We rode in silence for a few minutes.

      Why’s a nice kid like you hitchhiking? I asked. It can be dangerous.

      I don’t have enough money for a bus ticket, he said. I didn’t have enough money to stay in college.

      That’s tough, I said.

      Yeah, well finding a job without a degree in this economy is even tougher. He frowned. Every good job requires experience.

      If you can’t get a job, you can’t get the experience, I said. I know, kid. I’ve been there.

      I’m Jake, he said.

      I’m Tom. Nice to meet you, Jake.

      I’ve worked in fast food, call centers, and day labor jobs. People with credentials who wouldn’t sniff at a job flipping burgers are taking summer jobs away from high school students, said Jake.

      I know. I’m lucky to have this job, I said. I used to be an owner-operator. You wouldn’t believe the headaches.

      Is your job a good one?

      They take maintenance seriously. They keep the highway taxes up to date. The pay is decent, not great.

      It sounds too good to be true, said Jake.

      They’re very strict, I said. Frequent drug and alcohol testing. Drive longer than legal limits, get a ticket, miss a delivery, or drive an overweight load, and you’re toast.

      Does your company have a policy about picking up hitchhikers?

      Well, yes, I said.

      There are good reasons for that, said Jake, pulling a switchblade and opening it. I’m sorry to do this. If I could find a job, I wouldn’t.

      If you cut me, we could crash, I said.

      Cooperate and I won’t hurt you. There’s an abandoned loading dock up ahead. Pull in there.

      I did as I was told.

      Get out of the truck, said Jake.

      I did.

      Okay let’s keep this simple, said Jake. Unlock the tailgate so I can see what you’re carrying.

      To protect against theft only the dock managers have keys to unlock the trailer, I said. Check it out for yourself. I tossed the keys toward him in a high arc. When Jake looked up, I pulled out my Taser and zapped him. He grimaced and collapsed to the ground. I called in a request for a recovery van. When it arrived, I continued on my route.

      At my destination, I helped unload the truck and went into the supervisor’s office to make my report.

      The load’s in good shape, said the supervisor. Your brief stop didn’t damage the human tissue, bone, and skin.

      The refrigeration worked well, I said. The trip was clean. I didn’t see any cops. Nobody trailed me.

      And the hitchhiker?

      According to company policy, the bonus is paid in cash.

      AND OTHERS

      Heartbreak arrived in the mail at noon on Saturday in a clean new envelope. Maybe heartbreak is too strong a word. The envelope held a contract accepting my short story for an anthology to be published by Sisters in Crime. It should have made me happy to be included in the anthology. It did. On the other hand, I knew the heartache would come later when the book was issued. The cover would contain a picture, the title, and the names of at most four authors plus the words and others. I would be one of the other writers. I always was. Sighing, I picked up the envelope and its letter, along with a package wrapped in tattered brown paper. I contemplated the meaning of success as I walked up the stairs.

      Success is a strange concept in the writing world. Many people would consider me a successful writer. I scrape out a living by turning out mystery stories, the very occasional crime story novel, editing, ghost writing, and teaching English classes at Mark Twain Junior College and North Central Missouri State, which we underpaid instructors jokingly refer to as the local directional university. I don’t teach creative writing at the university because, as the faculty with academic degrees will tell you, none of my publications matter since they are genre writing. I don’t have the credentials of the creative writing teacher whose claim to fame includes a Master of Fine Arts degree and two plot-free but symbol-drenched stories about miserably unhappy and unappealing people dealing with serious life issues. The stories were published in a fourth-rate literary journal read almost exclusively by MFA students and professors.

      I earn enough to rent a walk-up third-floor apartment in a wonderful old house built for a doctor in 1920. The steps are narrow and steep, but jogging all the way up builds my cardio. My apartment has one tiny closet, and the water pressure makes washing my hair an adventure, but the construction is solid. The house has character and charm. I can see bubbles and streaks in the original glass windows.

      The doctor was a practical man. He used the space under the roof as a playroom for his children, so two walls of my apartment rise straight for four feet and then slope inward and meet high above. I live in a squashed heptahedron, or so the math types tell me. It’s perfect for a writer with her head in the clouds who could earn more by serving burgers and fries in a fast-food emporium.

      Inside my apartment, I put down the envelope and looked over the package. The wrap was made of paper cut from a grocery bag. I marveled that the post office was able to decipher the sloping and spidery writing as my address. Stamps of various designs and values were plastered on the corner. After hacking through layers of packing tape, I uncovered a wrinkled cardboard box with several rips carefully repaired with tape.

      Inside was a letter written in barely legible script, plus a stack of typed onionskin pages and lined tablet paper with scribbled handwriting. When I looked at the signature on the letter, the reason for the package started to make sense.

      I met Dorothy Phillips

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