A Matter of Pride

By Jeremy Lee Riley


Daniel Nussel had only to listen to five minutes of Mrs. Shaw's rambling before he was certain he was at the right house.

"Tall man with strawberry blonde hair, you say?" Mrs. Shaw sat two cups of tea on the coffee table and then settled herself into a plush straight back chair beside a soot-stained fireplace. "Walks with a bit of a limp? Tattoo of Spider-man on his left shoulder? Why yes, I do believe that is Tony Stiegman to a T. Nice enough gentleman; saw my 'room for rent' sign and moved in about two months back. Paid the first four months in advance, never disturbs any of the other lodgers, helps with the dishes after supper. Couldn't ask for a better tenant. Is he in trouble for something?"

Nussel thought about telling her that her perfect tenant went by another guise, that of Thomas Swadner, notorious throughout the Midwest as the Cross-Roads Killer, a bi-sexual serial killer who had claimed the lives of over thirty-eight elderly women and men from Indianapolis to the Illinois line. About two months back, give or take, Swadner had apparently gotten wind that the law was closing in on him and wisely skipped town (well, the whole state of Indiana, actually) before he could be caught. Nussel had been on his trail long before that and he could've gutted every one of those stinking hillbilly, white trash, country bumpkin cops who bungled up the whole investigation and allowed him to slip right through their fingers. Luckily, Nussel was a better tracker than any of those corn-fed wannabes and the trail had led him south, past Texas, to this little border dwelling called Haydn City.

From there it was only a matter of asking around. All fingers pointed to Mrs. Shaw's old, two-story boarding house on the corner of Harvest and Main Street. New arrivals often stayed at her place, sometimes for a day, sometimes for months on end, depending on who they were and where they were heading. Shaw seemed like a nice enough old lady, a little needy for company maybe, she had nearly pulled him through the door after he knocked and introduced himself, and had barely allowed him to get a word in edgewise since. But she was nice, and that was good. He liked them nice.

"Tony works down at the mill," Mrs. Shaw said. "Works from six to three, Monday through Friday." She checked the grandfather clock by the front door, the hands of which, big and small, pointed to ten and was inching toward three respectively. "In fact he should be home any minute. I better put out the cake, Tony always has a slice with his tea when he comes home. Such a dear boy he is. I hope he hasn't done anything wrong."

Mrs. Shaw excused herself and went into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with half of a homemade cake and a large butcher's knife. She set both down on the corner of the coffee table and asked Nussel if he would like a piece as well. It was made from scratch, she assured, pineapple upside down cake, better than anything you'd find in a grocery store, that was for sure.

"I would be delighted to have a piece," Nussel said with a smile that made him look a decade younger than his thirty-seven years. "Can't beat homemade, after all."

"No sir, you can't." Mrs. Shaw thought a moment and then clapped her hand against her brow. "Plates. My word, I almost forgot. I'll be right back, Mr. Nussel."

"Take your time," Nussel said, and meant it. If Swadner or Stiegman or whatever the hell he was calling himself now was expected home any minute he didn't want the kind old Mrs. Shaw to witness what was to follow. He waited until she had disappeared back into the kitchen and then removed a silencer-fitted 9 mm Beretta from a shoulder holster hidden beneath his long, black coat. The grandfather clock struck three and Nussel took a deep breath. Swadner wouldn't be home before she returned, of that much he was certain.

Sure enough Mrs. Shaw strolled merrily into the room moments later, three dishes stacked in her hands, talking so fast Nussel had trouble keeping up with what she was saying. He just managed to hide the gun under the folds of his coat before she saw it. "Where are the other tenants?" He asked when she paused long enough to draw in a breath.

"Oh, Freddy and Sylvia are out to a movie, Bob's upstairs asleep--he works the nightshift down at the power plant as a security guard--and Henry'll be working until five. He's a sacker down at the Clip and Save."

"I see," Nussel said, and relaxed a little. He couldn't have picked a more opportune day to track the son-of-a-bitch down.

There was the sound of a bus pulling to a stop out front and Mrs. Shaw glanced out the window. "Ah, here he is now, Mr. Nussel. He isn't in any kind of trouble is he? I can't imagine Tony doing anything against the law."

Nussel checked his wrist-watch and said, "Mrs. Shaw, would you mind getting me a glass of water, it's time for me to take my pills."

"Pills?" Mrs. Shaw replied, cocking one thin eyebrow. "Whatever would a man your age need with pills?"

"Bit of a bum ticker," Nussel said and tapped his chest a couple of times to help get the point across. "Doctor's orders."

"Yes, yes, right away then." Mrs. Shaw turned and sped off for the kitchen, still talking even though her words were now garbled and lost by both distance and the barrier of a well-insulated wall.

There was the rattle of a key in the lock and the front door creaked open. Nussel stood and raised the 9 mm. Thomas Swadner walked in and Nussel took a moment to study this man who had made such a nuisance of himself. He was tall and stocky, not portly, per se, but there was the telltale impression of a gut pressing against the dirty overalls he was wearing. A baseball cap with a faded Coors insignia peering over the creased bill sat snug on his head. Locks of strawberry blonde hair snaked out at odd angles along its edges. His face was round and stubbly, his eyes the blue of a clear summer day. He saw Nussel--or, more importantly, the 9 mm Nussel had trained at his face--and dropped the lunchbox he'd been carrying in his right hand.

Nussel drew his lips into a snarl that showed off his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, and pulled the trigger. There was a compressed Pffh! and a neat little hole formed in the center of Swadner's forehead. His eyes rolled up until only the pink bloodshot whites were visible and an inarticulate noise emerged from the back of his throat. Eek! it sounded like to Nussel. Swadner teetered on his boot-heels and then fell forward onto Mrs. Shaw's plush straight back chair. Nussel sighed and holstered his gun once more. He couldn't stand copycat killers. Where did they get off stealing another man's thunder? It had been a long and arduous process tracking Swadner down, but it was over and done with now, and he could get on with reclaiming the glory that had been inequitably stolen from him.

Nussel looked down at the butcher's knife lying on the coffee table beside the cake. Light from the window gleamed off its honed edge. He grinned and picked it up. Mrs. Shaw emerged from the kitchen, carrying his glass of water and going on about heart palpitations, too much grease in one's diet, and how her own father had died of a heart attack at the ripe old age of fifty-two. In a second or two she would withdraw enough from her one-sided conversation to notice the body sprawled across the chair, and then she would drop the glass and scream. The glass would shatter on the hardwood floor, she would pull at her hair, maybe attempt to flee. Maybe Bob the security guard would come stumbling down the steps in a half-sleep daze to see what the matter was, and then things would really get interesting.

Nussel closed his eyes and savored the moment. He wondered absently if the old house had a cellar.