Loose Ends

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DATE: 1059 MONDAY 08/04

DECEASED: STEVEN SAMUEL BARRIOS MALE WHITE OF HISPANIC ORIGIN 01/19 AGE 64

CITY: SENDERA

COUNTY, STATE: SENDERA, TEXAS

PROXIMATE CAUSE OF DEATH: GUNSHOT WOUND / RIGHT TEMPLE

TIME: BETWEEN 0215, 0230 SUNDAY 08/03

REPORTER: AMBER SANCHEZ

RELATIONSHIP: NONE

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Samuel Barrios missed docket call at nine Monday morning and judges and lawyers were calling his office looking for him, some concerned, others pissed, while his impermeable truck was parked outside his office window, across the street from Haligan's. His truck didn't care about, well, really about much of anything.

Amber Sanchez, receptionist, fielding the increasingly hostile voices, called the office manager, what do I do, he’s not answering his cell and I'm getting all these calls.

You have a master, the boss answered, slightly annoyed, (Fuck, man, it’s not even ten yet), go see if he’s passed out hung over or something.

I don’t want to.

She trudged down the hall anyway.

Knocked. Knocked and knocked again.

Begrudgingly, she unlocked his door. His light was on. He was there. She sighed, fucking Monday, man, closed the door, went back to the front office and called 911. She hated her job, stared out the window, stopped answering his line, and waited.

They always suspect the husband, don't they, Detective, the boyfriend, the ex-husband, the ex-boyfriend. It's just so fucking unoriginal, Detective. Detective-ish. You fucking pussy. Calling me "mister" when I know what you think of me. Hypocrite.

The only thing I told Detective Asshole that maybe I should not have was that I've done some things in my life that I'm not proud of. I was mainly truthful about everything else until he asked me well is one of the things you're not so proud of is that you, ummm, killed your ex-wife. I said no no no. Fucking Sherlock Holmes over there, across the table, pretending to take notes. (I said no but I kind of was.)

"So, weird fact," Detective Hall said, keeping his stuttering under control.

"Yea."

"Yea, there was semen found on her f-f-face."

"What's that to me, bud?"

"Mr. Barrios, number one, we're not friends. Number two, we need a DNA sample from you."

Silence.

"So we can eliminate you as a suspect."

Silence. Like I said, so uncreative. Eliminate me, my ass. I stared at him. Who the fuck do you think I am? You're going to dupe me? You graduated from Whittier, bitch. I'm a lawyer, I'm on the fucking City--

"Mr. Barrios?"

I gave it a beat. "Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet. We, ummm, yea, we still have some loose ends to tie up."

"Am I free to go?"

"Sure. Not too far, hum, bud."

"You know, Detective, the woods are full of weak men."

The Sheriff's Office is not far from Haligan's so I walk over, unconfessed, unforgiven.

Dani is working. Thank God. The music, not so much.

I asked her, almost begged, if she could switch from the country put-a-bullet-through-my-skull music to something, anything else. What's your flavor she asked me, Jack Johnson? I suggested Suicide Solution, Ozzy, or Suicide and Redemption, Hetfield. She said I'll do my best old man.

The detective, Hall or Hell, Devin or Demon, or some such shit, was an arrogant prick. We'll get you Mr Mr Mr Barrios you know. It's just a matter of time. I slammed the Ultra down on the bar. We just need to tie up some loose ends you you you know, talk to some, ummmm, ma, more witnesses.

"Want another one, Barrios?"

"Not yet. Don't go too far."

"What's on your mind, Sammy?"

"Not a god damn thing, babe. I'm as empty as a beggar's pocket. Thanks for switching the music, hon. I really didn't want to put a bullet in my head tonight."

"Yea, sweet pea, not a good look. It's Saturday night, who knows, you might get laid." Sabrina Carpenter begs to differ, love.

My ex, the cheating whore, was incapacitated, unable to move, supine on what used to be OUR kitchen floor, faux marble tile that I fucking had installed, bitch, underneath her almost naked ass, when I thrust the knife, butcher's blade, in her chest, between her breasts, the blood splattering up onto my face. It was enough to kill her. I mean, along with the drugs I injected in her when I came to look at her ever-running toilet. Like Berlin, I took her breath away. I could have stopped. Mission accomplished. She was all out of love. But for 47 more times, I didn't. Even as the tip of the blade started to chip against the fake marble. Cunt. Shoulda worn gloves, I shrugged, taking the knife with me.

I was smiling walking back to the truck. I had enjoyed her one last time. Like a postscript. That angelic face. One last come. Too bad she missed it.

The force of the explosion would move the body out of the chair. It would leave the gun in the middle of the floor. It would leave the body slumped on the floor beneath the bookshelf. By the time Amber Sanchez, no relationship, opened the door and sheepishly looked inside, not even bothering to call his name, the dried blood on the right side of what remained of his face left no room for interpretation. "Maybe don't kill your ex," she spat out, closing the door and going up front to make a call.

I like it when Dani works. I drank another hour. It's just a matter of time, Devin Hall had said. And then I drank for another hour. You're not wrong, D-D-Detective Asshole, I thought. Just a matter of time.

Dani said, "Last call," and I complied, tabbed out and put some extra cash for her on the barrier between us but I should have left more. I could have left her everything.

I took some time drinking my last drink. It was a little past two and I knew Dani still had a few customers to clear out, do some cleaning, but she wasn’t being truthful. It wasn’t last call. Last was yet to come. I had an office across the street to go to.

And loose ends to tie up.