MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2)

by James Schannep

  There’s nothing too complex about the revolver; you pull back the hammer and the cylinder rotates in response. Five cartridges dance like musical chairs toward the chamber, each cartridge pristine, save for the one already dented by the firing pin. The one whose bullet most likely killed the woman lying on the floor.

  All you have to do is squeeze the trigger and the weapon will kill for you too.

  But as you look up from the revolver, you realize you’re not alone. A man stands before you, at a door opposite yours, staring at the woman’s body. His expression is odd, a mix of horror and confusion. Shock, perhaps.

  You get a good look at him: like any other local Brazilian, his skin is olive-tan, but he carries himself like a European. Thin, clean-shaven, high cheekbones, looking like he recently had a haircut. Atop his swooping nose sit silver-colored, professorial-looking spectacles.

  When he looks up at you, that’s when you see the rage. His eyes are very unusual for a Brazilian—icy-blue. With a muscular twitch, his jaw sets and he takes a step forward, but then stops in his tracks when he spots the revolver in your hand.

  He turns to run away.

  • Let him go.

  • It’s the killer! Shoot him in the back!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Antitrust

  Let’s face it, too much competition is bad for the black market, right? Irma Dos Santos’ eyes grow wide as you shoot her repeatedly with the assault rifle. Is it shock at your evident betrayal? Or is it simply surprise that you managed to get her first? You—a simple tourist—are getting a one-of-a-kind travel experience. Pretty sure “Kill Slumlords and a Rio Cop” won’t be on the tour guide.

  Still, you don’t want to be around when this crime scene gets investigated. You’ve already learned that lesson. You leave the four bodies on the floor and venture back into the alleys. Looking carefully for more drug traffickers, you jog through the concrete labyrinth until….

  What’s that smell? Liver, rare. And the taste in your mouth? It stings like copper. You’re in the street when an Elite Squad member draws down on you with his assault rifle, the barrel smoking.

  Is that what that crack sound was? You fall to your knees, then face down onto the dusty street.

  When somebody comes running at these guys with an AK-47, they don’t think, they just react. They’re the best. Agent Danly’s gonna have a hell of a lot of paperwork to write up on you.

  THE END

  Ask Around

  Viktor starts by asking Isis, but her posture turns defensive. “Não, não, não,” she says over and over, her palms raised and her head shaking.

  “She refuses to get involved with the traffickers,” Viktor tells you. “I’m willing to bet she’s had some bad experiences in the recent past.”

  You notice for the first time the ever-so-faint outline of a healing bruise around her left eye. The skin there is yellowed, with a few mottled pink spots. Viktor pays her for her trouble and she seems to calm down. She thanks him and leaves.

  Viktor is about to say something to you, but one of the male pickers comes to take her place, swooping in like one of the opportunistic seabirds that raid the garbage mound underfoot. The man offers to help, looking for a similar reward to what Viktor just gave Isis.

  “He says he has a cousin who’s a trafficker and another who’s a prostitute. He’s willing to arrange a meeting with either of them.”

  • “Straight to the source. Trafficker it is.”

  • “I’m less afraid of a prostitute than I am a drug lord. So…ladies first, that’s my vote.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Askew

  You knock the gun just as she pulls the trigger, sending the shot wide. The bullet ricochets wildly off the brick wall, but doesn’t hit anyone. Viktor drops the bomb, reflexively ducking and raising his hands in surrender. It clinks harmlessly against the pavement.

  Excruciating pain shoots through the right side of your chest just beneath the ribs, and suddenly you can’t breathe. At first you think you’ve been shot, that maybe the ricochet hit you, but when you look down, there’s a knife in your chest and Irma is holding the handle.

  As she pulls the blade out, your lung collapses.

  “I really wish you hadn’t made me do that,” she says. “I liked you.”

  You try to respond, but you can’t draw in enough air to speak.

  Viktor’s blue eyes are like saucers. Irma turns and shoots him. As he crashes to the ground, she shoots him again. She walks over to his body and shoots him once more, for good measure, then places the knife in his hand.

  You fall to one knee, incredibly weak now.

  “I wish I could just put you out of your misery,” she says, “but Viktor only stabbed you once, see? Then I was able to shoot him, bringing the killer to justice and solving the case.”

  You try to call out for help, but you can’t. The strain weakens you further and you fall down. You lose consciousness, but regain it sometime later. You can’t be sure how long it’s been.

  Just barely, over the sound of your own wheezing, you hear footsteps approaching. From the shadows, the Rio chief of police emerges.

  “Well done, Detective,” the man says.

  He examines the scene, then notices you’re still alive. He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and kneels down next to you.

  “We must finish the job here,” he says, “on the off-chance that the American would recover in the hospital. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He presses the handkerchief over your nose and mouth. Slowly, everything goes black.

  THE END

  At the Copa, Copacabana

  The government SUV pulls up to the city’s most famous hotel, the Copacabana Palace. Only three miles up the road from your old hostel in Ipanema but three times the price for a room, you’re greeted with all the pomp and circumstance of a visiting rock star. The white façade is something out of the 1920s, and to be quite honest, it looks more like a presidential home than a hotel.

  “The Secretary of State was set up to be here during the Energy Summit but got called away, so the suite is available for the night. Enjoy,” Agent Bertram says, a warm smile breaking through his beard.

  “Try and get some sleep,” Danly says, exiting the car.

  Your room is so opulent, it borders on the obscene. More a luxury apartment than a hotel room, the tiled floors glimmer under soft white lamps. The main room has furniture made of a dark, jungle wood. Several vases of fresh, locally exotic flowers await you. The curtains are open to your own private balcony, inviting a cool sea breeze from the ocean, so close you can practically feel the spray from the waves.

  You sit on the bed, pick up the phone, and dial your room at the hostel, but no one answers. As you’re leaving a message to let your friends know you’re okay, a sinking feeling creeps over you. They’re probably just still out partying, right?

  With this optimism in mind, you lie down to ponder the implications. Before you know what’s happened, you’ve melted into the 80,000-thread-count sheets and fallen deeply asleep, the day’s events unable to touch you on your luxurious perch.

  * * *

  The next morning you enjoy a cup of steaming, delicious coffee—courtesy of your own private butler—on the balcony. It’s large enough for deck chairs, and you lounge under the warm embrace of the morning sun, admiring joggers starting their day along the white sandy beach.

  When you try to call your friends once more, they answer this time and you spend the next hour regaling them with tales of adventure and a near-horrific end. Promising to meet up soon, you hang up and head down to the main floor in search of breakfast.

  In the lobby, the American agents are reading the morning paper in comfortable leather chairs. Upon recognizing you, their papers are folded and returned to the end tables. The pair rises in greeting. With routine familiarity, they button their suit jackets as they stand up.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” you offer.


  “I trust everything was in order?” Danly asks.

  “Oh, in spades,” you reply, in the pageantry of elegance.

  “Join us for breakfast,” Bertram says, pointing an open hand to the hotel’s restaurant.

  It’s on a terrace near an enormous swimming pool, where many guests have already claimed a spot with a mixed drink and a good book. The busboy delivers three glasses of water and soon after, your waiter appears.

  “Would you like to hear our chef’s specials?”

  “Of course,” you reply.

  “The first is Anchova negra grelhada—grilled oilfish in miso-Dijon mustard sauce, served over red rice with pears, grilled green onions, carrot and broccoli au gratin. We also offer an excellent brie cheese-filled lamb polpettone, with tagliatelle in pomodorini sauce. And lastly is our filét mignon—sliced, grilled beef tenderloin in chimichurri sauce, with spice-roasted potatoes and citrus-steamed vegetable pappardele.”

  “I’ll take all three,” you say, salivating. The less pronounceable the dish, the more delicious it tends to be.

  “The Embassy isn’t footing the food bill,” Danly says dryly.

  The three of you order, the waiter leaves, and as you look out over the pool, Bertram says, “It’s been confirmed. Our Jane Doe is now Jane Nightingale, an Office Management Specialist at the Rio consulate. I didn’t know her.”

  Danly shakes his head; neither did he.

  Agent Bertram continues, “She didn’t hold a significant position—they’re the ones that do the secretarial work—so we don’t think the killing was politically motivated, but we won’t rule out a terrorist attack until we know for sure.”

  “Most likely she was separated from the crowd, just like you, and it was a mugging turned sour. Who knows, you may owe the woman your life. It could have been you in there.”

  “It’s even possible this is a serial killer—he’s the right demographic, based on that sketch you provided—and you probably interrupted him during his rituals,” Bertram says.

  “I doubt it,” Danly says. “Serial killers are extremely rare.”

  “In America, maybe. But with no extradition laws, Brazil is like a retirement community for criminals.”

  “And this guy has come out of retirement?” you ask.

  “I don’t buy it,” Agent Danly says. “This was a first-time job, too sloppy to be a pro. Regardless, this is going to be a total shitstorm. We haven’t had an American murdered in the Foreign Service since the Sixties, and that was at the hands of a coworker. So an American killed outside the line of duty by a foreign national? Shitstorm. Within 48 hours, a team will be dispatched by HQ, and in a couple of days this place will be crawling with feds from Arlington.”

  “But we know the first 48 hours are the most important, and we’ve been cleared to start the investigation.”

  “What about the local police?” you ask.

  “It’s their job,” Danly says. “We’re just going to do it for them.”

  Agent Bertram spreads his arms magnanimously. “Look, we’re just going to do what we can before the trail goes cold, and the reason we’re telling you is because we want your help. You’re the only one who knows what the suspect looks like.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Come with us and ID the subject. Help us find the goddamn murderer,” Agent Danly says, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest.

  • “Uh, no thanks. I’m here on vacation… I don’t want to drag you guys down. Good luck.”

  • “I’m in. Do I get a gun and a badge? Or a pipe and a magnifying glass, at least?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Bad Cop

  The professor folds his arms across his chest and squints. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “I assure you it’s not, but the investigation is still ongoing,” Bertram says, raising his palms in a gesture of peace.

  “But your buddy is our primary suspect. Have much of a temper, did he?”

  “Viktor never hurt a fly. As far as I know, he and his fiancée were quite happy together.”

  “And how well did you know Viktor?” Bertram asks, removing a notebook from his suit pocket. “When did you first meet?”

  “Not very well. He does a visiting lecture here every now and again. First time was maybe… two years ago?”

  “What was his area of expertise?”

  “Engineering.”

  You sit in silence, wondering if the professor will elaborate, but he doesn’t move a muscle. The man glowers at you, and you know you hit a nerve. He’s feeling the need to protect a suspected murderer—but why? Does this go beyond academic trust and professional courtesy?

  “What’s the sentence for aiding and abetting a murderer in this country?” you ask.

  “Cool the jets, Hotshot,” Bertram says.

  Professor Tavares-Silva rises from his chair and says, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m a very busy man.”

  “I’m sorry, we’ll play nice,” Bertram says. “Just a few more questions, please.”

  “The University keeps a lawyer on retainer. You may direct any further inquiries to our legal department. Good day.”

  Bertram stands up and buttons his suit jacket. Exiting, he says to you, “You may want to let me ask the questions in the future, asshole.”

  • Whatever, that guy was about to crack. To Viktor’s apartment!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Balls (or Ovum) of Steel

  The street lights flicker on and you wait for the corrupt policeman to arrive, your ovos tingling in anticipation. Soon he does, but it’s not what you expected. First, he isn’t alone. The man is in plainclothes, but he keeps two uniformed officers as his escort. Second, he knows you are.

  In an instant, you recognize the cop. Incredibly, it’s Detective Lucio Muniz, the bleach-blond policeman who interviewed you on the night you were detained. Is he the one you’re going to bribe?

  “You?” he says.

  “We’re looking for the truth,” you say coolly. “If you can help us, we can help you.”

  “You’re the ones that called?”

  Viktor nods.

  Detective Muniz smiles. “Well, then, we’re all friends here. Let’s get down to business. What information would you like to buy?”

  “The murder I stumbled upon, what do you know?” you ask.

  “More than you could imagine,” he smirks.

  Viktor steps forward. “Do you know who’s responsible? Who the killer is?”

  Muniz carefully considers the question, then smiles and rubs his fingers together in the universal sign for money. Clearly, he’s waiting for his bribe.

  “Ah, one second,” you say, stepping behind Viktor and opening his backpack. “I believe this will help loosen your tongue.”

  Detective Muniz’s smile drops instantly. When you step back out, you’re brandishing the sub-machinegun.

  All three cops go for their handguns.

  You fire into the air, a quick burst, then level the gun at the men. They stop, hands raised. Viktor moves out and takes their three pistols, tossing them into a gutter sewer grate.

  “You’re dead—dead! Do you hear me?” Detective Muniz shouts.

  “I do,” you say. It’s almost as if the words are coming out on their own. “You’re hardly the first man to want us gone, but if you don’t want to join us in the grave, I’d start talking.”

  “Vai po calarho,” Muniz curses.

  Viktor pistol-whips the detective, hard. One of the police officers steps forward, but you check his move with the muzzle of your weapon. Muniz spits blood.

  With an icy-cold stare, Viktor says, “Please, give me a reason to do that again.”

  Detective Muniz’s jaw sets and he says, “Find the Shadow Chiefs gang and talk to an informant named Falador.”

  “See? That wasn’t so hard,” you say.

  “If you don’t kill me, I will fuck your corpse.”

  “Let’s just go,” Viktor says.

&nbs
p; • “No, he has a point.” Gun down the three policemen.

  • Get out of here, quick.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Bare-handed

  As you look up from the revolver, you realize you’re not alone. A man stands before you, at a door opposite yours, staring at the woman’s body. His expression is odd, a mix of horror and confusion. Shock, perhaps.

  You get a good look at him: like any other local Brazilian, his skin is olive-tan, but he carries himself like a European. Thin, clean-shaven, high cheekbones, looking like he recently had a haircut. Atop his swooping nose sit silver-colored, professorial-looking spectacles. His eyes are very unusual for a Brazilian—icy-blue.

  He turns to run away.

  • Let him go.

  • It’s the killer! Grab the gun and shoot him in the back!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Bathrooms

  You round the corner to arrive at the Banheiros, and as soon as you see a male figure on one door and a female figure on the other, both marked with a “WC,” you realize that you’ve arrived at the restrooms.

  Probably should’ve known that one as a tourist in Brazil… but then again, your “Pork and Cheese” (Portuguese) was never very good. Still, you could duck in there and give Agent Danly the slip.

  • Don’t stop. Check out Salas de Conferências.

  • Keep going, this time try left—Apoio.

  • Duck in the bathroom, then double back to Imprensa.

  • Wait until Danly’s gone, then try Auditório Principal.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Behind