Booked for Murder

by RJ Blain

  “Wow, Janette. I had no idea the hospital had actually converted you into a zombie,” Beatrice said.

  I couldn’t flip my middle finger at her without relinquishing my knife or fork, so I settled with a grunt between bites and ignored the evil woman.

  “Give her five or ten minutes,” my mother said, her tone amused. “She’s been like this ever since she was little. When she’s not feeling great and hasn’t eaten enough, she becomes a zombie, but she’s a zombie who can be easily moved with a bribe of food. Roast beef works the best. She’ll ignore chicken soup and go back to bed. Spaghetti is hit-or-miss, but she’ll run if lasagna is available. Should she capture the plate, she will stop, sit, and immediately begin to eat, so it’s important that she does not get a hold of the plate before she has reached where you want her to go.”

  “That’s pathetic, Janette,” my beloved yet hated rival informed me.

  “I really can’t argue with that,” I admitted.

  “Good. You’re back with us?” my mother asked.

  “I think so. Maybe.” I took another bite of the roast beef. “Yeah. Hi.”

  Bradley, who sat to my right, laughed, reached across the table, and picked up a reddish-orange jar. “If you want some of your orange sauce, put it on your plate so we can put that back in the fridge. Your mother made a chicken breast just for you so you can dip it in your sauce.”

  I blinked, and sure enough, a grilled chicken breast waited nearby.

  Damn. My mother loved me and wanted the world to know it. Accepting the jar, I pulled the chicken closer, unscrewed the lid, and poured on the essence of life until the chicken disappeared. Only when certain not a single piece of chicken could be seen did I return the lid and give it to Bradley, who took it and headed for the kitchen. “Thank you, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome. You’ve earned some pampering, and your doctor asked us to make sure you ate as much as you could stomach for the next few days. You’re underweight, and you’re to be spoiled.”

  I loved my doctor. “I need to send Dr. Mansfield flowers, chocolates, and a card.”

  Everyone at the table laughed. It amazed me the table could fit my parents, all of my new accomplices in our budding investigative cell, and the Hamptons. What I didn’t understand was why were they laughing at my statement. I scowled.

  Bradley’s mother reached across the table and patted my hand. “We already sent her all of the above to an excessive degree. How much were you told about the operation?”

  “It happened, I panicked coming out of sedation as usual, and then it happened again so I could be in the boot. Dr. Mansfield probably tried to tell me the specifics, but the medications make me stupid, so I just kept asking her if she’d be amputating my foot. I’m never going to live that down, but at least I can blame the drugs.”

  “The first operation was sixteen hours, and the second took ten. There were three surgeons for the first operation, but she says it was delicate, fiddly work and they wanted to get it right the first time. She oversaw the mending portion of both operations, so the second half of them was easier on her, but she did the majority of the work.”

  Oh. Huh. “I really need to send her flowers, chocolates, and several cards, then. And a lot of money.”

  “Senator Maybelle’s campaign offered to pay your medical bills,” Bradley’s mother announced.

  “Wait. Senator Maybelle’s family wanted to press charges, but her campaign wants to do what?”

  “Pay your medical bills. They are paying the medical bills for the other victims as well, although your bills are substantially larger. The original donors to the campaign submitted requests that their contributions be used to pay those expenses. The campaign announced how those contributions would be used, and the original donors were kept anonymous. Anything excess will be donated to a children’s hospital. It is the rare good deed without any strings attached. They could, so they did. I reviewed the contribution paperwork, and Senator Maybelle’s family gave their blessing as well. Your full hospitalization bill is being paid, and they’re discussing the situation with Dr. Mansfield. They’ll be paying your full physical therapy bill as well. The nature of your foot’s original injury was disclosed, but to my surprise, that impressed the campaign even more, as it is evidence that you’re not a one-off heroine.”

  My face heated. “I’m not a heroine.”

  “You absolutely are,” she replied. “You saved my baby boy, and you saved that woman, too. You have saved how many lives in the hospital volunteering? Just accept that’s what you are. You can be humble later.”

  “Mom, don’t embarrass her,” Bradley scolded.

  “I’m not embarrassing her. I’m telling her the truth, and there’s nothing embarrassing about being a good person who saves lives. Anyway, your hospital bills are all being paid, Senator Maybelle’s campaign kept your name out of the papers as much as possible, and I’ll be honest, I’m really, really surprised at how the campaign management has handled this. I mean, her death rocked them, but they have worked hard to do everything they can to support the rally attendants. They’re creating a program for attendees for therapy as needed.”

  “That is not what I expected to hear,” I admitted.

  “I don’t think anybody expected to hear that. Now that you’re somewhat coherent, let’s get this laid out so we can figure out where we can start with our own investigation. There was nothing we could have done to stop this, but if we can stop the next killing, we will. This attack has confirmed that these killers have no scruples; they don’t care who they hurt as long as they take down their mark. They wanted this killing to be a public event. The government can’t dodge registering this one as a terrorist attack, either. The good news is that Mickey has been cleared.”

  Mickey nodded. “With all the evidence I’ve provided clearing me, they had no choice but to strike me from the suspect list. I haven’t been able to breathe without an investigator poking their nose into my business. I won’t miss that part of things, but they’ve lost their easy scapegoat—and they can’t nail Janette as the exsanguinator. Nobody can work magic after being shot like that, and every expert on magic usage has agreed she began working with the main gunshot victim in the expected range for recovering from the shock of being shot. So, they have nothing on any of us at this point. But without an easy scapegoat, we have no idea what the police will do now.”

  My father snorted. “The only people who have any idea what’s going on are the killers, and we’re just puppets in their game for the moment.”

  I wondered how we could change that, and I cut my chicken breast, made sure I drowned it in my orange sauce, and savored my first bite. Fire had nothing on the sauce, and unless I was careful, I’d be in dire need of a glass of milk to handle the burn. Perfect. I huffed my satisfaction. “Have we learned anything of substance?”

  “Yes.” Bradley reached down and grabbed a tablet from beside his chair. “The recordings we have confirm the method they’re using; they have at least five people in on the job, and they’re used to working together. They botched this specific job, likely from the shooter pulling the trigger a little too early. I suspect an opening came up and he took the shot, leaving the rest of the team to scramble. The acoustics were screwed up; some of the rounds were masked but not all of them. The exsanguinator likewise botched the job, as only some of the job was covered after the illusionist worked. The illusionist left a short gap in his work before the mender did their work. The mender is the issue.”

  “Why is the mender the issue?”

  “Most menders have to be within ten feet to work that sort of magic, regardless of the speed of the recreation of bone, skin, and muscle. There was no one in the ten feet area who could do the work.”

  “Illusionist,” I muttered.

  Mickey nodded. “That’s what we’re thinking, which means we’re dealing with either two illusionists or one who has at least a 95.0% aptitude rating. That significantly limits the pool of who could have done it.
I have a list, and there are four names on it. One of the names on the list is on the wanted list for several counts of murder, another has a rather lengthy rap sheet involving domestic violence charges, and the other two had rather lucrative careers as bank robbers before being arrested. One has escaped prison, but the other is still being held in maximum security. The domestic violence asshole lives in San Diego, and he was paid a visit by the police three hours after the shooting, and his identity was verified through magical means.”

  “Magical means?”

  “He was stripped of magic and run through the aptitude test to confirm it was him.”

  I grimaced. A magical stripping involved several skilled adepts tearing away any magical influences from someone before applying disruptors and beginning the aptitude testing process from a clean slate. The method of testing was limited to those with a conviction of a violent crime, particularly targeting illusionists due to their ability to mask who they were with magic. “Unpleasant.”

  “The FBI wanted to take no chances, and it confirmed he could not have committed the crime. He is wearing a disruptor due to his past conviction, and it won’t come off for another few months,” Mickey reported.

  “How’d you find that out?”

  He pointed at Beatrice, who shrugged and said, “The conviction and the punishment are available as public records, and the FBI and media are jumping all over this case. It’s like the killers want to undermine the police’s efforts in the investigation in a way; they have offered just enough evidence to clear the scapegoats. Us, that is. Well, most of you, but especially Mickey.”

  Bradley’s father leaned back in chair and sighed. “Ethical terrorists and assassins, great. Just what we needed. Do you know what they call those in my field? Absolute fucking nightmares. The good ones know how to plant just enough evidence to make a mess of things, they can bypass most security, and they’re confident of success—but not so confident of success they get sloppy. It’s a very dangerous combination. The only good news is that this property is as safe as I can make it. I’ll be installing security systems in all of your homes. It could have been a coincidence Janette was there at both murders, but I’m concerned she might be a target. If they hadn’t hit her, she would have been a prime suspect.”

  My mother scowled and stabbed a piece of her roast, biting on it with startling ferocity. Once she chewed it into submission, she grumbled, “Unless they shot her specifically so she would be eliminated as a prime suspect.”

  “But they shot her foot,” Beatrice protested.

  Meridian cut her roast beef into several pieces and moved them around on her plate, and I recognized roughly how all of the victims, myself included, had been positioned at the rally. Mashed potatoes served as my wheel chair, and I got a piece of carrot for a cast. “Okay, look here. Let’s assume for whatever reason they wanted Janette cleared of the crime. She was shot first, so the shooter went for the biggest immobile target. While Janette’s upper body was in motion while she talked to Senator Maybelle, she was careful to keep her foot still. Assuming the shooter has skill, it’s not much of an adjustment to move from the foot to the senator’s head. If anything, the upward recoil would have made it easier to reset the aim for the senator’s head.”

  “Was I shot first?” I asked, my brows furrowing as I struggled to remember. “No. I was shot second. Senator Maybelle was definitely shot first.”

  “That’s not what the video shows.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “The video shows you were definitely shot first, and then the second shot killed Senator Maybelle.”

  “I witnessed her being shot, then I felt the bullet afterwards. I was shot second.”

  Everyone shook their heads. Meridian tapped my carrot cast with her fork. “According to the video, the shooter hit your foot, then the second and third rounds hit Senator Maybelle. One theory is the shooter wanted to disable you from preventing the murder or otherwise covering their activities. Another theory is that the shooter just missed horribly. Anyway, she fell after being struck with two rounds, and while she was falling, the remaining shots went off, hitting people behind where she’d been standing. The timing of her body falling and your reaction match what the videos all show—and there were several videos, including some cell phone footage from people nearby watching and listening to your conversation with her. They all agree you were actually shot first.”

  “But why do I remember being shot second? I told the police I’d been shot second. Well, no. I told them I realized I’d been shot after she was hit.”

  Bradley’s father picked up a clean fork and joined Meridian at poking her dinner. “You haven’t been shot before, so it’s unsurprising you’re not aware of this. The delay in the first and second round was approximately a second. You comprehended a shot being fired and someone being hit, but in reality, you heard the shot that hit you being fired, and then you comprehended she’d been hit with the second shot that had been fired. You registered having been hit within the next second or two, which isn’t uncommon with that sort of injury. The police and investigators would have known this, which supported the video. Your foot was already a major source of pain, and you were taking painkillers, which would ultimately delay your reaction time. You then filled in the gaps in your memory. Because you didn’t become aware of the pain until the second shot, you thought the second shot hurt your foot, when in reality, it was the first. There is always the possibility the illusionist tricked you into believing you were shot second, but your statement would have matched the recording because the police are aware of how people register being shot. That delay is critical, and there was a very short period of time between the rounds being fired.”

  “Could everyone have been tricked into believing I was shot first?”

  Bradley’s father gave me a serious dose of general disapproval. “Medical science says otherwise. Had you been shot second, you would have taken even longer to react, which would have resulted in that one woman’s death. Had you been shot second, she probably would have died. Every second mattered with her situation, and as it was, you were barely able to act in time to save her life. So, no. Why you were shot first remains as much of a mystery as the rest of this damned case.”

  “Do we have anything concrete on this outfit?” Complaining wouldn’t help anything, so I did the only thing I could think of. I armed myself with my fork, stabbed my carrot cast, and stole it off Meridian’s plate. I chomped on it, muttering curses.

  “My daughter has opinions,” my mother said with a sigh. “I apologize for her. It seems she has forgotten her manners over the years.”

  I grabbed the serving dish containing the roasted carrots and dumped more onto my plate. “Carrots, Meridian?”

  “So you can steal more from me? Sure.”

  I laughed and handed her the dish. “Seriously. Where are we at with this?”

  “We wait for a week regarding the investigative cell license, and then we get to real work. For now, we keep our noses clean until we have paperwork supporting our ability to work,” Bradley’s mother stated, slicing a piece of roast and adding it to my plate. “Lenard took a copy of the range video along with your old qualifications to the licensing board, and I pitched good cause for exemption. They took the current situation into consideration, and they’ll give us an answer on the license in a week. I expect they’ll grant us a conditional six month license, after which you’ll have to traditionally qualify for the shooter position. They want this solved as quickly as possible, and for some reason, they think you’ll be motivated.”

  Being shot counted as a motivator, yes. “What about the whole rule about not having people working a case who are personally involved?”

  “They don’t care about that with the investigative cells as long as they play by the rules. It’s one thing to shoot a senator at a rally. It’s another to shoot a presidential candidate at her rally. Since we’re citing a related case for our cause to get our license, we’ll be appr
oved. Right now, the FBI needs all the help they can get.”

  All I could do was wonder if a rag-tag band of vigilante magical librarians could do what the FBI couldn’t.

  We’d find out soon enough.

  Thanks for reading!

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  The next book in the Vigilante Magical Librarians series, Booked for Kidnapping, should release by either the end of 2021 or in early 2022.

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  The Vigilante Magical Libraries series includes five books, with a new title releasing every twelve to eighteen months.

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  I hope you enjoyed the beginning of Janette’s adventure!

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  Upcoming R.J. Blain releases:

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  A Chip on Her Shoulder: a Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count) (featuring Satin and Darlene) releases on September 1, 2020.

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  The Flame Game: a Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count) (featuring Bailey and Quinn) releases on October 27, 2020.

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  Outfoxed, Book One of the Fox Witch trilogy, releases on November 3, 2020.

  About R.J. Blain

  Want to hear from the author when a new book releases? You can sign up at her website (thesneakykittycritic.com). Please note this newsletter is operated by the Furred & Frond Management. Expect to be sassed by a cat. (With guest features of other animals, including dogs.)

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  A complete list of books written by RJ and her various pen names is available at https://books2read.com/rl/The-Fantasy-Worlds-of-RJ-Blain.

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