Once inside the maximum security prison, Jaimie Holliday shows both her visitor badge and her press credentials at three different checkpoints before she's shut inside a squat visitor room with two chairs and a table. Her notepad fills with quotidian details—the silver rings bolted to the tabletop, the lack of windows, where the scuffs are on the linoleum floor. She studies it all with a well-practiced journalist's eye, already constructing the front-page feature she was sent here to obtain.

She wonders what kind of conversation the room most recently entertained. Visiting lawyers, almost certainly. No one had offered her coffee; she would have accepted and drank it just to add that detail to the story. She guesses it would have been terrible.

The door opens with a wince of grinding metal and two guards enter, leading a man whose face was last seen by the public on the evening news over than a decade ago. Milo Dorata, known as The Professor, nearly has to duck to enter the room. His beard has grown longer and grayer than his mugshots. The same mugshots her newspaper recently reprinted after the copycat's second kill. This is the first interview he's allowed in years, and the world is clamoring for his opinion. Jaimie was the first to break the copycat case, and has pulled every string she has to be the one to keep covering it, even over the objections of the more senior staff at her newspaper. Her beat is entertainment and human-interest stories, not that it's her preference. She's young and blonde—no one takes her seriously following court cases and police investigations, but she hopes to change that.

Her carefully considered opening salvo vanishes as Milo holds out his massive forearms to a guard, who locks his cuffs to the silver rings on the table as he takes a seat. The way he regards her is polite, but inflexible. "Let's get this over with, before I change my mind about this interview. I can't imagine you want to go back to writing those fawning celebrity profiles."

"We'll be right outside," one guard says, closing the door. "Knock when you're finished."

Jaimie thinks of everything it's taken to get inside this room. The Professor is silent, and despite her preparations she is intimidated by the sudden reality of the situation. Instead of anything articulate or useful, she finds herself asking, "How do you know what I write?"

"You're not going to ask me about the copycat?" He flexes his wrists. Multiple life sentences, convicted for killing five people with the surgical skills that gave him his name. He'd been a doctor—specifically, a teaching doctor. His victims had been patients at his hospital. She's read every account. He liked to teach; he was instructing even from the witness stand. She supposes that's what he's doing now.

"I get the paper," he explains. "I've read your latest accounts with great interest."

Jaimie consults her notes, her pen skipping across the page. Her thoughts join his words. "Two deaths so far. What do you think about someone copying your methods?"

At that, he tilts his head. "Are they? And here I'd drawn a different conclusion."
Jaimie leans forward. "Please answer the question."

"My work was unfinished when I was brought here," he says. "I made no secret of it. You can only learn so much without looking at someone from the inside. It was an extension of my own vocation.”

These are all things she already knows. “They could be trying to communicate with you. Does it flatter you, having someone declare themselves your student?”

He shakes his head. “Theirs is the work of an amateur. I chose patients with life-threatening prognoses. I directly studied the effects of my actions on their bodies as they died. To truly copy me, this person would be picking targets that speak to their own calling. What is their life's work? Maybe they do not know, themselves. But I feel I know them very well, from your accounts of the murders.”

“Then tell me,” she demands. “What do you think of them?”

“Attention-seeking. Values fame. Messy, but creative. Is your newspaper attempting to find them, or would you prefer they stick around as long as possible, to benefit from the exposure? You broke the first story, didn't you? Your talent was wasted on the gossip pages.”

“I can't publish your opinion on my talent. Do you have anything to say to the copycat?”

“Not a copycat. Still, I'd tell them I hope they get to finish their work,” he says.

“But they're doing exactly what you did.” Jaimie pushes further. “Both victims were patients at your hospital. Both slashed exactly like the original deaths. The brand of scalpels was even the same as yours.”

“That wasn't in the paper.”

Jaimie's pen stops. “I meant—”

“You would have no reason not to publish that,” he continues, “unless it was something you knew not from the course of your investigation, but from personal experience.”

She would have told him by the end of the meeting if he hadn't come to the conclusion himself. She dropped the hint about the scalpels on purpose, and would have kept supplying more details that only the killer would've known, until he said something. And she doesn't want to admit that he's quite right about one thing—the attention she's gained from copying his crimes will make it hard to stop at just two. She's even more famous now than some of the celebrities she used to report on. Which gives her a new idea about the targets she should be picking. She wonders what he'll think of it.

“Your work needs refinement,” Milo tells her. “But I meant what I said. You've got talent. I can help you improve.”

Her editor implied there could be more meetings if the information was good, or if the deaths increased. She sets down her pen, and instead holds out her hand.

“Teach me,” she says.

​© 2026 Jessica Slee

About the author:
Jessica Slee studied English Literature and Creative Writing at UNC-Chapel Hill. She is a Claymore Award Winner, and in 2022 she was longlisted for the CWA Debut Dagger and the First Pages Prize. She was recognized in the Honor Roll of The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2024 and her work appears in Cold Caller Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, Punk Noir, Shotgun Honey, and others. For more, visit sleesquared.com.

​ “I wouldn’t ask just anyone,” the man calling himself Dex said. “Wouldn’t even open my mouth I wasn’t sure.”

Emmett Simmons eyed the other man over his beer. “An’ you’re sure about me?”

“You’re Fred Moseley’s cousin? Got outta Great Plains Correctional couple weeks ago? Livin’ with your ma?”

“Uh huh.” Simmons sipped beer, embarrassed. He swore he’d never come back to this hick town, but when Great Plains’s steel gates disgorged him, he had nowhere else to go.

“Fred used to be married to my wife’s stepsister, Edie. That pract’ly makes us family.”

“Uh huh,” Simmons said again. “Well, if this thing’s so easy, how come you don’t do it yourself?”

Dex showed crooked teeth. “Hell, boy, I lived in this town my whole life. Think some shit like a mask’s gonna keep people from knowing me?”

Dex was over six feet, at least two-fifty, blue-eyed and fleshy, but handsome in a good ol’ boy way, marred only by a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Simmons didn’t remember ever seeing Dex before he ambled into the bar, but he had been gone a long time, damned close to twenty years.

“I guess you got a point,” Simmons admitted. “How much did you say again?”

​It was the lunch hour, the bar crowded, everyone focused on their own business, but Dex lowered his head and voice before answering.  “Way I heard it, cops picked up near to thirty thousand in cash and drugs bustin’ Willy French’s meth lab.”

“An’ how’d you hear that?”

Dex grinned. “Small town, boy. Everyone knows everyone’s business. ‘Sides, we all got police scanners out here in the country.”

That was true enough; Simmons’s ma was practically glued to hers since the cable got shut off.

“I don’t know,” Simmons said slowly. “I promised my ma I’d go straight this time.”

“Respect, boy, but lemme ask you: you got a job?”

“Well…” Simmons trailed off, shaking his head.

“Listen, okay?” Dex placed a hand on Simmons’s shoulder. The smaller man tensed; six years in state taught that any touch was bad touch.

“I get wantin’ to do right by your ma, but it’d be a whole lot easier with some cash, huh? I know for a fact that besides Chief Denton, there’s only one cop in the station afternoons. I promise you, this’ll be cake, but it’s got to be done today.”

“How come?”

“Heard they’re transferring Willy French to county tonight, along with the evidence.”

“I don’t know.” Simmons made designs on the bar top with moisture from his glass. “Two cops,” he muttered. “It’s too much for me all by myself. I never did no hold up before. I’ll need someone else, just in case.”

“Got anyone in mind?”

“I think so.” Simmons met the other man’s eyes. This would be the last time, the very last time he stepped out of line. He promised himself that. “Thirty grand, three-way split. Not too bad.”

“No, sir.” Dex’s grin widened.

“What about this cop—besides the chief, I mean? You know him? Good man?”

​Dex’s expression darkened. “I know him. He was hot shit a few years ago, but he had himself some trouble and now they got him answering phones. He’s nothin’ to worry about, trust me.”

****

Chief Denton stood by the big front window of the station. He stretched and yawned. “Quiet afternoon, Colby.”

“Yessir,” Officer Colby said from the reception desk. The dispatch radio behind him hummed, and a ceiling fan creaked, but otherwise the station was silent.

“Just the way I like it,” the Chief said. “Think I’ll catch a few winks, ‘f’you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, sir,” Colby said, glancing at the wall-clock. Almost four o’clock. The sheriff’s men would arrive in less than an hour to transfer Willy French.

As Chief Denton disappeared into the building’s depths, a small, red sedan pulled up in front of the station. Simmons and a baseball-capped man hopped from it, tugging medical masks into place, guns in hand by the time they reached the station door.

Colby stood, then crouched slightly, using the desk for cover, his service pistol held steady. A drop of sweat crossed the scar dividing his left eyebrow as the station door opened. Thinking, I’ll show them I’m still hot shit, he triggered his first shot.

Simmons never knew what hit him.

© 2026 Brandon Barrows

About the author:

Brandon Barrows is the author of a dozen novels, his most recent The Darker the Night from Rowan Prose Publishing. He has also published nearly two hundred short stories for which he is a Mustang Award winner and a two-time Derringer Award nominee. Find him on Blusky at brandonbarrows.bsky.social and at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com

Lotsa guys tell stories about Cousin Joey. I’ve got one or two myself. But first you gotta know that Cousin Joey wasn’t really my cousin. Sure, he was Uncle Joe’s son, but Uncle Joe wasn’t my real uncle either. I’m from one of those families where distant relatives or close family friends, like your mother’s mother’s uncle made you call him uncle. And you had to call his daughter, Ida, Auntie Ida. Or some of the guys your old man or your real uncles hung around with became your uncle. Like when you were five years old and it was the third time your old man left you alone in a diner or a barber shop without telling you he was leaving to finish his numbers run and one of his friends picked you up, hugged you and drove you home—a friend like Uncle Joe. 

Now, I drove upstate to help Uncle Joe deal with some chooch who keeps screwing up his business. Joe’s a boss. He’s got capos and soldiers to do stuff, but sometimes you don’t want to depend on your own men to handle what Uncle Joe tells me is a “mother-fucking complicated thing.” 

“Hey, Slugger,” he says. The nickname is a carryover from when I played minor league ball. Played shortstop. Hit in the .350 range three straight seasons before I wrecked my knee sliding into second.

“Uncle Joe, che cosa c'è?”

“Ho spesso mal di testa.”

“Actually sick—or your crew giving you headaches.”

“I got one really bad apple. I’m afraid it’s gonna make the whole barrel rotten.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Not now. Come to the house, wash up. Have dinner with us. Your Aunt Carmela is cooking just for you.”

“Don’t go to any trouble.”

“No trouble. Vieni a mangiare con noi.”

“How’s Little Joey. He gonna be there?”

“Ah, your cousin. È un po' pazzo. He’s out. I’ll tell you where to find him later. Prima mangiamo.”

Aunt Carmela prepared a feast, starting with an antipasto appetizer, followed by my favorite, Rigatoni with meatballs and sausage. After that we had insalata, a mixed green salad with roasted vegetables. We eat our salad last. Uncle Joe says, “It settles everything after you stuff yourself.” For dessert, Aunt Carmela served homemade cannoli, espresso and anisette. After supper, Carmela chased us out of the dining room so she could clean up. Uncle Joe took me to his office and closed the door.

“We can talk here?”

“I have it swept every few days. I need somebody to fix my problem. Better to not use my crew. I got this one guy; he’s givin’ me fuckin’ fits.”

“You warned him, right.”

“Until I got blue in the face. Someday he’ll make the mistake that sends me to prison.”

“If he’s so bad, why not whack him? Wait…. You don’t want me to clip somebody. I’ll do almost anything, but….”

“Aspettare. I want you to study then talk to him. You understand come si dice? psychology. You get his head right. If you gotta, rough him up, scare shit outta him. Tell him—last warning. Stop fucking up or else….”

“Who’s this fuckup?”

“Joey.”

Uncle Joe’s business has many facets. He’s got bookmaking joints in five counties. He loans money to poor schleps at 250% a year. The vig doesn’t sound so bad when it’s ten or twenty bucks a week. It’s compound interest kills you. There’s salvage yards, construction companies. But I’m interested in Joey who’s handling the concessions—jukeboxes, pool tables, cigarette machines in bars and restaurants. Uncle Joe’s got some competition. Cousin Joey’s job is to collect from all those machines and to convince anyone who doesn’t deal with Uncle Joe to come over to his side. Joey’s good at collecting. Sometimes too good when he’s collecting from an unlucky gambler. But he’s a fucking maniac as a salesman. 

I’m having a beer at the bar in an almost upscale joint when Joey and another chooch come in. Joey goes to the jukebox, looks at the tunes and starts kicking the box. He grabs a chair, smashing it on the box’s glass top. “Where’d ya get this antique piece of shit?”

Bartender says, “Hey,”
Chooch Two says, “Shut the fuck up.”

At the cigarette machine, Joey puts something in the slot. No cigarettes come out. “This fucking thing stole my money.” He tips the machine onto its face. Then he struts to the bar, grabs the bartender by the shirt, tries to slap his face with his right hand.

Bartender sneaks in a good, quick left hook. 

Joey’s always been a sucker for a left hook. How he got the nickname, “Night-Night.”

Chooch Two thinks he’s gonna take the bartender, who now holds a police Billy club like he knows how to use it.

I raise my hand. “Let me. Got a back alley?”

Bartender nods.

I grab Chooch Two by the collar and drag him into the alley. I thrash him until he don’t know his own name.

“Hey, asshole! Look at me. If you ever go near my cousin or my uncle again, I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Won’t even blink doing it. Maybe I’ll do it now.”

The chooch makes it to his feet and stumbles out the alley, disappears in the dark.

Bartender threw Joey out the front door. I wish he hadn’t done that, but I liked the guy, so I let it go.

Outside, Joey’s getting his ass kicked by—somebody. Whoever it is, he’s doing a good job, saving me some trouble. I step in. “He’s had enough.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“You really don’t wanna fuckin’ know.”

Cops pull up. “What’s going on here?”

I step in, say, “Dunno, officer. I came out of the bar. This guy’s walking up the street. We stumble over this bum.”

Cops throw Joey in the car. 

The guy looks at the sidewalk. He walks away.

Poor Uncle Joe. I gotta send Joey "night night." For good.

​© 2026 Nick Di Carlo

About the author:
Nick Di Carlo, inveterate story writer, has knocked around a lot. He’s taught writing in universities and maximum-security correctional facilities. He once lived in Legs Diamond’s old neighborhood.
Of Di Carlo’s prison work, Lawrence R. Reis, author of Wolf Masks: Violence in Contemporary Poetry noted: “The men in Dr. Di Carlo’s classes recognized many similarities between their experiences and his. Those experiences, often dark and sometimes violent, inform and power Dr. Di Carlo’s own writing.”

Coleman Hayes fed another coin into one of the Greektown Casino’s slot machines. The lunchtime crowd was thin but committed, and the electronic boop-de-boop of the machines sounded like mall muzak playing at double speed.

Coleman’s phone buzzed as he punched the spin button. He watched the dial whirl as he fished in his pocket. Natasha’s text read: WE HAVE A WINNER. He could hear her voice in his head with her accent, chewing on the Ws like Juicy Fruit and growling out the R to make herself sound American. Coleman left a free play on the tab and made his way to the exit.

He stopped at the revolving door to put on his puffer and sunglasses, but stepped outside before he took the big-ass Russian hat Natasha had given him out of his pocket. The wind sliced down Monroe Avenue, flecking his cheeks with grit as he made his way to the Lincoln. 

He slid behind the wheel, checked the mirrors then reached under the seat for his piece, a blue snub-nose Taurus. The Nikon, already out of the case, lay on the passenger seat.

***

The winner was older than Coleman expected, little blue pill old, which made Coleman feel kinda bad for him there with his dick out as the Nikon strobed in his face. 

Jesus, if Natasha had tipped him that the cat was ready for the retirement home he’d have skipped the shock and awe stage. If the old guy had a stroke or some shit—okay, it wouldn’t make much difference, but it would spoil Coleman’s good mood.

“Hey!” the cat kept saying, pushing Natasha behind him like a true gentleman, cupping his junk with his other hand. “Hey!” 

Coleman kept snapping, making sure to get the props Natasha had laid out—fake fur-lined handcuffs; the rest of a dime bag and the mirror and credit card she’d chopped the coke up with; an eighteen-inch purple latex dildo with dangling rubber balls. She’d turned the TV on for the noise like Coleman told her, so the old guy’s “heys” were just about drowned out by the ladies on The Real, talking about “drugstore deals.”

Coleman let the camera hang on the strap around his neck and pulled the Taurus. He didn’t point it at the dude, just showed it to him and put it back in his pocket.

“I hate to do this to you, man,” Coleman said.

“The money is in coat,” Natasha said, nodding at a black wool trench on the floor in the corner as she reached around her back to do up her bra. “Seven thousand.”

“Lucky man,” Coleman said, as picked up the coat. “How much did you start with?”

“Two.”

“Put your pants on,” Coleman said. He pulled out the banded cash and fanned back twenty Benjamins with his thumb. He tugged the bills out of the stack and tucked them back in the guy’s coat. He folded the other fifty bills in half and wedged the roll into his pants pocket.

“What do you do for a living, Jack? Are you in the car business?”

“He’s a dentist,” Natasha said. “He tell me I have beautiful veneers.”

“Congratulations.” Coleman paused, smiled big, all natural, white enough to sell toothpaste. “Here’s the deal, man. We’re going to take this five thou off you and let you get back to your life. All you gotta do is walk away. Dice money anyway; you were just holding it for a minute. 

“Door number two: you call the police, tell ‘em the whole story, Russian bitch with one of those cat faces and Beverly Hills tits, skinny ass African-American gentleman with a shaved head and a Carlos Santana mustache.”
Coleman caught the cat’s eyes, made sure he got a good look at him.

“If that happens, I got an associate who makes sure everybody you know gets a gander at these pictures: your wife, your kids, the bitches down at the Country Club, that hot young hygienist you got working for you because she was the most qualified, all your patients. Five grand is what, two crowns? A week at the office?”

“My wallet’s in my pocket,” the guy said. “You want my watch?” He undid the clasp, a stainless-steel job, not a Timex, Coleman presumed, the dude still showing Coleman his hands so he’d know he couldn’t turn thin air into a .38 special.

“Keep it,” Coleman said, picking up the guy’s pants. “Save you making up a story for your wife. You can keep the wallet, too. I just need to make sure we’re on the same page.”

He flipped open the wallet with his left hand and snapped a photo of the guy’s license with his right before he tossed it on the bed. Before he could complete the motion, the guy snatched that almost two-foot purple dildo off the nightstand and swung the dangling balls around like a bolo, caught the stickup man on the point of the chin as pretty as Floyd Mayweather. 

The hotel room door was hanging open when Coleman came to and spat four teeth onto the carpet. He heard the water shut off, and Natasha came out of the bathroom with a washcloth pressed to her forehead.

“We will need new camera,” she announced.

​© 2026 Jay Randall

About the author:
Jay Randall is a writer-editor for a nonprofit organization in Virginia. His short stories have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Dark Yonder and the After Happy Hour Review.

“When I go, no one will find me,” Sunny said. 

They’d been watching a movie involving a woman who disappears herself from her life to start a different existence in a different place under a different name.

“What do you mean ‘when’ you go?” Tamra asked.

Steph gave a chuckle. “Something you want to tell us, Sunny?”
​
Amaria picked up the empty popcorn bowl and brought it to the kitchen. Silent. As she hand-washed the stoneware bowl, Amaria pictured Sunny responding with a shrug and a smirk as she did when she wanted you to think she knew something you wished you knew. 

The cat rubbed against Amaria’s leg. She scooped wet food into the cat’s dish. Conditioned to respond.

Twenty-four hours later, Sunny was gone.

She had threatened to walk out plenty of times. That night was the first time she mentioned it in front of other people, only she’d left out what she usually told Amaria when they were alone: “I can do so much better than you.” 
Eventually, Amaria would have Tamra and Steph over for another movie night and tell them Sunny was gone. They’d be sympathetic. Not surprised. Not after all the cutting criticism and bruising remarks they heard Sunny level at Amaria. They stopped laughing that off a long time ago. Tamra and Steph were wise enough to figure what went on between Sunny and Amaria in private was worse than what they witnessed. 

The house felt bigger without Sunny. More light. More air.  Yet, sleeping without Sunny in the bed was more difficult than Amaria expected. When they’d spent nights apart recently, it felt like a reprieve to fall asleep without the need to fight through a layer of tension before her mind and body settled. The first night with Sunny truly gone, though, Amaria tossed and turned so much the cat hopped off the bed leaving a disconcerting warm indentation on Sunny’s pillow. 

The following evening, Amaria watched a Bollywood film that involved a love triangle, a gang war, an exploding helicopter, and people inexplicably breaking into song and dance. It covered pretty much every emotion she was feeling at the moment.

The cat jumped up on the couch, yawned, and rested her head and a paw on Amaria’s thigh. Amaria yawned and rested her hand on the cat. They closed their eyes and breathed together. Chests rising and falling. Warm blood pumping. 

Amaria would have made popcorn, but the bowl was gone. Shame. It was heavy, antique stoneware worth a good deal more than what she’d paid for it at a garage sale. Sunny would sneer and roll her eyes whenever someone complimented it. She’d done it the last time they were with Tamra and Steph. 

Inevitably, after Tamra and Steph had gone, Sunny picked a fight with Amaria. There was a slap. More than one. Then a thud as Amaria smacked the stoneware bowl into the side of Sunny’s head, connecting first with a steel-sharp cheekbone then with Sunny’s temple. More than once. Sunny went down with a mousy squeak, her fingers scratching the air. Then her mouth slacked and her fingers stopped scratching. Amaria froze. The unblemished bowl fell from her fingers and broke into pieces on the tile floor of the kitchen. The cat had studied her without judgment, lapped up some food, and walked out. 

Sometime before dawn, Amaria opened her eyes and recoiled at a mouse twitching, not quite dead, on Sunny’s pillow. The cat meowed, announcing her kill. Amaria swore. She might have cried. Then she took the mouse to the woods, dug a hole—another hole—and buried it where even the cat wouldn’t find it.

​© 2026 Leslie Elman

About the author:
​​Leslie Elman is an Edgar Award-nominated writer whose short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Vautrin, Stone’s Throw, and Mystery Magazine.

My Uncle Arman died while I was doing the “short-and-shitty,” two weeks short of my release date. 

The gig cost me five years of my life. I claimed to be a real estate developer from Escanaba, an expert on house-flipping. My target was the Lansing Housing Commission and my proposal intended for the state legislature involved converting whole neighborhoods of Brightmoor—a hideous, burned-out prairie desert—into the next Boca Raton, albeit without the adjacent turquoise water. 

I’d spent over a thousand grooming two members of the state legislature with influence over the Housing Commission. It came crashing down like a house of cards under strobe lighting when I miscalculated a row of figures on my spreadsheet. The result was an audit. Simple arithmetic. No complex mathematics, no tree structures, no embedded or rewrite rules, reverse mathematics, or termination of algorithm. Just simple math. Even my bone-headed brother could have done it. 

“I need to borrow your car, Cameron.”

“Got a hot date now that you’re a free man again?”

“I’m going to dig up that coffin,” I replied. “Uncle wrote me. He said he was taking it with him.”

“Taking what?”

“Money-market certificates,” I said. 

Uncle was batshit crazy toward the end. My brother looked at me as if I intended to do it with my own hands.

***

The drunk in the bar in the Cass Corridor was worth every penny of my prison salary. The sexton at Queen of Angels Cemetery wanted to make phone calls but my deputy was getting into his role and talked him down. The fake exhumation order looked convincing, even if not my best work.

The tow motor operator and groundskeeper barely had the coffin clear of the hole before I was jamming the beveled edge of my crowbar into the lip and popping the top. I was mentally prepared for unpleasantness. Prison helps with that.

The funeral home my mother used must have taught the stewmakers of the Mexican cartels. Having power of attorney during his last month would have allowed for a better outfit for the last rites. He shouldn’t have looked like that. He wasn’t dead long enough for the rictus grin, the hanks of hair fallen off the skull, the innards sloshing around with the swaying of the casket from the chain hoist. 

Even with gloves, I didn’t want to touch the notebook. The reek of formaldehyde was overpowering—another sign of that cheap outfit my mother hired. I had to ease it from his cadaverous grasp with the edge of my crowbar. The combination of urine release, gastrointestinal fluids, and bloody stool had blurred and erased his notations beyond any hope of legibility.

“I’m sorry, sir. What did you say?”

“I said, ‘there goes any chance I had of selling myself to talk shows as an idiot savant.’ Except for the idiot part. Put him back.” 

I walked off with my deputy in tow, whistling Puccini.

***

My brother took the "queen for a day” proffer from the prosecutor and turned state’s evidence in my mother’s trial. He thought using a fake Yahoo account to order Thallium for his dental equipment company was all the deception required. He got three years at the white-collar camp at FCI Milan. I tried to catch his eye when he was on the stand, but he hid behind a wad of tissues, sobbing.

Trial lawyers bore me silly. The same words. Smarmy winces at the jury box. Rinse and repeat. I entertained myself with numbers. Take the Mick, for example. Born on June 8th. Died on August 6th, after his liver transplant. Ignoring the fact he jumped the line because he was the great Mickey Mantle, 8s and 6s are everywhere. The eight month and the sixth month separated by sixty-six days in 1995. You can create a matrix of number systems out of those two integers beyond square roots, multiplications, inversions, and eigenvalues. While the dullards preened and droned on, making jurors blanche with the details of how my mother poisoned her only brother for his estate (which, by the way, would never have come to her as his only surviving relative since he bequeathed his two-plus-millions to math scholarships at U of Michigan), I built a castle of numbers in the air out of the Mick’s birth and death.

When the time comes, I’ll send my brother a letter advising him on the dos and don’ts of prison life. I’ll even throw in my hard-won experiences at three penitentiaries.

Mom got the full forty when the second toxicology report came back. They don’t test for exotic drugs like Thallium. She’ll die in the joint or, barring some soft-headed governor down the road, she’ll get compassionate release at eighty so the state doesn’t have to pick up her medical bills. 

Her con job might have worked if she’d let the Thallium in the saffron rice pudding she brought him do all the work. Bleed his bank account dry while he worked on his secret formula. Low risk, high reward. But she got greedy and hated having to shell out the monthly fee for that expensive clinic. Obtaining the services of a reputable mortician and using a better cutout than my thin-skinned brother would have been my other suggestions. When I saw the black lines on his fingernails, I knew. The assistant pathologist missed it when the putrid contents of the black bag rolled out. 

I plan on visiting her. As we used to say in the old neighborhood, we’re saazgaar now--compatible. 

Uncle Arman and I shared a love for numbers. Their pure, crystalline beauty. Everything messy in the universe boils down to numbers—a chemical number, a pattern of pixels, codes, data, information. Human beings are world lines, sine and cosine, particles and waves, fluctuations in the Higgs field. We appear and disappear like photons born in the bellies of stars only to die in our retinas without having traveled a single foot. Go figure.

​© 2026 Robb White

About the author:
Robb White is a Derringer-nominated author of genre fiction, he has three series detectives. The Russian Heist (2019) was selected Best Novel in Thriller Magazine’s competition. Betray Me Not was selected for distinction by the Independent Fiction Alliance in 2022. Recent publications include a suspense thriller, Jersey Girl (2025), a crime novella, Easy Money (2025), and a prequel to the Thomas Haftmann, p. i. series: The Dearborn Terrorist Plot. 

We buried Nonno Gino today. Gave him one helluva sendoff. Mourners came from thirteen states. Others flew in from Italy. Even New York’s August weather, out of respect for the old man, showed up in perfect summer attire: sunny and warm; low humidity; and a gentle breeze to whisper him farewell. 

​The procession to the cemetery tied up traffic for miles. On the drive home in the undertaker’s limo, my dad said over and again, “Oh, if Papa could’ve seen this.”

“Oh, he’s looking down on us, smiling that sweet smile of his,” my mom said.

​I stared out the limo window, thinking how Nonno Gino’s final destination—the eternal one, not the hole in the ground with the massive headstone waiting to cover it—might be cause for debate. Most everybody knew, or thought they knew, what Grandpa did for a living, and I don’t mean running a construction company. Others wouldn’t suspect, ‘cause Grandpa was the most gentle, sweetest man to walk this earth. I never heard him raise his voice in anger. Maybe God—but definitely the other guy—knew what fires blazed inside the man that early in his life earned him the nickname “Bats.” Then, men spoke it with respect, reverence. Later in Nonno Gino’s life, people knew not to speak it at all. 

Afterwards, I stood outside Dad’s house, bidding visitors, “Saluti. Grazie di essere venuti,” and guiding them to the backyard where a feast had been set out on long linen-covered tables, with men and women in white jackets and black ties serving food onto china plates. The waitstaff circulated with trays of champagne in crystal flutes. In a corner of the yard, a combo played jazz. Nonno loved jazz, believed Coltrane was Apollo incarnate.

As afternoon faded into evening, and only family and Nonno’s closest friends remained, we pulled a few tables together. Servers brought trays of pasticcini—Italian pastries—strong coffee and the ubiquitous anisette. Storytelling began, recollections of how Nonno Gino had helped this person or that, or once saved a child from drowning in Lake George, or how he always knew just the right person if some difficult thing had to get done. 

“See how Judge Steward and Police Chief Gallegher came? Made no secret of it,” someone said. 

“They’re both gentlemen,” my mother said. “They played golf with Gino almost every weekend.”

“And the Monsignor,” Dad piped in. “The man loves his champagne.”

As darkness fell, my mom and the other wives went inside to their own gossip and secrets. 

At their leaving I sighed in relief that none of the women had asked, “So, Michael, when are you gonna get married? How old are you now?” 

I’d put off marriage for the Army, then college and graduate school. Recently, I’d found someone I thought just right for me, but I didn’t say anything to that crowd, afraid doing so might bring mal’occhio or other bad luck upon us.

In the darkness, the men gathered closer and spoke in low voices as they told of “Bats’” darker exploits. Tales of men who’d crossed Nonno Gino in some way, and soon either totally disappeared, or got dumped in some semi-public place where the carcass would send a message.

Eventually, only my dad and I sat at the table, each of us adrift with our thoughts and memories. Then, Dad said, “Mikey, why not stay the night?”

After I left home, they’d converted my bedroom into a guest room, and did a fine job of it, including an en suite—you know, an adjoining bathroom. 

I showered and settled into an armchair, sipping Dad’s fine single malt, remembering when as a high school senior, I’d stayed with my Nonna Chiara while Nonno Gino went away on business. Late that Saturday night, I heard some commotion downstairs, like someone had broken into the house. I rushed to Nonna’s room and warned her to stay quiet. I crept downstairs and saw four enormous goombahs turning over furniture, ripping paintings off the walls, smashing anything that would shatter. 

“What the fuck are ya doing?” I ran to tackle one of the intruders. I’d been in a few tussles, and could handle myself, or so I thought, but those mothers were gigantic, and one guy made quick work of me. 

One of them ran upstairs and dragged my Nonna down to us. I tried to help but got coldcocked. 

Throwing Nonna onto a chair, the goombah said, “You tell your batshit, lunatic, scumbag husband to mind his own fuckin’ business, or this ain’t nothing to what he’ll get.”

I drove Nonna to the hospital and explained she’d fallen down the stairs. Doctors said she’d be okay, so I took her home. I cleaned up a bit and waited until Nonno Gino came home next day.

Nonno looked around, said nothing. Just nodded his head. He made two phone calls, walked up to Nonna Chiara. 

He came down when the phone rang. “Give me an hour,” he said. Went upstairs to his wife again. When he returned, he said, “Let’s go.”

We drove to the waterfront, to a derelict warehouse. Inside, two of Nonno’s associates nodded, and pointed to the four naked thugs hanging by their wrists from a water pipe, their toes inches off the floor. 

One of Nonno’s men handed him a Louisville Slugger. Nonno removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and approaching the hanging men, he said softly, “One of you is gonna tell me who put hands on my wife.” He took a couple swings with the Louisville Slugger, like a batter in the on-deck circle. “I’m gonna go down the line, one-by-one until somebody talks.”

Three voices in chorus identified the thug.

Nonno began with the feet. Worked his way up, swing after swing, toes to head. Then, he worked on the next two, the bat whooshing through air, followed by bone-shattering thuds. Reaching the goon who had beaten me, he handed the bat to me.

​© 2026 Nick Di Carlo

About the author:

Nick Di Carlo has taught writing in universities, colleges, and in New York State’s Maximum Security Correctional Facilities. 
 
Of Di Carlo’s prison work, Lawrence R. Reis, Wolf Masks: Violence in Contemporary Poetry author noted: “The men in Dr. Di Carlo’s classes recognized many similarities between their experiences and his. Those experiences, often dark and sometimes violent, inform and power Dr. Di Carlo’s own writing.”

    Does he know? That's the question that jabs Russell in the temple like the business end of an ice pick when he sees who the email is from. It seems a cordial invitation. Lunch, it says. Perhaps it’s just business. But racked between debilitating guilt and a desperate flicker of hope, Russell agonizes. What if it isn't?

    Everything around him is white. The glare of the sun. The light bouncing off the bleached storefronts. The milky cobblestones on the street underfoot. His suit. The linen suit that virtually every businessman in Retiro de Santos wears to ward off the noonday heat. As he approaches the cafe, Russell dabs the sweat from his upper lip with his white handkerchief. Is he sweating from the heat or apprehension? The question remains. Does he know? 

    Russell tells the hostess he is there to meet someone. When he gives her the name, she nods and leads the way. The patio is curiously empty, Russell thinks, but his observation is cut short when he spots the man who invited him to lunch, his client, seated at a table beneath the shadow of a banyan tree.

    "Good of you to join me," Russell's client says.

    "A pleasure to be invited. It's quite lovely here."

    "Attracted to pretty things, are you?"

    Russell's breath catches in his throat. His wavering provides the opportunity for his client to continue. "The concierge at our hotel recommended it."    

    Still on edge, Russell blurts, "Hotel personnel are sometimes rewarded by local establishments for sending business their way."

    "Are you implying I've been duped?"

    "Not at all," Russell responds apologetically. "I'm sure no one would try to take advantage of you."

    "It's generally not a good idea."

    Unsure how to continue, Russell gives a quick, obedient nod of the head, and smiles.

    "Something to drink," the client asks.

    "Uh...I'll have what you're having."

    The client raises his hand, holding up two fingers. Glancing over his shoulder, Russell sees the waiter responding. He feels the need to make small talk, but anxiety muddles his judgement and again he says something he immediately wishes he hadn't.

    "We should go slowly, though. Cold cocktails and hot days can be a lethal combination."

    "Perhaps. But I have learned to discipline the things that give me pleasure."

    "Oh, of course. No advice intended. Just a friendly observation I've had to repeat to myself often."

    "Yes. You are quite a friendly fellow, aren't you? That's what my wife says."

    Russell takes an urgent sip of water. "And how is your lovely wife? I assumed she would be joining us."

    "She was feeling under the weather. Fatigue from travel, you understand."

    "Of course. Too much sun...or local color." 

    "That's one way of putting it," the client says, as the waiter returns and puts the drinks in front of them. "I hope you don't mind, but I've taken the liberty of ordering in advance. Their signature dish."

    "If you like it, I'm sure I will," Russell replies. 

    "That seems to be the case, doesn't it?" Russell's perspiration returns. Again, he is hesitant to respond. His client fills the void.

    "I've decided not to acquire the property you showed us. I thought it appropriate to deliver that little disappointment with the pleasantry of a mollifying meal."

    "That's very kind of you," Russell responds. "Most would have simply called and given me their decision over the phone. Though, I must admit my hopes were up when your wife expressed a desire to see the property a second time."

    "Frankly, it was the occasion of that second visit that solidified my decision."

    "Found it less attractive than on first viewing?"

    "Quite the contrary. She was effusive about the experience. But we both know her excitement was brought about by something altogether unrelated to the property. Need I be specific?"

    Russell's facade collapses, he instantly puts both hands on the table. "Please, let me explain."

    "No need. Recriminations and excuses are tiresome. I've heard them before. You don't think this is her first time, do you?"

    "Please understand. I meant no disrespect to you. The passion of the moment. Her astonishing beauty. I was helpless."

    "Yes, on occasion I've found that my wife is irresistible. But she is my wife."

    Before Russell can continue groveling, the waiter arrives and sets plates in front of them. 

    "Ah, lunch," the client says. "Tell me what you think."

    "Sir, I truly regret what happened, It was never my intention to—"

    "No. Not about that. Tell me what you think of the fish?"

Russel is beside himself. Unsure of how to react, he picks up his fork and samples a small piece of flesh. "Hmm. Makes the lips tingle."

    "That strange feeling in your mouth is the beginning of your central nervous system shutting down."

    Russell tries to speak, but only manages, "Wha..."

    "Next, you will become dizzy. But you won't fall because severe paralysis will immediately set in. You'll be unable to move."

    Russell hears but can't reply.

    "You'll soon lose all feeling in your face. It's possible you may vomit, but you'll remain fully conscious. At least until the poison reaches your diaphragm. At which time you'll die of asphyxia."

    Russell's eyes are locked in horror.

    "I mislead you. This cafe is actually owned by a man who owed me quite a sum. To repay, he suggested a special preparation of the blowfish. Now his debt is paid in full. And soon, yours will be."

    Russell is rigid. His face wrapped in a virtual death mask.

    As the client rises to leave, he says, "I realize etiquette dictates you stand as we part, but you needn't attempt it. What would be the point?"

    The movement of the sun has left the table no longer in shade. Intense light blinds Russell's spellbound eyes. He hears the tinkle of glasses, the rattle of plates, and noises from the street nearby, but is incapable of soliciting help. For Russell, now and forever, there is only white.

​© 2026 Joe Kilgore

About the author:
Joe Kilgore is an award-winning author of novels, novellas, screenplays, and short stories. He lives and writes in Austin, Texas. You can learn more about Joe and his work at his website: https://joekilgore.com