Riverside's Perfect Murder

The Crime

The clock on the wall in Detective Rita Rawlins's office read eight minutes past ten when the phone rang. Rita had her nose buried in reports from the past week. On the third ring she looked up through the window facing the squad room, finding the room empty she gripped the receiver, "Rawlins..."

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On a beautiful morning in early September, the man walked into the Riverside Savings and Loan Main Street branch at precisely one minute after ten. The sun was shining, and the flowers were still blooming all along Main Street. There would be discrepancies among the eyewitnesses as to the man's description. Some would say he was tall, six-two at least, while others would say he was average or short, five-eight or perhaps five-ten. His weight would also vary, ranging from one hundred eighty-five pounds to two-ten.

However, there were four things that all the witnesses could all agree on. First, the man had jet black hair in a crew type haircut. Second, he had a long ugly scar starting just below his right eye running down to his chin. Third, he had a cold piercing stare and glacier blue eyes. Fourth, and most importantly, in his left hand, he held a pistol. The make and model were open for discussion. Some would say it was an automatic while others a revolver. It was, in fact, an eighteen seventy-three Colt point forty-five caliber revolver. The same gun that Jessie James reportedly carried during his bank robbery days.

After entering the bank, he fired two perfect shots knocking out both cameras facing the lobby. He fired a third bullet into the right thigh of the security guard midway between the knee and hip, causing the guard to fall immediately. Those first three shots happened in less than three seconds. His fourth shot would take out the third camera. 

At precisely two minutes after ten, the man handed a teller named Mary Jean Thompson a piece of paper. Mary Jean was a single mother of two girls. The note instructed her to fill a bag with whatever money was in the drawers. It further read that if she tripped an alarm or put any dye packs into the bag, he would kill her and her entire family. The note ended with large bold letters that read: YOU HAVE SIXTY SECONDS TO COMPLY. The man tapped his wrist with the barrel of the gun to get his point across to hurry. Mary Jean did as the note instructed and rushed as quickly as she was able.

When fifty-five seconds had passed, he gave a quick whistle and motioned Mary Jean to hand him the bag. He snatched it from her hand, turned on his heel and walked casually over to the security guard bleeding out on the floor. The man bent over, whispered something in the bleeding man's ear and then shot him twice in the head. 

When he exited the bank he turned right outside the door, and then right again onto the bridge over the swollen muddy river. No one noticed the small bag he tossed through the railing of the bridge. It hit the water with a tiny splash and no one would ever see the eighteen seventy-three colt revolver again.

The street cameras would show the police the man calmly walking onto the bridge and off on the other side. The cameras also captured the black-haired, scar-faced man, wearing his sizeable green overcoat walking into the Carson Hotel. What the cameras did not show was the man with the glacier blue eyes ever leaving the Carson Hotel.

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Construction of The Carson Hotel was started in 1928 and was completed and held its grand opening on October 1st, 1929. Not only was the hotel Mr. Dusty Carson's pride and joy, it also made his lifelong dream come true. Mr. Carson put every dime he had into the planning, construction, and furnishing of the ostentatious hotel. The hotel was in Mr. Carson's name for almost six months. 

After the great stock crash of late October 1929, no one could afford to stay in his hotel, and the banks quickly foreclosed. Rather than go home to his wife with his hotel no longer in his name, Mr. Carson stuck a pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The model of the gun was an Eighteen-seventy-three Colt. The same type of weapon that now lay on the bottom of the Genesee River just outside his hotel. The hotel would have several owners over the years since his death but would never achieve the greatness he had planned for it.

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The man could hear the police siren's as he entered the Carson Hotel. The man would walk unnoticed through the lobby to the side employee entrance. It opened onto a side street that had no cameras monitoring anyone's movements. The curious thing was as he exited the Hotel he no longer had any scar on his face, it was now in the pocket of his sizeable green overcoat which he took off upon exiting the Hotel. 

Outside the Hotel was a series of blue dumpsters belonging to a waste management company whose truck was there at precisely that moment. The man put his coat in the back with hardly a notice. Behind the fourth dumpster were a brown leather briefcase and white Panama hat which went nicely with the light gray pinstripe suit and a light blue shirt with a bold red tie the man was wearing. The bank bag with the cash fit quite nicely into the briefcase. The money would later find its way to the St. Catherine's orphanage courtesy of a night clothes drop box.

A ding on his phone announced the arrival of his Uber. Precisely on time, he noticed. He entered the black Prius through the passenger rear door, and the car moved on without a sound. He put his finger to his lips to indicate to the driver he didn't wish to speak. The driver obliged without comment. At precisely two point three miles the man in the back had the driver pull into a side street. This street also had no cameras watching. 

The man exited the car tipping his hat to the driver without ever saying a word. As he watched the black Prius drive away, the man took his cell phone apart and distributed the pieces as he walked. The curious thing was that the man who entered the building at the end of the street no longer had blue eyes. The blue colored contacts were in the trash receptacle at the entrance to the building.

After a stop in the restroom, the man walked out the rear entrance of the building. He casually walked a block to a second building where he entered the lobby and walked out the back door. It led onto a side street with no cameras. 

As he was exiting the building his second cell phone dinged with notice his next Uber driver had arrived. The vehicle was a silver Jeep Cherokee. 

It would take him to a small parking garage on the outskirts of town. He got out of the Cherokee tipped his hat to the driver and walked away. 

The curious thing was he no longer had black hair. His hair was silver/white now. The black wig was removed in the restroom and deposited in the trash receptacle upon leaving the building.

The man looked at his watch, smiled, and said softly, "Precisely on time." He got into an old red Ford Probe and drove away from town. Spread out along the roadside were pieces of his second cell phone. 

The wind was picking up as the storm approached. The leaves that had blown off the trees danced and twirled on the roadway like little pixies dancing. The red Probe was in no hurry. It had all day to reach its destination. The man was in no hurry either; the only thing left on his agenda for today was to have dinner this evening at precisely six-forty-five.

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