The Murder of Elliot Sunday

a question of bullets

"You did what?!"

I sighed, willing my temper into submission. "I left."

My boss leaned over her desk, eyes narrowed. "You told me you were the best of the best, did you not, Maybell?" She leaned even further. "Now tell me. What part of the job description mentioned leaving the investigation?"

"None of it," I said, folding my arms. "But Sunday wasn't dead, and that wasn't in the job description, either."

This took my boss aback, and slowly, she sank back into her chair. "What exactly are you saying, Maybell?"

"You heard me. Sunday isn't dead." I felt a little spark of triumph at the shock in her eyes and tried to crush it before I got too full of myself. "In fact, he's alive and well. And apparently he has no idea why everybody thinks he's dead."

My boss, Cyrah Linsor, leaned back, considering. She was a petite black woman with delicate features and a taste for colorful dresses and shiny jewelry, but most of the station was more scared of her than they would have been of the biggest, brawniest man that could have replaced her. She'd moved here from South Africa just three years ago, and the things she'd dealt with there made Fordham crime look like child's play, as she frequently reminded me. I wasn't sure how true that was, but either way, I didn't relish the thought of crossing her. This particular confrontation wasn't something I'd considered when I walked out of Sunday's office.

"And you didn't think it would be reasonable to continue the investigation?" Cyrah asked at last.

"Well..." I tried to stall, but there was only one way through this. "I was actually a little... surprised."

"So surprised that you forgot you were doing a job, I take it?" Cyrah asked.

I winced. "Sort of." And he told me to leave, I thought but didn't say. I had a feeling my dear boss wouldn't take too kindly to that piece of information.

"I see." Cyrah narrowed her eyes. "Do I need to tell you what to do, Maybell, or can you figure this one out without having it pounded through your skull?"

"I should probably go back," I said slowly, hoping I wasn't getting this one wrong.

Cyrah smiled. "There you go." I was halfway out the door already when she spoke again. "Oh, and Maybell?"

I turned. "Yes?"

"You're on your own for this one." I was about to protest, but Cyrah held up a hand. "I have faith in your abilities, but that faith would be severely diminished if you had a certain eager boy chasing you around all day."

I grinned, maybe my first real smile all day. "Thanks, Cyrah."

Back in the safety of my own measly cubicle, which was nowhere near as stylish as Sunday's office, I reflected mournfully, I turned on my laptop. With a little persuasion, I was able to get an autopsy report, although the physician in charge was still remarkably reluctant to give me pictures. It only took a bit more wheedling, though, before a massive folder appeared in my inbox.

Steeling myself, I opened the folder and clicked on the first photo, which had been taken before the actual dissection began.

I blinked.

The man in the photos looked nothing like Elliot Sunday.

Sure, there were similarities. The hair was similarly dark, the skin fairly close in color. But other than the minor issue of pigmentation, Sunday and this man were like night and day. This man was possibly one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. Excluding, of course, the fact that he was undoubtedly stone-cold and his chest was filled with bullets.