Shot by Kevin Merringer
Brian A. Crawford

	He gripped the coffee mug with both hands, feeling the warmth flowing from the ceramic into his body using his cold fingers as a conduit.  The intoxicating aroma of freshly brewed French roast filled his nostrils and soothed his nerves—and he hadn’t even taken a sip yet.  It was just what he needed.  It was Monday morning.
	Across the table his wife Susan skimmed the news on her laptop.  Susan didn’t drink coffee.  She drank tea—herbal tea only, and only that herbal tea that came in funky biodegradable bags and had names like “Mother Nature’s Splendor” and “Berry Healthy Brew”.  She had cancelled the daily paper—without telling Kevin—because reading the news on her laptop saved forests full of innocent trees.  Susan was that type of woman.  And truth be told, he adored her for it.
	Susan took a sip of tea, glancing only briefly at Kevin before placing her cup back on its saucer.  “So,” she said casually, her attention on the laptop screen.  “Do you want to go try that machine with me after work?”
	Kevin sighed.  This was the third time Susan had mentioned that damned machine.  Apparently some company was littering America’s malls with “death machines”, machines that, merely by taking a sample of a person’s blood, were supposedly able to predict the manner of one’s death.  Though press releases from the company boasted incredible accuracy based on the small number of people who had tested and died since the machine’s release, Kevin couldn’t help but feel that these death machines were the latest in trendy ways to sap people of their hard-earned cash.  Unfortunately for Kevin, Susan was all about trendy ways to throw away money.  Kevin ignored the question and took a swig from his mug.
	Susan looked up from her computer and frowned at Kevin.  “Seriously,” she said, giving him one of those wide-eyed ‘I’m cute, please let me manipulate you’ sort of looks.  “All my friends have already done it.  Violet just found out she’s going to die of a heart attack, in her sleep.  She’s been prancing around like she just won the lottery.”
	“Those machines are rubbish,” grunted Kevin.  “How the hell is a machine—a box full of nuts and bolts—supposed to predict the way you’re gonna die?  That’s just absurd.”
	Susan frowned.  “But they say the machine never lies.  Who cares how they do it?  The fact is, they do it.  And I really want to know how I go.  I hate living with all this uncertainty hanging over me.”
	He laughed.  “People have been coping with the mystery of death for a long time,” he told her.  “I for one am fine with not knowing how I’m gonna go.  And speaking of going, I have to go to work.  Have a pleasant, if unpredictable, day.”  He gulped down the rest of his coffee and headed for the garage before she could plead with him any more.  He didn’t know how long he’d be able to hold out against Susan’s patented puppy-dog eyes.
	Besides, the very concept of a machine that could predict the manner of one’s death was ghastly and ridiculous.  Kevin could find better ways to throw away his money.  Fast cars, maybe, or video games, or even betting on horses.  Kevin wasn’t a betting man, but he’d rather bet on a horse to win a race than on a pile of metal to tell him how he was going to bite the big one.

At lunch he sat in the cafeteria with Jake and Edwin, the three of them looking like clones in their starched white shirts and navy blue ties.  He had spent the morning crunching numbers, like he spent every morning.  Why he needed to wear a tie to crunch numbers he didn’t know, but accountants wear ties, and he was an accountant, and that’s just the way it is.
	Jake finished gulping down a big bite of sandwich before nudging Kevin with his elbow.  “Who’s that guy over there looking at you?”
	Kevin turned to see an African American man, also in a shirt and tie, glowering at him from a table at the far end of the cafeteria.  When he saw Kevin looking at him he quickly turned away and started fiddling with the food on his tray.  Kevin shrugged and went back to his own lunch.  “I have no idea.”
	“That’s Daniel Benson,” said Ed.  “He works in Accounts Receivable.  He’s a friend of Tonya’s.  Nice guy.”
	Kevin shrugged.  He lifted his eyes to see Daniel staring at him once more.  “Never seen him before.”
	“Well, he sure seems to know you,” said Jake.  “You sure you don’t recognize him?”
	“Nope.”  Kevin frowned at Daniel Benson.  Daniel Benson stood and picked up his tray and hastened it to the nearest garbage bin, sliding his trash into the bin and plopping the tray up on top before beating a path to the elevator.  “No idea who that is.”
	Ed shrugged.  “Well, maybe he thinks you’re someone else.”

Kevin slugged down the last bit of coffee in his mug and sat back in his chair.  It was 3:30 in the afternoon and he had just sent the last of his calculations for the Gurney & Hodges corporate SEC filing to the printer.  The company was in serious trouble, but that wasn’t Kevin’s problem.  Accountants are well paid to deliver the cold hard truth without letting emotions cloud their judgment.
	Kevin got up, stretched, and headed over to the printer to pick up his work.  He meandered through the familiar cube farm, ignoring the steady gazes of several co-workers who popped their heads up above the felt-covered dividers enclosing their tiny cubicles to watch him go.  Kevin arrived at the desk of Tonya, a good-natured African American woman wearing wide glasses with purple rims and her short hair done up in curls, who worked as the Audit Department’s administrative assistant.  Tonya sat busily working at her desk, her back to Kevin as he approached. 
	“Hey,” he said cheerfully.
	Tonya turned to regard Kevin, frowned at him, and turned back to her work.  “Oh, it’s you.”
	Kevin blinked at Tonya’s greeting, but let it go.  Everybody is entitled to an off day once in a while, and it was Monday after all.  He waggled the fresh printout in front of her.  “Hey, do you think you could copy this audit and distribute it to senior management?  I’d really appreciate it.”
	Tonya sniffed at him.  “You don’t know how to use a photocopier?”
	Kevin took a step backward.  He had never known Tonya to be so hostile.  “Um, of course I know how to use a photocopier.  But uh... you do this every time I complete an audit.  It’s what we hired you for.”
	“Fine.”  Tonya snatched the papers from Kevin’s hand and turned back to her computer.  “I’ll be your photocopy slave.  Goddamned racist.”
	Kevin, already turning to leave, registered what Tonya had just said.  His jaw dropped as he spun to stare at her.  “What did you just say?”
	Tonya narrowed her eyes at him.  “I’ve been talking to Daniel Benson.  He told me about you.”
	Kevin recognized the name of the stranger in the cafeteria, the one who had been staring at him during lunch.  “What?  But I don’t even know that guy.”
	Tonya laughed.  “That’s because you don’t associate with black people.”
	“I associate with them just fine!”
	Tonya snorted.  “Oh, so now black people are them.”
	Kevin threw up his arms.  “This is ridiculous.”  He turned and stormed back to his desk.  Once again the office gophers popped up their heads to watch him go, scowls on their faces.  Even his boss Brendan frowned at him as he passed by the open door of his airy corner office.  Kevin wondered what the heck Daniel Benson had been telling people about him, and why.
	
When Kevin got home from work there was an unmarked police car parked outside his house with two men in plainclothes sitting inside.  Their eyes followed Kevin as he pulled into the driveway.  Kevin wondered why they bothered making unmarked police cars at all if they were going to make them so easily identifiable—everybody knows that shadow-grey Crown Vics idling by the side of the road are usually packing cops.  Kevin got out and slammed the car door before walking across the lawn to talk to them.  The one on the passenger side rolled down the window as Kevin approached.
	“Hi,” said Kevin, trying to sound as casual as he could.  “What are you guys doing here?”
	“I’m Officer Yarrow, and this is Officer Clew,” grunted the passenger.  He was a husky looking man with short brown hair and watery blue eyes.  The driver, slightly slighter of build with crooked teeth and a cop moustache, gave Kevin a small wave.  “We’re here to watch you.”
	Kevin’s eyes widened.  “Watch me?  But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
	“Not yet, at least,” muttered Clew.
	Kevin crossed his arms and glared at the policemen.  “Alright, why don’t the two of you tell me what’s going on around here.  Everybody’s been acting strange around me lately and I am mighty confused.”
	Officer Yarrow reached into his inner jacket pocket.  For a split second Kevin thought he might be pulling a pistol on him, but when his hand reappeared it was clutching a crumpled piece of white paper.  The paper read, ‘Shot by Kevin Merringer’.
	Kevin furrowed his brow.  “What the heck is that?”
	Officer Yarrow stuffed the note back into his pocket.  “It’s a result, from a death machine.  Says you’re going to kill Daniel Benson.”
	Kevin was rapidly losing his cool.  “But I don’t know Daniel Benson.”
	“But you will know him,” interjected Officer Clew.  “And then you’re gonna kill him.”
	Officer Yarrow nodded.  “We had Mr. Benson take the test three times on our machine back at the precinct.  Always the same result.  Shot by Kevin Merringer.”
	Officer Clew leaned over his partner to squint at Kevin.  “You don’t happen to have a gun on you, do you?”
	“No, I don’t have a gun,” Kevin snapped.  “I don’t even know how to fire a gun.  I’m a goddamned accountant.  And those death machines are a load of crap!”
	“Whoah, settle down, there,” Yarrow barked, and Officer Clew’s hand went for his revolver.  Alarmed, Kevin froze, and after a few tense seconds, Officer Clew released his grip.  “Anyway,” continued Yarrow, “those machines never lie.  Never, ever.  One day, maybe someday soon, we’ll be able to use ‘em in court to commit killers before they can commit their crimes.  Save a lot of innocent lives.  But until that day, all we can do is follow you around and try to stop you if we can.”
	Kevin somehow managed to retain some semblance of calm despite his skyrocketing anger level.  “I’m not a killer.”
	Officer Yarrow smiled the smug smile of someone who felt he knew better.  “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Merringer.”
	“I surely won’t,” grumbled Kevin, stomping into the house and slamming the door.

The following morning Kevin pulled into the parking lot at work at around 8:45, same as always.  He parked the car in the same general area where he always parked the car and trudged across the median toward the slowly revolving doors of the Plunkett Accountancy building.  As he walked, he caught sight of a familiar face.  It was Daniel Benson, clutching a burgundy leather suitcase and making his way toward the building from another section of parking lot.
	Kevin stepped up his pace, jogging across the wide loading zone in front of the building to catch up with Daniel.  “Hey!  You there!  I need to talk to you.”
	Daniel turned to see who was calling him.  When his eyes found Kevin’s his dark skin paled and he froze in his tracks.  A second later he dropped his suitcase and made a mad dash for the building.
	Kevin raced after Daniel.  “Hey, wait!” he shouted, ignoring the stares of the other people in the parking lot.  “I’m not going to kill you!  I don’t even know you!”
	As Kevin reached the door of the building two burly security guards stepped forward to apprehend him.  Kevin tried to worm his way past them but one of them grabbed him by the arm and held him fast.
	“Mr. Knight needs to speak with you,” the guard grunted.

Kevin stepped through the open door of Brendan Knight’s office, blinking against the morning sunlight seeping through the cheap plastic blinds that covered the huge plate glass windows behind Brendan’s desk.  As Kevin entered the room Brendan shuffled the papers he had been studying into a neat stack and gestured toward the padded leather chair on the other side of the desk.  The two security guards remained just outside the office door.
	“Good morning, Brendan,” said Kevin.
	Brendan cleared his throat.  “Good morning, Kevin.”
	Kevin turned to regard the two security guards watching him from the doorway and then returned his attention to his boss.  “So uh... what’s up?”
	Brendan picked up his papers and shuffled them again, avoiding Kevin’s gaze.  “Well, Kevin... as you know, here at Plunkett Accountancy we pride ourselves on the integrity of our employees.”
	Kevin could see where this was going.  “You gotta be kidding me.”
	“Daniel Benson approached me earlier about your little plot to murder him, and the local precinct has backed up his claim.  For the safety of our employees we can’t have people like you working in our building.”
	Kevin felt anger welling deep within his chest.  “I have not been plotting to murder him!  I don’t even know who he is!”
	Brendan cleared his throat once more.  “Your personal belongings have already been packed into a cardboard box and left at the front desk.  The security guards will see you out of the building and to your car.  We have filed a restraining order against you to ensure that you do not return to the premises.”
	Kevin balled his hands into fists.  “Are you crazy?  I don’t even know that guy!  Why the hell is he doing this to me?”
	The two security guards grabbed Kevin from behind and hauled him out of Brendan’s office by his arms.  The other employees at Plunkett Accountancy stood from their chairs and watched in silence as Kevin was dragged down the hall toward the exit.  One of the receptionists fetched the cardboard box containing Kevin’s personal things and brought it to his car as the two guards escorted him across the parking lot and forced him into the driver’s seat.
	Kevin sat in his car, completely stunned, while the two guards crossed their arms in front of them and waited for him to leave.  He sat there for a good fifteen minutes trying to comprehend what had just happened to him.  Finally, feeling defeated, Kevin cranked the ignition and pulled his car out of the Plunkett Accountancy parking lot.  His stomach felt hollow, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.  
When Kevin arrived at his house Officers Yarrow and Clew were already parked by the curb in their shadow-grey Crown Vic, watching him as he turned into his driveway.  Kevin ignored them and entered the house through the garage.  During the commute home he had come to the conclusion that it would probably be best if he crawled straight into bed and slept away the rest of the day.  He could worry about finding another job in the morning, and maybe even about talking to some lawyers concerning his wrongful dismissal from Plunkett Accountancy.  There had to be something he could do about that.
At the top of the stairs Kevin could hear his wife moving about in the master bedroom.  This wasn’t unusual—Susan normally worked part-time in the afternoons and spent her mornings having tea with her friends or puttering around the house.  What was surprising was that when Kevin arrived in the room he found his best suitcase popped open atop the bed.  Susan was pulling clothes out of open drawers and folding them into the half-packed suitcase, humming as she went.  He noticed a tiny band-aid on the tip of her right index finger.
Kevin approached her.  “What are you doing?”
Susan glanced at Kevin, giving him one of her half-smiles.  “Oh, hi.  I’m leaving you, is what.”
Kevin started.  “Leaving me?  Why?”
Susan shrugged, folding one of her favorite sundresses into the suitcase.  “I guess I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.”
Kevin clenched his fists.  “Alright, who have you been talking to?”
“Oh, just those nice policemen parked outside.  On my way to tea with the girls I asked them what they were doing outside our house, so they told me.  Really, Kevin, I thought I knew you better.”
Kevin stammered.  “But I haven’t done anything yet!”
Susan quirked a brow.  “Yet,” she repeated, before turning and disappearing into the walk-in closet.  “And a black man, too,” came her voice.  “I always thought you were more open-minded about people of different races.”
Kevin was about to start yelling at her when he caught sight of a small white slip of paper beside the suitcase.  He reached over and picked it up.  “What the... is this what I think it is?”  He flipped the paper over to read, printed in bold black letters, ‘Tortured by Guerillas in Colombia’.
Susan reappeared with several hangers full of long pants.  Seeing Kevin with the paper, she grinned and stuffed the pants into the suitcase.  “Isn’t it great?” she beamed.  “It told me what I always knew deep down inside—that I’m destined to do great things.  I’m joining the Peace Corps!  I’ll be shipping out for South America within the week.”
	Kevin blinked.  “But it doesn’t say you’re destined to do great things.  All it says is that you’re going to die a horrible death.”
	Susan dismissed him with a wave of her hand.  “It is my destiny to help those in need,” she said.  “Many great people have been martyred for their beliefs.  I’m not afraid to join them in dying for a good cause.”
She turned to continue her packing, but Kevin grabbed her by the arm.  “But Susan,” he stammered, “if you don’t go to Colombia, then you can’t get tortured to death there.  You don’t have to go to South America to die just because some bucket of bolts told you that you would.  Stay here, with me.  I love you!”
	She slapped him.  “Hands off me, you murderer.  I’ve made up my mind.  And I could never love a killer.”
	Susan disappeared back into the walk-in closet leaving Kevin stunned.  His day had gone from bad, to worse, to disastrous.  All because some guy he didn’t even know was going around telling everybody he was a killer, which he most certainly was not.  Kevin once again felt anger welling up deep within him, causing his hands to shake and sweat to bead upon his brow.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this upset about anything.  Upset enough to kill someone over?  No, he decided.  Even as angry as he was, he could never bring himself to harm another human being.  It went against his very nature.
	Kevin stumbled down the stairs, tugged open the fridge and grabbed a cold beer from the bottom shelf.  He popped it open and set it on the kitchen table, sitting down in front of it.  He came to the realization that his life would never return to normal unless the myth of the death machine was somehow debunked.  He would never work in this city again as long as Daniel Benson was running around telling everybody about some mythical plot to murder him; and his wife would be on the next plane to Colombia, ready to die a meaningless death, unless he could find some way to convince her that the machines were a ruse.  There had to be a way.
	He left the beer sweating on the table and stumbled to the garage.  In his highly agitated state the only plan that he could come up with was to find out where these machines were being made and take a trip to the plant.  Explain to upper management that certain people were taking their so-called death machines way too seriously, and that he needed someone to contact the local police and tell them to stop tailing him for crimes he hadn’t committed.  To call up his wife and talk her out of flying to South America and wandering around aimlessly in jungles until she managed to find some guerillas who were willing to torture her to death.  It was all so absurd that Kevin would be laughing at the whole situation if it wasn’t currently ruining his life.
Kevin got into the car, his mind made up.  He would not rest until he had exposed death machines as a hoax, and the world would thank him for it.  He would catch the next plane to... well, to wherever it was that they were cranking them out, and rent a car to take to the plant.  But first, he needed to convince Daniel Benson to stop spreading lies about him.
He backed out of the driveway and onto the street.  Officers Yarrow and Clew followed him as he sped through the neighborhood and out onto the main boulevard.  Just before the closest set of lights he turned down the on-ramp and merged onto the Interstate, pulling quickly into the express lane and leaving the cops blocked behind an 18-wheeler that he had managed to outpace.  A few minutes later the Plunkett Accountancy building loomed into view.  He pulled off the highway at the next exit and swerved into the parking lot, his tires squealing in protest.  The clock on the dashboard read 11:43.
Kevin weaved around several clusters of employees who were walking together through the sunlit parking lot, likely heading for home to have lunch with their families or leaving in groups to eat at any one of several local eateries surrounding the building.  Kevin veered into the loading zone and jammed on the brakes, jerking to a halt a few inches behind a white panel van idling before of a wide set of double doors.  His plan was to sneak into the building via the mailroom, thereby avoiding the security guards posted at the main entrance, and to then take the stairs up to the Accounts Receivable department on the second floor.  He hoped that his quarry, who sat somewhere in that area, wouldn’t be too hard to find.  But as he stepped out of the car he noticed Daniel Benson himself emerge from the building through the revolving doors, suitcase in hand, heading toward the parking lot.  A flash of grey on the other side of the building caught his attention and he turned to see the unmarked police car of Officers Yarrow and Clew pulling onto the property.  Time was running out; he had to convince Daniel of his innocence, and fast.  He ran across the loading zone to catch up with the man, this time without drawing attention to himself by calling out his name.
Kevin waited until he was about ten feet away from Daniel to address him.  “Daniel!  Hey, wait a minute!  I need to talk to you.”
Daniel spun around.  His eyes widened as Kevin slowed to approach him at a brisk walk.  He dropped his suitcase on the ground and stuck a trembling hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
“Listen,” began Kevin, lowering his voice to mask his irritation.  “You have to stop telling people I’m planning to kill you.  It’s just not true.  I don’t even know who you... hey, what are you doing?”
	Daniel had pulled a shiny silver pistol from his pocket and was leveling it at Kevin.  “St-stay away from me!” he cried, his voice cracking in his hysteria.  “I-I’ll shoot you!  I mean it!”
	Kevin raised his hands and took a step away from Daniel.  “Hey, put that thing away!  I’m trying to tell you, I’m not going to hurt you.  But you’re ruining my life with your lies!”  Kevin realized that he was raising his voice.  His temper was getting the best of him even with a gun pointed at his chest.  But didn’t he have a damn good reason to be angry?
	Daniel took a step forward and jabbed the gun between two of Kevin’s ribs.  “I should shoot you right now,” Daniel whispered.  In his eyes was the look of a madman.  “I’ll say it was in self defense.  The cops’ll believe me.  They know you’re planning to kill me.”
	The frustration inside Kevin had built to such an extent that he felt his skull would pop open and steam would start shooting out of his ears.  “For the last time,” he seethed, no longer bothering to disguise his anger.  “I’m... not... trying... to kill you!”  Daniel took a startled step away from Kevin and Kevin used this opportunity to swat the gun away from his chest, but his pinky finger got caught within the trigger guard of the pistol.  Daniel snatched the gun away, wrenching Kevin’s finger with the metal guard.  Kevin yelped in pain and yanked his hand away from the gun.  In doing so his bruised knuckle jerked against the trigger.
	CRACK!
	Daniel’s eyes went wide with surprise and Kevin took a hasty step backward.  Daniel looked down at the hole in his chest, then back up at Kevin.  He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.  Then his body slumped to the ground, his head cracking wetly against the pavement.
	Kevin stood, shaking, as Officers Yarrow and Clew screeched to a halt beside him.  They jumped out of the car, Officer Clew aiming his revolver at Kevin’s head as Officer Yarrow crouched over the crumpled form of Daniel Benson.  The Officer jabbed two fingers against the man’s neck and held them there as Kevin watched in horror.  After a few very long seconds Officer Yarrow turned to look up at Kevin.  His eyes were cold and hard.
	“Like I told you,” he said.  “The machine never lies.”

The courtroom quieted as the judge prepared to announce the sentence.  It had taken half an hour for the members of the jury, half black and half white as befitting what the local media had hyped as a race crime, to decide that Kevin was guilty of first degree murder.  Now Kevin sat helplessly in an uncomfortable wooden chair, awaiting his fate.  He glanced nervously around the dark courtroom.  All eyes were on the judge, all spectators hungrily awaiting his decision.  A handful of Daniel Benson’s relatives sat together near the back of the room, fierce determination in their eyes.
The silver-haired judge, overweight and important looking in his dark robe, beckoned to the bailiff, who trotted to his side.  The judge grunted once to clear his throat, then said, with an air of formality, “bring in the machine.”
	Kevin’s eyes widened as the bailiff stepped from the room and then reentered, this time holding a small silver box.  He brought it before Kevin and placed it neatly atop the table.  It was a death machine, innocuous looking enough, with only two visible controls: a small red button with a tiny hole in its center, and a narrow slit located an inch or so beneath the button.  The spectators in the room started to murmur to one another, quietly at first, then louder and more excitedly as they realized what was happening.
	The judge banged his gavel on the table and settled back into his chair as the audience hushed.  He nodded to Kevin.  “You may push the button, Mr. Merringer.”
	Kevin stared at the machine in horror, backing instinctively away from it.  Behind him two armed guards impeded his movement.  “This is crazy,” he cried.  “These machines are a load of bunk.  You can’t make me do this!”
	The judge nodded to the courtroom guards.  One of them seized Kevin and held him from behind while the other grabbed him by his left arm.  Kevin yelped as the guard pulled his finger toward the machine and jammed it hard against the button.  He felt a sharp jolt of pain as a needle stabbed through the skin of his finger.  The guards released him and he pulled his finger away from the machine to stick into his mouth, tasting the warm saltiness of his own blood.
	The courtroom went silent again, all eyes on the machine.  The machine sat silently on the table doing nothing.  For a moment Kevin thought it might be broken, but then suddenly the machine whirred to life.  It went “Pzzzt!” and spat out a small white piece of paper.  Before Kevin could see what it said the bailiff tore the paper off the spool and took it before the judge.
	The audience remained silent as the judge pulled a small pair of wire-frame glasses from his shirt pocket and settled them atop his nose.  He then examined the piece of paper, studying it carefully before handing it back to the bailiff.  The bailiff brought the slip of paper back down to Kevin and held it in front of him.  Kevin snatched the paper from the bailiff and flipped it over to see what it said.
	It said, ‘Lethal Injection’.
	The bailiff plucked the paper from Kevin’s fingers and studied it briefly.  Then he read its contents aloud, enunciating the words loudly and clearly for everyone in the courtroom to hear.  The spectators started murmuring again, their voices filling the courtroom with a steady buzz that grew louder and louder.  At the back of the room Daniel Benson’s family started crying and hugging one another.
The judge took off his glasses and folded them neatly into his pocket.  “So be it.”