Death Carries A Hammer…A new Thermopolis Konan story…unedited…

The hammer made a thunk, thunk, thunk, as it was dragged across the floor of the mobile home. Bright red blood stained the linoleum.  Charlie Whitlock watched as the killer walked toward him. He sobbed.

“I don’t have it, man. I don’t…”

The hammer crashed into his head, and his world went black.

Thermopolis Konan sat in his mobile home; his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose.  A MacBook laptop with a small screen lay in his lap.  Various tabs open, he searched for accessories for his tactical shotgun. He frowned.  “These folks are insane. They want an arm and a leg for this crap.” The shotgun leaned against the propane heater.  It was a Mossberg 590. He purchased it after his last case. 

Things had escalated since the case was closed. Konan had received numerous death threats. His mailbox had an explosive placed in it-twice. 

It was a matter of time before they moved from the mailbox to his home. “No mobile home needs this type of set up,” Konan thought. He’d installed movement detection sensors around his property. The detection sensors were linked to four flood lights, two in the front and two in the back. He linked all of it to a radio in his small sitting room. Konan put the radio on a station that inclusively played gangsta rap. He detested gangsta rap, thus, it would serve to wake him from a dead sleep. 

He shut down his laptop, turned off his lamp, and made his way to his bedroom. His phone rang. It was his partner, Lt. Lilly Thompson.

“Hey, what’s going on Lilly.”

“You up for a new case?”

“Well, I suppose I could be. Can the Fredericksburg Police Department not handle it?”

“We can handle it, but there’s a small problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Your name is written in blood on the trailer wall.”

“Great,” Konan muttered. “Another fan.”

“So, you’ll bring donuts and coffee, eh?”

“Yeah. Send me the address.”

“2125 Watson Road. See you in a few.”


Konan dressed in a greenish-grey tee, jeans, and a pair of Red Wing Irish Setter boots. He shut off the lights, shoved a Springfield Hellcat and three magazines into his jean pockets. 

He stepped out the door and turned to lock it. When he turned back around, his mailbox disintegrated into a fiery blast.

“I’m tired of this crap.” 

Konan decided he would pursue his mystery mailbox destroyer as soon as he could step away from this new case.

2125 Watson Road was a dirt road that led to a small hill. The mobile home sat in the back corner of the lot. It was hidden from the road. The grass was tall. Apparently, the owner had not cut it at all this summer. 

There were no outside lights, booger lights the locals called them. The flash of red and blue lights announced that he’d arrived at the right place.  Lilly stood next to a patrol car and watched as Konan walked up.

“I really hope you brought donuts and coffee,” she said in way of greeting.

“One large coffee, black. One box of mixed donuts. Who is the victim, and why am I here?”

“Victims. Charlie Whitlock, his brother, Jarrod, wife Sarah Jean, and his friend Luke Richards.”

“Four victims. Are any of them disabled?”

“No, all were fully functional adults.”

“Then, how?”

“Come on, sugar britches. Follow me in.”

Konan followed Lilly in. CSI techs stood in various locations of the trailer searching for evidence. Lilly handed him gloves.

“So, Luke Richards answered the door. He was shot point blank twice. Killer walks in. Wife was shot next, one to the throat, the other to the chest. Jarrod fires a slug and misses. Killer fires three rounds, two in the chest, the other in the head. Charlie took one round to the guts. His head was crushed by a ten-pound sledgehammer.”

“Are we talking about a professional?”

“Maybe. It looks that way. But, why a hammer for the killing blow, Konan?”

“Whatever is going on, it’s personal. The killer killed three people with multiple gunshots. Yet, Charlie got hammered. That would lead one to believe that victim four either knew something he shouldn’t or had something that he shouldn’t. Either way, the kill was personal.”

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