"The Right Man" is a crime/detective fiction short story.

            I walked slowly to the door and listened for any noise from the other room. The last thing I wanted to do was come face-to-face with an angry pair of eyes that belonged to an even angrier James Tomas. I waited for a minute and didn’t hear anything. I slowly opened the door and peered in.

            I didn’t come face-to-face with anyone. There was a desk with two chairs in front of it facing the door. The desk had a lamp and a blotter on it; it was immaculately clean. There was little else in the room. I stepped into the room and made my way towards the desk. I’d check the drawers for anything and make my way out. My heart was pounding. Every second I was sure somebody would come barging through the door. Why I even decided to get curious I’ll never know.

            I walked around to the other side of the desk and looked down at the drawers. Then I stopped. I’d finally come face-to-face with a set of eyes.

            These eyes weren’t angry; they were empty. They were just a set of gray eyes staring up at me. They were lifeless. They belonged to the tall man. There was a hole in his head. He wouldn’t stab anyone else.



            I hardly remember sprinting out of that office. The next thing I knew I was outside the Kroeg Building gasping for air. My stomach felt like it had just done somersaults and was ready to do a few more. I could feel cold sweat on my brow and neck. I looked around in a panic. I had to get away from here. I ran to the subway station and nearly lost all my future children to the turnstile. The station was empty except for a man behind the newsstand. I grabbed a piece of bench and sat down.

            The subway was hot and stuffy. It didn’t help my stomach at all; but it was quiet. I began to gain some composure; my breathing started to calm down. I ran my hands through my hair and started to think about what I saw. Do I call the police? There was a dead man in that office and soon he’d be found by somebody. Would they know I was in the office? What if it looked like I’d killed him? I couldn’t stop asking questions.

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  • Sam Clemens on May 1, 2010

    If Raymond Chandler had been born one hundred years later, this is what he would have written. A very well done piece.

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