Blame Mitchell

A Mitchell Blame Mystery

Chapter 1 Preview

The air in the house was thick with the scent of blood; the smell dripped from the walls like honey cloying at Detective Mitchell Blame's sinuses like pollen on a spring day. Blame stepped over the threshold his worn boots left wet prints on the hardwood floor. He approached three uniformed officers standing in a doorway to his right. He reached them and looked into a small room set up as a home office. A body lay on the floor in front of a huge Mahogony desk. He didn't need to look at it. The position, the stains on the carpet--it was all too familiar, too routine; it had gotten so that he could identify the reasons for the death from just the cause. Twenty-two years of seeing the worst of mankind didn't leave much room for something new.

He looked everywhere but at the body. The large mahogany desk, faced two upholstered chairs that took up most of the space in front of the door. Bookshelves and file cabinets lined one wall, while a narrow worktable sat against the other. Mitch stared at a row of diplomas and photographs on the wall closest to him. A doctorate in economics from Howard University, a photo of four men in fatigues around one of those six-wheeled armored vehicles in the middle of a desert, and pictures of a fit-looking businessman with various politicians and movie stars. Mitch couldn't make himself look at the body. He knew he had to, but he couldn't. A part of him screamed, Get to work, loser, this guy deserves justice, while another part distracted him with trivialities, trying to convince him the things furthest away from the body must be important.

"Jesus," came a voice from behind him.

Blame didn't turn to see who it was. Probably the new rookie, someone who hadn't had his badge long enough to lose the shock at the sight of a corpse. Blame had seen it all--too much of it. Murder wasn't shocking to him anymore; it wasn't a novelty; it was a feeling of emptiness. After all this time, a new corpse was just a reminder of the hopelessness of the human condition. The puzzles that had intrigued him early in his career had become tedious. People killed each other for the same reasons; circumstances might vary, but in the end, it was always some variation of money, power, or sex.

He knew the why didn't matter. He could capture a killer with rock-solid evidence, and the courts would just as likely set them loose on a technicality as lock them up for life. Hell, he could shoot the bastard, and it wouldn't make a difference. None of it would stop the next killing; none of it would bring back the victim. Dead is dead, and there is no justice.

"What do we have so far?" he muttered, still looking at the wall of photos, his voice still rough from the cigarettes and whiskey of the night before.

Blame let his gaze wander to the victim.

"Harold Cross," said the uniform, her voice strained as she fought the bile rising in her throat. "Owns a handful of neighborhood restaurants. Gulf War Vet. Contributes to local causes, sits on the board for the homeless shelter, and funds a program for PTSD recovery at his church. No wife, no kids, no current life partner. Seemed like a stand-up guy."

Blame looked down at his old friend. Cross had helped him out after the divorce, gave him a place to stay when Blame's only options were his car or the street, and helped him pull all the pieces back together after his life had shattered.

Well, Blame thought, most of the big pieces anyway.

Blame had seen his face on the front page of the paper a few weeks ago--some ritzy gala, a feel-good story about Cross's latest charity. Now, here he was, sprawled on his office floor in a pool of blood. His eyes were wide open, staring up at Blame like an accusation.

Mitchell Blame blinked and looked closer at the corpse as professional habit took over—two gunshot wounds to the chest, clean, precise.

Whoever had done this had a steady hand.

Blame crouched. Peering at the crime scene from a lower angle. He had been doing this so long that he tended to see things before they registered. The angle of the gunshot, the blood splatter against the mahogany desk, the pool of blood below his frie...the body, the fact that there were no signs of struggle. Together, they told him everything he needed to know.

"Clean hits," he mumbled. "Someone who knows their way around a weapon, someone who can place two rounds tight together, almost professional. The victim was facing his killer. No sign of breaking and entering, no struggle. Cross knew them."

A shirt sat discarded in the corner of the room, an odd place for an item of clothing. Something screamed at the back of Blame's mind. The pattern and color were strange, yet familiar. Just beside it, the murder weapon--a revolver--was discarded on the floor, reflecting the dim light of the overhead lamp.

I'm sorry, my friend, he thought, we'll find your killer.

What were you doing last night? the dark voice in his head said.

Blame was vaguely aware of voices and the flash of cameras around him. He wasn't sure how long he crouched there- long enough for his calves to start to ache, long enough for the forensics team to work through most of the crime scene. He blinked, and suddenly, there were a dozen people in the room, dropping evidence tags, taking photos, and bagging evidence.

"Detective Blame," a voice called from behind, an edge of worry ran with the words as if the speaker had spoken more than once.

Blame stood, his knees popping, his calves and ankles sore from the strain of crouching so long. He turned to find forensic supervisor James Marlowe and the rookie uniform staring at him, concern on their faces.

"You might want to take a look at this," Marlowe said, his voice tight with concern as he handed Blame a small plastic bag containing the shirt.

Blame took it mechanically; he didn't need to look closely to know it was his. The paisley pattern, the puce color a gross mockery of any semblance of masculinity. He had never considered it a man's shirt, which was why he left it behind when he moved out.

A small smear of blood stained the collar, the kind that might happen if you cut yourself shaving; one side was covered in blood as if the wearer had rolled around in the puddle of the victim's blood.

His thoughts raced. His hands felt cold. His heart raced.

The dark fog that floated around his thoughts closed in, but he managed to hold his shit together. He couldn't think, couldn't respond, but the men in front of him expected him to say something. He couldn't afford to lose himself now. Not yet. His detective mind, as sharp as ever, struggled to make sense of the mess before him. How the hell is this possible?

Goddamn it. His mind wandered toward that dark place he always fought to avoid. The last few days were a blur. He had gone back to drinking to drown out the whispers and the constant urge to...he stopped that train of thought, admitting to himself finally that the booze wasn't helping.

Was it planted? Or had he been here?

Marlowe watched him closely, sensing something off but unsure of what to say. Finally, he broke the silence. "Detective," he started, his voice hesitant. "I know you and the victim were friends, we can call in another detective if this is going to be too hard."

"It's no problem, Marlowe, the same as always. Rich guy, dirty secrets. Another day, another corpse."

Friends, Blame thought. He remembered the time he stayed with Cross, barbecues on the back deck, conversations about politics, morality, and the state of the world, trips apartment hunting, arguments in this very room.

Did we have one last night? Blame wondered. He remembered having dinner at Cross's restaurant and getting into an argument with him. He'd left and taken a walk, wandering the city for hours.

Did I walk past this house?

An image of Cross standing in front of that mahogany desk, yelling in Blame's face, came to him.

Is that a memory of the past or last night?

Blame grunted, flipping the bloody shirt over in his hands.

He thought about the last twenty-four hours, what he could remember of it. The scent of whiskey and cigarettes still permeated the air around him, a reminder of his lost time.

Blame wrestled with claiming the shirt, telling Marlowe he would take it down to the lab himself. When the lab got hold of it, there would be questions, questions he wasn't sure he could answer. That dark voice from the void that sat at the back of his mind screamed, Bury it, bury it deep.

For two decades, he had been the honest cop. In a world that saw fewer of them every day, he had prided himself on playing by the book.

Blame handed the shirt back to Marlowe.

The image of a twelve-year-old boy, bleeding out from a gunshot wound, rolled through his thoughts. They had been more frequent lately, frequent enough that he returned to the bottle to push it away. It didn't work. his depression had only deepened. He became filled with the feelings of uselessness and hopelessness that had always lurked beneath the surface. For years, he had struggled just to face what the day brought, but now it was worse.

Everything from food to friendship had become a slog; anything he needed to do throughout the day seemed like a hassle, a useless endeavor that had no point. Need breakfast, gotta cook it; need to shave, gotta do it.

Blame rubbed his chin, the prick of days-old stubble stung his hand. Life had always been a pain, a pointless struggle, but lately, it had gotten worse.

The thought that he might be the one to blame for this crime, hell, that was almost too much to bear.

Was he capable of doing this?

That's a stupid question. You know you are.

His pulse pounded in his temples, and his hands trembled as he returned the shirt to Marlowe. Their eyes briefly locked for a moment. Blame thought he saw something--doubt?

The rookie was too fresh to understand the gravity of the situation fully, but Marlowe knew. He knew the whispers that would follow him around the station. The looks behind his back. The whispers of corruption, of cover-up.

A part of Blame wanted to give up. To walk away and let it all crumble. He had spent his whole career trying to find meaning in a world that felt empty, and now here he was, on the brink of losing everything he had left. Is this how it ends?

Marlowe asked something, but Blame couldn't process it.

Marlowe and the rookie were both staring at him as if their next move depended on his answer.

Blame nodded, but his mind wasn't on the task. He wanted to get out of here, to escape the suffocating walls of suspicion that were already closing in. Instead, he turned toward the door and walked into the hallway, his boots clicking on the hardwood floors, echoing like the steps of a man condemned.

The weight of the world pressed against him.

Am I being framed?

Why? Why now? Why me?

"Detective Blame?" Marlowe's voice was hesitant, but there was something else in it--concern, perhaps? Or just uncertainty about the situation?

Blame didn't turn around. He closed his eyes, letting the anger and the fear settle in his gut before they consumed him entirely.

"Get that to the lab, Marlowe," he said, his voice flat.

"It's not good, but we'll figure it out."

He didn't believe his own words. This was no ordinary case. The evidence was against him. Soon, everyone would know, and the suspicion alone would be enough to sink what was left of his career.

As he walked out of the house, the cool morning air hit his face. He felt like the walls were already closing in around him.

It was all about to unravel.

He should have gone home. Should have locked himself away and forgotten it all. But he couldn't. Someone had killed his friend. They tried to frame him.

Had they, asked that dark voice inside him. What can you remember about last night?

It wasn't about the case. It wasn't even about his career. It was about the truth. He had to know it.

Did he kill his friend?

The weight of the question pressed against him, and he knew one thing for sure: his life was never going to be the same.

End of Chapter 1

From the Crew at Pervasive Media

Thanks for reading. We hope you enjoyed the first chapter of TE Marts' next mystery novel. Blame Mitchell. If you did, we have a few openings available for Beta readers and reviewers. If you’re interested in reading the entire novel before it's available to everyone else and posting a review, contact us through our contact page, and we will hold your spot.