We challenged the folks attending the 2009 New England Crime Bake to write a compelling crime story in 150 words or less, using at least ten of the title words from the bestselling “alphabet series” by our Guest of Honor, Sue Grafton!

We received 46 official entries and one from a panelist who couldn’t resist playing Flashwords just for fun. The entries displayed a wide variety of styles and a depth of talent and creativity.

The winners, selected with great difficulty in blind judging, are:

• “Quarry” by Steve Nicholson
• “S Is Not For Stalker” by Paula Matter
• “Grave Feedback” by Richard Goutal

Congratulations and thank you to all who participated with such enthusiasm. Enjoy!

Title Words: Alibi, Burglar, Corpse, Deadbeat, Evidence, Fugitive, Gumshoe, Homicide, Innocent, Judgment, Killer, Lawless, Malice, Noose, Outlaw, Peril, Quarry, Ricochet, Silence, Trespass, Undertow

Ricochet.

The quarry walls suck the echo away, an undertow in the wind. I duck, find cover, try to gauge the sound’s direction. The fugitive could be tucked in a crevice on the other side of the granite pit, or somewhere behind me. Night shadows skim the rocky shelf. A misstep and I’ll be the corpse floating in the black moat below.

Metal glints across the chasm, a crunch of gravel cracks the silence. I dash along the ledge. Malice keeps me nimble, sharpens my sight.

I know this ridge. The quarry is mine.

My wife’s killer stumbles from a path of tangled brush, freezes at gunpoint.

“Here.” I toss a rough-fashioned noose at his feet.

“I’m innocent.” He raises blood soaked evidence. “I have rights.”

Moonlight shimmers on the black barrel of my pistol. “Pick a tree.”

“Deadbeat writer? Is that what you called me?” I had asked Jim as the group sat in silence. I had written a killer short story and all they had done was ridicule my gumshoe and my fugitives – hell, all my characters. “Unrealistic and unbelievable,” they had called them. Jim had been the most blunt, but none of them were innocent. Writers’ circle? More like a damned writers’ noose!

Was it later, or right then that homicide entered my mind? Had I given them enough evidence to realize then that they were all in peril? Obviously not; they were all easy quarries.

I doubt the five corpses will be found; the undertow had been perfect. In any case, my alibi was ironclad.

I won’t miss them at Crimebake this year. And finally, I have a novel, OK- five novels, that I can pitch.

Dear Killer Agent:

It is without judgment or malice I send this quarry. I’m no deadbeat author and can provide evidence by sending you my 225,000 word fiction novel featuring Gumshoe Gary, the first of my Lawless Homicide detective series. Gary’s a fugitive because he has no alibi, and can’t prove he’s innocent in the Case of the Missing Corpse where one of his bullets supposedly ricocheted and killed a trespassing burglar. Now, Gary’s an outlaw swept away in the undertow of murder, larceny and other really bad stuff.

It’s at your peril if you don’t publish this exciting new series. It’ll make us both filthy rich and I’m ready to appear on Oprah. I look forward to meeting you at Crime Bake. I’ll wait in the bar although agents don’t usually frequent bars. I’ll be sitting in silence with a noose around my neck.

Sincerely,

Wanna B. Writer

“I have an alibi!” cried the burglar, looking at the corpse.

“Deadbeat,” growled the cop, examining the evidence left behind by the deceased fugitive.

The gumshoe smiled. “But not one who committed homicide. He’s innocent. Don’t pass judgment on him as a killer just yet. He’s lawless, yes, but has no malice.”

“I’ll put his head in a noose as an outlaw, just you see. And you don’t know your peril either,” the cop snarled.

“Maybe not, but I do know you’re after the wrong quarry. Just look at the ricochet there.”

Silence fell as the cop examined it. “Well, I can still book him for Trespass.” He hauled off the miscreant, who didn’t seem able to complain as he was overwhelmed, as if by an undertow.

“I know you really did it,” said the private eye. “I could sue you for hiding your graft on this body. You’re dead.”

“Honey, did you hear a noise?”

“Nope.”

“I’m sure I heard a burglar.”

“It’s that deadbeat brother of yours. I’ll bet he broke out of jail and he’s a fugitive again.”

“Come on, you know he was innocent.”

“He’s putting us all in peril coming here.”

“What do you want him to do, stay in prison when all the evidence was invented?”

“Did he have an alibi? No.”

“Look, he admitted he was trespassing at that quarry. But he’s not a lawless killer.”

“What’s that noise? I hear it now too.”

“Maybe it is a burglar. Can you go check it out?”

“Okay. Let me get the shotgun.”

“Honey? What was that noise? Did I hear a shot ricochet off your hard head? Oh it’s you. Did you take care of him?”

“Yes. Now to take care of you.”

“We’re in this together!”

“Not anymore, sis.”

“Who’s the victim?” The homicide chief asked, scrutinizing the hotel suite for evidence.

“A famous female author, here for a mystery conference,” the gumshoe said. “The killer strangled her, using a belt as a noose. A lawless act, for sure. Room service discovered the corpse.”

“Any roommates?”

“A sister, named Gina. Who claims she’s innocent. Witnesses confirmed her alibi of drinking at the bar all evening.”

Gina staggered in, clutching a drink.

“Did you harbor any malice against your sister?” the chief asked.

“Well, nobody knows, I’m the main character in her series.” She giggled. “She stole my life and job experiences.” Her thumbs slipped through her empty belt loops. “My sister promised to confess everything at tomorrow’s conference,” Gina slurred. “But tonight, she flat out refused. Since she’s gone, I’ll expose her and write those last few books myself.”

“You’re under arrest,” the chief said, breaking his temporary silence.

My deadbeat brother calls me and asks me to be his alibi. He says there’s been a homicide and the evidence points to him. Since the corpse is his ex-wife the cops like him a lot for the murder.

I’m not usually one to stand in judgment of another’s wrongs, but I have a stake in this. My brother is no innocent, he’s bent the law and done time, but I know he’s no killer. But if I say he was with me we’ll both be in peril.

“Honey, I wanted to help. I couldn’t stand by and let Edna put your neck in a financial noose again.”,/

“What are you saying?”

I take a deep breath. “I expected the recoil but not the ricochet. I just meant to scare her.”

His silence lasts only a minute. “Okay, sis, what the hell. I’ve been a fugitive before.”

Penny eyed her quarry as she was pulled along in the undertow of revelers at the State Fair of Texas. She ducked behind a lemonade cart to watch the deadbeat ricochet from beer stand to corn dog stall, trailing the fragrance of trans fats. After tracking the goofball fugitive through county fairs in two states, she was convinced he wasn’t a killer. There wasn’t a homicide or corpse in his wake, but he wasn’t innocent, either. She had evidence he stole $30,000 of saddles in addition to exhibiting poor food judgment. While he polished off a turkey leg the size of a toddler, she realized her cowgirl gumshoe reputation was in peril if she didn’t slip a noose around the ol’ boy and quickly haul him in. When the knucklehead sidled up to the fried butter stand, Penny knew her chance for a clean arrest just melted away.

The noose itched. I focused on its rough snugness. It kept me from thinking about my peril. How’d I get here? I’d been so careful. False trails. Fake names. I became a fugitive from my own life. And for what? I still ended up the quarry for that deadbeat psychopath. I felt the panic rise. No. Silence the terror. Stay calm. I had to get out. Stay alive. Not just for me, but for the next innocent victim. Death was my real enemy, the ultimate burglar. It would rob me of the chance to make the killer face judgment. I knew my corpse would hold no evidence. And then there was the inevitable alibi. No, nothing would connect the lawless maniac with my homicide. But alive I could end it. Show the malice within the saint. I jerked as something trespassed over my bare foot. Damn. The noose itched.

"I don’t want to do this." He deftly fashioned a noose. I shivered. His pale eyes echoed the Arctic emptiness of his trailer kitchen.

"You shouldn’t have ignored my ‘No Trespassing’ signs."

I hadn’t. I’d come because of them. Immediately. In my holiday sweater and the wrong shoes.

"I’m not a killer."

Me neither. Any more. The derringer in my bra weighed heavily against that vow.

"I just bury my little pets when we’re all done."

I swallowed a sick shudder and palmed a toy truck off the counter. Evidence. Like eight innocent corpses wouldn’t be enough. Ten if I faltered.

He tested the final knot.

My gulp ricocheted in the sudden, perilous silence.

"Not so tough after all, huh, Lady Gumshoe?" His smile dripped malice.

I smiled back, wound up, and nailed my quarry in the eye with the die cast 4 X 4. Beats a two-by-four any day.

I’m at the quarry gate. Sorry I’m late! It’s very dark here, scary, like I might see a corpse, ha-ha! Where are you?

<No Reply>

I’m heading up. Assume you’re at the top? Where are you? Am I trespassing? Hate this! I’m in black, like you said. I feel like a burglar.

<No Reply>

Damn rocks! Ouch! Why did you want to meet here? At the rim now and can see water below. Heard something, is that you or a damn coyote?

<No Reply>>

Didn’t mean what I said last night about your alibi. I made a mistake. I know you are innocent and the evidence planted. I’ll help you find the real killer. That deadbeat Homicide dick is a big fat idiot. A liar.

<No Reply>

Just called out! Didn’t you hear me? Where are you? I’m going back down. Too creepy. Love you, but I don’t…

<Not Sent>

A victim of obvious malice hung from the ceiling in a tight noose, his corpse screaming judgment on his killer. In the dead silence I thought… I’m just a down-n-out gumshoe who jimmied a lock, not a real burglar… but I had no alibi for this brutal homicide. I was only hired to warn this guy off. Unnecessary now, but I sensed my trespass might ricochet back on me. Not good.

Then I heard sirens. Damn. Did my client set me up? The lawless cops already knew me as a deadbeat, not hard to pin me as a killer too. No matter that I was innocent, I’d soon be their quarry, evidence or not. Like an outlaw, a fugitive in peril of getting nabbed, I fled. But as I ran from the building I felt the undertow. They’d reel me in as sure as my name’s Vic… short for Victim.

“I’m not a killer,” she said.

I hated to pass judgment, but I was skeptical.

“Really. I’m innocent.”

That’s what all my clients say. I prefer the term “not guilty.” I read her file, “Victim was Rick O’Shay. Know him?”

“My ex-husband.”

“Ex?”

“He’s a deadbeat.”

“Now he’s a drowned deadbeat.”

“It was an accident.”

“That’s not what the cops say.”

“What’s the evidence?”

“A corpse in a noose at the bottom of your pool. We can’t claim undertow. They’re calling it homicide.”

Silence.

“Tell me your side.”

“It was late. I heard a noise outside my apartment and thought it was a burglar. I sent Gumshoe to check it out.

“Gumshoe?”

“Our dog. He must’ve jumped on Rick and knocked him into the pool. When I got there, Rick was dead.”

I checked the file. Sure enough. Leash around the neck. The dog better have an alibi.

It only takes one bad mistake to go from being a burglar to being a fugitive. My mistake was breaking into a homicide scene. Though I'd done the homework on my quarry, a guy with lots of cash, I was unpleasantly surprised when I broke in and found a fresh corpse. Then things got worse, as the cops came charging in, proving my bad judgment.

I fled out the back and ran smack into a patrolman. We went down, and I got up and away, but he got his gun out. I heard the ricochet of the shots as I ran and dodged, but a bullet stung my leg.

Now they’d have my blood as evidence, and there’d be no way to prove I was innocent. Man, from burglar to presumed killer in one night. If I ever get out of this mess, I’m going straight.

“Who’s the corpse?” Detective Boyer asked, standing on the steps of City Hall. He stared at the man’s purple face and protruding tongue. A shoestring noose circled the man’s neck.

“Don’t you recognize him?” the medical examiner asked in her gravelly voice. “You should and you’d better hope the mayor has an alibi for early this morning.”

Boyer shook his head. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me it’s that gumshoe I arrested for trespassing?” The upcoming election was turning his job into a political nightmare. He had caught the guy trying to plant a camera in the mayor’s house.

Her smile confirmed the worst.

“So someone killed the deadbeat,” the mayor said when Boyer cornered him between meetings. “All you need to know is I’m innocent.”

“It’s a homicide,” Boyer countered. The killer hadn’t left much evidence behind. Boyer glanced down and groaned. The mayor’s black wingtips had brown laces.

“Why do I need an alibi? What evidence do you have that I ever knew this two bit burglar?”

Homicide detective Jackson said, “For a gumshoe you’re pretty dumb. We found a bill with your letterhead in his jacket. When you dumped the corpse at Harkness, in a well known undertow area, you didn’t check all of his pockets. We even know you won a judgment in small claims court to collect the two grand he owed you. We can’t prove it but we know, you beat up a few deadbeats.”

“Hey, I’m innocent, stop putting a noose around my neck. I’m no lawless killer.” In the silence that followed Jackson and I looked at each other.

Jackson said, “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Pinky Barton. I see you couldn’t resist taking his diamond pinky ring.”

“I want a lawyer.”

Nov. 2, 19--

Dear Aunt Mary,

I know you say you have an alibi for the time a killer did in dear, old Dad. I don’t care if he was a deadbeat and a fugitive from justice, I loved him and want his murderer to come to judgment.

I find enough evidence, I’ll put a noose around your neck, so you’re in peril of being named an outlaw. Homicide is illegal, so please don’t trespass on our hospitality with lawless malice aforethought. Your quarry is not my mother or myself, and Dad is dead. Corpses are frowned upon here. I won’t keep the silence, not wanting this matter to ricochet on me.

Our headmaster hates gumshoes around the school, and burglars breaking into our rooms. I’d hate your behavior to ricochet on us. Needless to say, your party invitation has been rescinded.

Suspiciously yours,

Grant, Head Boy/

If she asked, he’d concoct an alibi, so Marla kept her silence. She balled up the evidence ---the hotel receipt---and threw it into the trash. Rubbing the innocent bump that was starting to show, she promised her baby she’d take care of this.

Like a fifties gumshoe, she tailed him. He met a woman at a café; they went together to the same hotel. Marla waited in the lobby, and her malice grew. He exited the elevator thirty minutes later, looked around like a fugitive, and left.

Marla went upstairs and forced her way in. The woman saw judgment in Marla’s eyes. Marla did what she had to do, took the key card, and left.

Back home, she put the card where she’d found the receipt, called the police, and reported a corpse in the hotel room. Then she waited for them to come for the killer.

The terrified fugitive stumbled through the woods, desperately evading the relentless gumshoe close behind him. Moonlight shimmered on the frigid waters of the abandoned quarry where he believed the true killer had hidden the murder weapon. “I’m innocent, but without that evidence I’ll never prove it.”

They’d accused him of homicide; in this small town, judgment had been swiftly declared, before the jury had even been convened. A bullet or a noose could be the only end for the lawless burglar found crouching over the girl’s bloody corpse; the real murderer’s perfect alibi left no other suspects.

A shot ricocheted off a rock – but the second found its mark. The outlaw’s body tumbled into the murky water, sinking in the bottomless pit; shot while attempting escape. His perilous quest was ended. The sheriff smiled coldly, malice appeased, holstered her Glock and headed back to town... her alibi was unbreakable now.

“NO TRESPASSERS,” looming through the snow. Not the sunny path Joey remembers, thirty years gone. Sirens rise as he stumbles to the quarry.

Abruptly he’s seventeen: immortal in his swimsuit, Mary grinning.

The Outlaws’ endless guitar on the radio.

“Race you off Killer Rock!” Mary bounds along the perilous cliff.

“I dunno ...”

“Chicken!”

No other swimmers in evidence. Joey still doesn’t move –-

A blast of sleet brings him back.

Lightbars flashing, the noose drawn tight. He’s failed as a fugitive, just as he’s failed at everything else: deadbeat dad, no job, his third felony strike.

He flees, finally following Mary up the cliff, three decades too late.

“Don’t move!” A bullhorn, ricocheting in the quarry.

Black water, far below.

Mary had dived in, the sun on her hair, and never come up.

“No! Don’t do it!”

One step. What had he been afraid of, so long ago?

The house was tarnished with the yellow scum of dried egg wash. Halloween is supposed to be enjoyed through merriment not malice. The police interviewed the grievous owner, then proceeded to scour the neighborhood for evidence. A pink egg carton was discovered under an overgrown rhododendron. The price sticker on it indicated where they were purchased.

The officers viewed the market's tapes from the previous day. At 5:39pm, four male youths bought three containers of eggs. Sargeant Barretti's rumblings broke the silence in the room as he recognized one of the outlaws.

The boy was brought in pleading innocent, naming his cohorts as his alibi. The remaining quarry were wrangled into the station and immediately confessed. They were charged with trespassing and defacing private property. The only real peril for the culprits was their judgment committed them to 50 hours of community service, starting with washing the defaced house.

The corpse was warm. I bent down to touch the body with one hand; my other punched 9-1-1 into my cell. I scanned the pavement, illuminated by a light bulb, for evidence of the homicide. But the killer left no calling card. There was a stiletto not far from the scene, but this would probably yield no clues.

I crossed the street to a bodega wondering if the occupants had seen anything. Even though I was a retired gumshoe, I felt the need to investigate. I yanked open the glass door, all the time wondering if the culprit, now a fugitive, had borne the victim any malice. If I found the bastard, I hoped judgment would be swift. I could never stomach how lawless society had become.

“Did you see anything?”

My question was met with silence. I was going to get no help from him with finding my quarry.

The murky marshland opened to a wide bay. It was dark. A moonless night made darker by a heavy layer of clouds. A slow undertow carried the corpse out to sea just below the waterline. Floating face down, its fingers scraped along the sandy shallow bottom of the bay.

Jenny walked down the paved path to the small beach. The rain had stopped and now there was only silence. She passed the no trespassing sign and slipped off her black round toe pumps. Her bare feet molded into the soft cool shoreline. Staring out over the black water, she tried to think of an alibi. The evidence against her was overwhelming. She knew she was innocent. She wasn’t a killer. What if he’d been a burglar? It was a judgment call. But still, would anyone really believe her? Jenny turned around and looked back at the large stone mansion.

The innocent look on his face didn’t fool me as he stood frozen in the fenced yard, trapped in silence. After years of dealing with his kind, I passed quick judgment on this deadbeat.

“You’re a known fugitive and now I’ve caught you trespassing,” I said with feigned confidence. Looking deeply into his dark brown eyes for signs of malice, I took one tentative step forward. My life was in peril as I approached the lawless marauder.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” I tried once more to elicit a response, then closed in on my quarry. With no resistance, he flopped on the grass in soundless surrender as I slipped the noose around his furry neck, his whip-like tail thumping happily.

“It’s time to find your owner!” I sighed in relief, rubbed his belly and led the errant Bassett Hound to the SPCA van.

The phone message: “I’m dying soon. Take care of my animals.” Silence from my deadbeat neighbor.

“I’m diabetic, overweight, single, lonely,” she cried. I spent an hour comforting her.

Days later the radio announced: “Police found a woman’s corpse in the quarry, a white Toyota nearby.” I gasped.

No answer at her door. White Toyota gone. At the police station I told my story. They were looking for her killer! They wanted an alibi. “I was home alone watching TV.”

“She left her fortune to you, to care for her cats.”

“My God,” I gasped. “I’m innocent.”

At the station I felt eyes on me, as if judgment had been passed. Evidence was overwhelming.

Alone in a cell, the silence was unbearable. I felt like a periled outlaw! The judge condemned me to die. As they slipped the noose around my neck, I wondered, “What will happen to her animals?”

“Somebody dead, Crocker? I got an alibi.”

“I haven’t said when, Paulie.”

“Don’t matter; you got nothin’.”

“Friday night…”

“Friday night me and God saw a movie.”

“Godfrey? Your deadbeat pal’s a fugitive.”

“Yeah? Well I’m innocent.”

“I know that. Friday night I decided we should retire.”

“Think you got a noose on me?”

“No false evidence. Retirement’s simpler for me, and you.” Crocker showed his gun.

“You passin’ judgment on me? Goin’ lawless?”

“Law and justice are disappointingly divergent.”

“You gonna just shoot me?”

“Perils of Paulie; Homicide squad needs a corpse.”

Paulie grabbed the gun and shot Crocker twice. “I ain’t gonna be your victim, old man.”

“No, but you’re my killer.” Crocker slumped against a dumpster. “Not bad. But there’s still breath in me for the witnesses.”

Paulie couldn’t chance Crocker surviving and shot him twice more, illuminated by the high beams of the approaching police cruiser.

“My client is innocent. His alibi may not be airtight, but it’s damned good.”

“We nabbed your client boarding a plane to London, a fugitive from justice.”

The suspect protested. “To escape the deadbeat dad judgment! Worst thing I did was trespass on that old outlaw’s property trying to get away unseen.”

“He’s no burglar, certainly not a killer.”

“The corpse was clutching this gumshoe’s business card, evidence grabbed when the victim realized his life was in peril.”

“My client harbored no malice toward him.”

“The victim tried to have his PI license revoked.”

“He complained about everyone—even me.”

Silence ricocheted around the room.

The homicide detective smiled at his quarry’s discomfort, caught in the undertow. The headlines had read: “LAWLESS LAWYER LIED.” Then the charges disappeared. Blackmail.

“There were several cards on that desk. Including yours, counselor. I think you’ve just put the noose around your own neck.”

Peril stalked the artist on the lawless island, but determined, she set up her easel. A burly lobsterman advanced. He growled, “Corpse was found here. Shot dead.”

The startled artist knocked over her canvas. She retrieved it from the tall grass.

“Homicide. They say I’m the killer.”

She cringed, releasing her palette. She salvaged it from the rocks.

“Don’t like my alibi.”

She flinched, dropping her brush, recovering it from the gravel.

“Ain’t got no evidence. Sheriff came snoopin’. Ran him off.”

She dabbed and brushed in silence.

“Powerful undertow in island waters, ya know,” the lobsterman threatened, his voice full of malice. “Don’t like outsiders.”

She abandoned her seascape and raced to the ferry. Safely underway, she slipped a gritty shell casing next to the badge in her pocket, and smiled, “I’ll be back.”

Melissa untangled herself from her seatbelt and stumbled into the silence of falling snow—away from her husband’s crumpled car. His lifeless form, flung from the vehicle, lie half on the road, half in gravel. She knelt beside him, running her fingers over his throat, checking for a pulse. Tears welled up from someplace long hidden. As her fear of him evaporated, it left behind the love they once shared—love she carried like an over-stuffed bag. She smoothed his beautiful hair, waiting for a passing car. While her quarry had slept, her shaking hand unclasped his safety-belt. A jerk on the wheel and a terrifying seven years were over. Not innocent, but above judgment. She knew he would find her anywhere. Her only escape: making the deadbeat a corpse. Did she leave evidence? Was her alibi secure? Too late. She would rather live as an outlaw than a fugitive.

Middle-aged women are invisible, particularly to middle-aged men. I followed my husband, relying on invisibility as he stalked his quarry: a pretty prostitute. She tottered on the highest heels down a dark, lawless street of the city, oblivious to the presence of the killer so close behind her.

House cleaning today, I discovered photographs of three dead women, my husband’s distinctive leather belt coiled around the neck of each corpse. Evidence of ruthless homicide. What kind of monster hid behind his innocent smile, given in silence over breakfast this morning?

One gloved hand reached toward the girl and I grabbed the other. He turned, recognized me and paled. Pure malice, like an electric current, passed from his hand to mine. She walked on and I inherited the peril. An undertow of fear challenged my courage and danger, like a noose, tightened around my life.

“Get lost, Gumshoe. Stubborn, dead-on-your-feet-beat-cop, you have no quarry here.

I don’t need an alibi. Is it homicide if a corpse happens to wash away from my beach? No malice aforethought, no evidence. Wicked undertow, works in silence. If a tree falls in a forest…?

Listen, man, it happens. Some lawless lout commits trespass. On my land. My cliff. By my ocean. Something blooms in my head: outlaw outrage. Peril waves its red flag. Fury rises. Can’t hold back: rage ricochets from stone to slippery stone.

Maybe there’s a shove. Or maybe someone just loses his grip. Slips, falls.

Am I innocent? Ha. Is anyone?

Am I a thief, a burglar of being? What b.s.

Am I a cold-blooded killer? You tell me.

I’m not confessing. No fugitive, either. I’m right here. And here I go, again, scott-free….

Justice? Don’t make me laugh.

Judgment Day? Bring it on.”

Tomorrow’s headline: Corpse found in Quarry by Trespasser.

“I’m innocent but will they believe me? Can I rely on the judgment of the police?” She called 911 and reported what looked like a homicide.

“I’m glad she’s dead. That malicious liar cost me my job.” Shirley Outlaw started looking for evidence - anything to forget the peril of her predicament – trespassing and now a motive for the murder.

“I’m Larry Lawless.” Shirley jumped at the sound, but proceeded to describe how she found the body and professed her innocence.

“Don’t worry,” Lawless said. “I’ve been watching you from the top of the cliff and can give you an alibi.” He looked more like a deadbeat than a detective. Shirley thought, “This isn’t a policeman – could he be the killer?”

Shirley ran. The sound of her footsteps ricocheted off the quarry walls. And then there was silence.

All I need is the alibi this corpse can give me. The evidence is there somewhere, hopefully in the undertow of her bowels. Lucky for me that dip of a gumshoe lost his judgment. It took only five scotches to convince him I needed access to the mortuary and then a harsh knock on his noggin to silence him.

I just have to disembowel my quarry before he comes to. I'm almost sure Bonnie swallowed the bullet after it ricocheted off that deadbeat’s helmet. What is it about the choices women make in men? That, plus the slut used my gun!

With my trusty Swiss knife I slice and dice starting at the pubic bone and travel up the ole’ alimentary canal. Aha! There it is. They’ll never trace it back to a disarmingly sweet innocent like me.

They both deserve what they got.

There was an old deadbeat, whose alibi grew, the more the evidence against him ensued.

“I’m not an outlaw,” he innocently proclaimed. “Just a mere burglar trying to clear my own name.”

Yet he continued to run, for a fugitive was he. He ran past the quarry and then past the oak trees. As he tried to throw his knife away among the passing leaves, his judgment day loomed near, but this he couldn’t see.

For the corpse, he then tripped on, had the final say. This lawless killer would finally be put away.

The dead body we found began silently accusing. The noose, around the stiff’s neck, was beyond what we considered abusing.

And in this form, the final clue was offered to us today. Because the rope from the cadaver’s neck matched the striations from the knife the burglar thought he threw away.

As the vicious undertow dragged the corpse out to sea, the gumshoe grinned in silence from the pier, the malice in his heart hidden by his casual stance. Recently a fugitive from the local justice system, he now knew his alibi would stand; the “evidence” to convict him of burglary and homicide was rapidly disappearing on the evening tide. Sharks would demolish the man who had framed him, allowing him to escape the noose on this godforsaken little island.

He couldn’t believe he’d put his own life in peril just to chase down a fugitive “Deadbeat Dad” for some blonde he’d met in a bar. The guy had been a killer for hire in hiding here!

He needed a drink. A discreet doctor he knew could bandage the wound in his shoulder from the ricochet of the first bullet. Then - home to the mainland and safety.

Some vacation!

Is it malice when crime happens in silence? I need the money, bad, and I know Kenneth keeps big bills in that book he’s reading. He’s about to turn into a corpse, anyway, isn’t he? And didn’t he ask me to do it, having only the deadbeat son who never visits?

Innocent until proven guilty, right? The fee I pay Alibi-Net.com has me in San Diego at a hospice convention. Even has a phone contact for me there. Contract says, “Do something illegal at your own peril.” How will anyone know? No evidence of homicide, no need to turn fugitive.

I’ll just live my life: deliver the US mail, volunteer at hospice, swim in the quarry, and bliss on Oxycontin on weekends. Expensive habit. I’m not a killer. I’m just sending him to a happier place. Isn’t extra morphine an old man’s best friend?

Anne’s head throbbed. Wild parties and turning thirty don’t mix. She surveyed the aftermath of her birthday bash. Bomb sites looked better. Someone’s sleeping on the couch. An empty pizza box covered the face. Anne lifted the box and let out a blood-curdling scream. Jason came running from the bedroom. “H-h-he’s dead.” Anne pointed to the corpse stretched out before her on the couch.

“You call homicide. I search the house.” Jason grabbed a bronze statue. “The killer may still be here and I won’t feel safe until I see evidence they’re gone.”

“I know I’m innocent. You’re my alibi,” Anne said.

“In my judgment, that never works.”

Anne carefully examined the body . “Do you think he’s a burglar—a fugitive?” Then she spotted the toe tag. “Property of Brecksville Morgue.”

Jason lowered the statue. “Jonesy, that deadbeat coronor. I’ll kill him.”

“I’ll never celebrate another birthday,” Anne vowed.

At 3A.M. on my first day in Homicide I caught a possible B&E at Ellen’s Eatery. I spotted the smashed lock, sidled in silently fingering my sidearm, and stubbed my gumshoe on a corpse.

A flip of my flashlight startled two skels stuffing their faces.

“Ain’t you Deadbeat Danny and Nat the Noose, fugitives whose mugs I seen at the station? You’re trespassing. This joint ain’t open for business.”

“We’re innocent. We ain’t burglars. Ellen served us these donuts.”

Pointing to the stiff I said: “O.K. wise guys, what’s his story?”

“Uh, he’s just restin’ and waitin’ on his order of pancakes.”

I ducked when a donut flew through the air, bounced, and ricocheted off the wall. “Your alibis evidence a lack of judgment and a lot of malice. Ellen don’t serve stale donuts.”

Outlaw Alice and her lawless deadbeat compatriots trespassed into New England Crime Bake to plan their next heist.

“Idiot,” Fugitive Maggie Barbieri said. “Stupid idea.”

“Silence!” Kate McLaughlin’s echo ricocheted through the hall. She shot Maggie a killer look full of venomous judgment and lowered her voice. “It’s a mystery conference. Where else can we sit at a bar and openly discuss homicide, burglars, and corpses? Boring crime writers . . . no peril.”

“See that guy?” Maggie said. “Vinny O’Neill. He’ll set up any alibi we need.”

Alice was skeptical. “But he looks so innocent.”

“An act. More evidence of how naive you are. In 2006 that washed up gumshoe turned sides. Chucked one stiff in a quarry and launched two more into the Hudson’s undertow. Cheapskate managed to hang that pair by the same noose.”

Silence fell.

“Mmm.” Alice sniffed the air with a sudden smile. “Clam chowder!”

I didn’t expect to find a corpse, cut up like a fryer chicken, in the garbage can. Not just any garbage can, but one belonging to my deadbeat ex-husband. One I’d pilfered from his backyard in hopes of finding evidence to prove he was skimming money from our quarry business. And now that can—and corpse—were in my garage.

I tossed back six shots of Tanqueray before calling the police. I told them the story of how the corpse came to be in my garage. They charged me with trespass and burglary.

And murder.

“I’m innocent,” I wailed.

“It’s a coincidence your ex-husband’s body was in the can in your garage?” the homicide detective asked. “You better have a water-tight alibi for yesterday.”

Yesterday involved two bottles of Tanqueray. My memory was a little fuzzy. Could I be the killer?

“I have the right to remain silent,” I said.

“She’s innocent,” said Irish wino “Pinot” Keogh. “I saw it.”

“Many lawless women abide hereabouts,” replied Asian gumshoe Prinz Sha Ming. “Know you this one?”

“Yeah.” Pinot rubbed his nose. “Red lips, black hair, white skin, killer body. Everybody calls her ‘Snow.’”

“So she has an alibi,” Sha Ming said. “A wily fugitive, she would leave no evidence.” He stared at the rumpled corpse, still with blood-stained skin. “These outlaw women stalk their quarry with money on their minds and malice in their hearts.”

“Love at your own peril,” Pinot agreed. “They were lovers, once. But it’s not homicide. The burglar tried to shoot her; he got what he deserved.”

Silence greeted his claim.

“Bad judgment,” Pinot explained. His nose felt swollen. “The shots bounced off the brick wall. He spun, and they got him in the back.”

“Ah so,” said Sha Ming. “A ricochet romance.”

“Hey, Bert! You heard where Freddy’s a fugitive from justice?”

“Heard he set out to strangle a rooster.”

“Yep. When the noose didn’t do the job, Freddy took aim with a pistol, missed the rooster and winged Humboldt’s cap on the ricochet. Humboldt got mighty offended, called Freddy a deadbeat for putting innocent lives at peril with his lawless behavior. Wanted him locked up.”

“Way I hear it, the rooster was creating a disturbance. Oughtn’t to pass judgment on a man for wanting to silence an outlaw rooster.”

“Except he missed the bird, don’t forget. And Humboldt’s got that cap for evidence.”

Bert thought on it some. “What kind of cap?”

“Yankees cap.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The second round took off Humboldt’s ear.”

“How’d that come about?”

“Freddy aimed to shoot the phone out of Humboldt’s hand, and missed.”

“Figures. Freddy always was a lousy shot.”

The corpse lay strewn across the picnic table, the remains of a fried turkey I’d planned on serving my judgmental mother-in-law. Raspy sounds of panting broke the silence of my backyard. Outlaw, our terrier who’d earned the name by being a burglar of food as a pup, rounded the corner of the house.

Innocent eyes peered up at me over his stained muzzle, but I felt no mercy. Furious, I grabbed his collar and gagged. The evidence reeked. He’d trespassed into something decomposed not deep fried.

A piece of meat ricocheted off Outlaw’s foot, and he gobbled it up. Following its trajectory, I saw two eyes gleaming with malice under the tablecloth. I yanked the fabric up. Sluggo, our neighbor’s cat, streaked off like the fugitive that she was. Outlaw took off after his quarry.

The dog’s foul smelling alibi held up in the fowl’s homicide. The cat did it.

I’m innocent. But I’ve got no alibi. The corpse in my office at the quarry was a homicide. So I’m a fugitive, an outlaw on the run, in peril from whatever gumshoe tracks me.

The cops have no evidence. I’m no killer, no malice toward anyone.

But the victim was a deadbeat who owed me money, lots of money. That would be enough to fix judgment in town. They’d be ready to string me up with a noose as soon as the body was found.

I took to the road as soon as I found the body, running in silence a ricochet path around the south. I turned lawless burglar, ignored no trespassing signs. Survived.

Tonight’s warm. The surf pounds on the beach near my camp. I toss off my clothes and jump from the pier.

And I feel something strong pulling at my legs. Undertow.,/

His eyes froze when he felt it. The undertow would take him. But no malice was intended by the water, only by the killer who tracked her quarry to the beach and tricked him into braving the perilous conditions. There was no dog to save. She knew he wasn’t innocent, despite his slippery arguments, but now, neither was she. A life as an outlaw on the run awaited her, unless she chose to use her cell phone and call for help. She wavered. Who was she to pass judgment? She looked away, confused. When she looked back, it was too late. She couldn’t see him anymore. It was done.

No one saw her, so she knew her alibi was strong. She waded out of the shallows and picked up her shoes. Walking over the dunes, she saw the no trespassing sign she missed before. Then she heard the sirens.

I was once asked to double for Alfred Hitchcock. So you can imagine my apoplectic reaction when she sashayed into the pub, trespassed upon my solitude and draped her arms around my neck in a noose of perfumed, feminine guile. The lady was a ten on any scale imaginable.

As further evidence of her bold spirit she initiated the conversation. "Hello my handsome quarry, where have you been my naughty boy?"

She stroked me as if I was a fugitive lover, helplessly sucked in and ensnared by her undertow. To my dismay I was and I responded in a weak, innocent voice, one octave too high.

"Ah...my name is...Albert, and who are you madam?"

In concert with my newly acquired choirboy voice, my corpse-white face betrayed a complete loss of composure.

Her smile dripping with malice-the woman bore a striking resemblance to Aldo's killer.

The judgment, not guilty, hit me like a train. They'd found him innocent! All because the court wouldn't allow DNA evidence found at the scene into the record, all due to chain of custody.

Well I wasn't going to let my daughter's killer get away with murder.

I waited two years, changed my appearance, then flirted with him at a sleazy bar on the wharf. I made sure I had an airtight alibi before inviting him aboard Ricochet, my BAJA 35 Outlaw.

Already drunk, it didn't take much to talk him into taking a swim before dinner, with a promise of more to come. Miles out, I waited until he dove in, and then with great malice, grinned and gunned it.

It might have been the undertow that pulled him in - at least I hoped that's what it would look like when they found his bloated corpse.