Hit Man

Featured in "The Mystery Newsletter" - 8/27/08

Honorable Mention - "Crime Contest" - July, 2008


“There he is!”  Alberto yelled, pointing at the silver Lexus three lanes over on the crowded beltway. 

From behind the wheel, Jorge ordered, “Get ready back there.  I’m going to see if I can get closer.”  The battered, black Chevy lurched over a lane and horns blared.  “Damn!  See if you can get a clear shot,” he commanded the man in the backseat.

Phsst, went the sound of the silenced gun.  The Lexus continued on its way, unharmed.

“Damn!  You missed!” chided Alberto.  “And I thought you were such a crack shot.”

Wheeling off the freeway, Jorge and Alberto returned to the downtown area to drop off their backseat passenger on the same corner where they'd picked him up earlier.

Jorge pulled out a cell phone and passed it to Alberto.  “Call the boss and tell him what happened.”

“Me?  Why don’t you call?”

“Look, stupid, you see me driving here!  You know it’s against the law to use a cell phone while you’re driving.”

Alberto took the phone and punched in a number.  “Boss, the guy missed.”  His face turned dark red and Jorge heard the coldness in the muffled voice.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I guess he isn’t as good as he said he was.  Don’t worry, boss, we’ll find someone else.”


A few weeks later Charles Chatman, co-owner of a thriving construction business, drove to a meeting with one of their major electrical suppliers.  Hope Bill’s ready to deal.  Demand is really up for all of this new electronic gadgetry.  Seems everyone wants damn near everything controlled by computer these days.  He grinned.  And that doesn’t do anything bad for our bottom line either.  Yeah, this could be a very profitable afternoon.  

All at once the driver’s window exploded with a shattering crash, and Charles felt a burning, stinging sensation in his upper arm. 

Fighting to control his skidding car, he didn't notice the beat-up black car that sped past and was soon lost in traffic.  For what seemed like eternity to him, Charles struggled to maneuver the Lexus into the breakdown lane.

As if through a fog, he saw passers-by gathering outside the shattered window. 

“Guy’s really bleeding.”

“What do you ‘spose happened?”

“Somebody call 911!”

Charles watched the fog deepen until the faces all around him disappeared in a wall of blackness.  When he regained consciousness, he was first aware of the scream of an ambulance siren and then noticed the paramedics working over him.  He could hear bits and pieces of what one voice was saying.  He heard, “. . . been shot . . . lost a lot of blood . . . about fifteen minutes . . .” but he didn’t realize that the medic was talking about him.

Charles continued to drift in and out of consciousness.  He woke to the jostling of being removed from the ambulance, blacked out, heard voices yelling instructions from far away, and then saw bright lights flashing past overhead.  When he fully awakened, he saw the anxious face of his wife, Shelia, hovering over him.

“What’s going on?” he muttered.

“You’re in the hospital.”  Tears welled in her eyes.  “Something happened on the highway.”

“What happened?”

She shook her head just as a policeman appeared in the doorway.

He smiled apologetically.  “The nurse said you were awake.  I’m sorry to bother you right now, Mr. Chatman, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

Feeling very weak, Charles barely nodded.  “I don’t know what I can tell you,” he whispered.  “I don’t know what happened . . . a blowout, an accident.  I just don’t know.”

“Well, one thing we do know is that you were shot.  The doc said the bullet did quite a bit of damage.  What we don’t know is if you were the intended target or you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Do you know anyone who might want to harm you?”

Charles shook his head.  “No,” he said slowly, and then smiled.  “Even though a few of our competitors probably aren’t too happy with us right now.”

“You have a business partner, right?” 

Charles nodded.  “Pete?  Yeah, we been working together for about thirty years now.”

“You two have any problems?”

“What kind of problem?”

The officer shrugged.  “Any kind. Personal problems?"

“Not that I’m aware of, we get on okay.”

“Do you have any idea where the shot came from?”

“None whatsoever.”

The officer nodded.  “Okay, if you think of anything else, let us know.”

When the policeman left, Shelia leaned forward.  “Oh, honey, I’ve been so scared.  I came as soon as I got the call, but they had already taken you into surgery.  You were there for hours.  I was so worried.”

He patted her hand.  “It’s okay.  I’m all right.”  He glanced down at his left side which was almost totally swathed in bandages.

“When I think that just a little bit higher and . . .”

“But that didn’t happen, so don’t worry.  I’ll mend.”  Wonder why that cop was asking about Pete, he thought as he drifted off into a drug-induced sleep.


Charlie Chatman had enlisted in the military soon after his high-school graduation.  Upon his discharge, he returned to his hometown bearing a few pieces of souvenir shrapnel and his VA Benefits, anxious to get started on his new civilian life.  It wasn’t long until his path crossed with that of his old high-school football teammate, Pete Haas.

Charlie learned that, while he had been gone, Pete had started his own handyman business and was doing quite well.  A short time later they decided to combine Charlie’s military bonus and Pete’s list of customers and form a construction company.

Over the years they had expanded the business from repairs, to remodeling, to adding a room here and there, to building houses from the ground up.  Eventually, they were doing whole subdivisions.  Early on Charlie and Pete decided between themselves that Charlie would do all of the negotiations and contracts while Pete oversaw the actual construction.  It worked well.

Charlie sometimes thought that Pete went a little overboard on playing the party-happy football hero, but it never caused any real problems.  Overall, their arrangement had worked very well for many years.


Sergeant Brown left Charles’s room and told the nurse he needed to speak with the surgeon.  When the doctor arrived, still dressed in his scrubs, Jim Brown started to reach for his hand, but thought better of it.  Instead he nodded his greeting.

“I’m Sergeant Jim Brown.  I’m investigating the shooting of Charles Chatman.”

The doctor shook his head.  “Nasty wound that.  Tore up most of the muscles in his upper arm, sent shrapnel into his head and chest . . . right now, we’re just hoping he doesn’t get an infection.  If not, some intense physical therapy and he should regain full use of his arm, otherwise . . .”

“Otherwise what?”

The doctor shrugged with resignation.  “He could lose that arm.”

“Tell me, could you tell the angle of the bullet?  I’m wondering if there might have been a sniper on an overpass, or . . .”

“It was straight in.  Straight from the entry point to the bone which it shattered.”

“Hmmm, like from another car alongside him?”

“Most likely.”

Brown mused aloud.  “So it might not have been so random after all.”


Within a few days, Charles contracted a raging infection; the doctors and nurses fought valiantly to get it under control.

“If we don’t stop this thing,” one doctor said glumly, “that arm’s going to have to come off.”

Finally he stabilized and slowly began to heal.  Several weeks later a very weakened Charles began a long process of physical therapy.

Six months after the shooting, Charles was finally able to go back to work.


Jorge received another call and contacted Alberto.  “The boss says it’s time to move and this time we’d better make it good.”

Jorge put the word out on the street that he needed a hit man and a couple of days later he got word that a guy was needing a well-paying ‘job’. 

Jorge didn’t want to make the same mistake they’d made the first time.  “What’d you know about this guy?”  He asked his contact.

“From what I heard, he's good, real good.  He’s made a lot of hits, some of them big, and is slippery as an eel as far as the cops are concerned.”

“Okay, I’m trustin’ you, man.  Have him give me a call.”

Within a few days, Jorge got a call advising where their prey would be and when.  He waited until late afternoon, called Alberto and then contacted the hit man.
“Okay,” he said curtly.  “It’s time.  I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes at Main and Oak.”

A half-hour later, the trio was headed for the open highway and a neighboring town.

“Where’re ya goin’, man?”  Jorge’s passenger wanted to know.

“You’ll see when we get there.”  He wasn’t going to give out any more information than was absolutely necessary.  After all, even Alberto only knows the city. That’s it.

Jorge knew that Charles Chatman was meeting a client for dinner at the Meyers Hotel on Baker Avenue at eight o’clock.  He planned to park on the one-way street outside the hotel entrance, watch for the Lexus and then follow it into the garage.  They’d get him as he got out of the car and headed for the elevator.

As they turned onto Baker Avenue and Jorge began to look for a parking space, the passenger leaned over the back of the seat.  “Hey, man, I gotta hit the can.  Can you pull over?”

“What?  Now?” Demanded an irate Jorge.

“Yeah.  Sorry, man.  Must be somethin’ I ate for lunch; but I gotta go now!”

“All right, all right.  I’ll stop at that filling station up ahead.”

Grudgingly, Jorge pulled into the service station and stopped alongside the building.  “Hurry it up!” he commanded as his backseat passenger jumped out of the door and ran for the restroom.  He was answered with a wave.  Jorge kept glancing at his watch.  “What’s taking him so long?” he muttered a few minutes later.

Alberto shrugged.  “If he’s really got the upsets, he may be a few minutes.”

“Well, he better make it snappy.  We’d better not screw this thing up again.”

“Here he comes!” Alberto announced as the man came hurrying back around the corner of the building.

As soon as the three men were all in the car, Jorge pulled out of the lot and entered the light traffic on Baker Avenue.  A couple of blocks down, he pulled into a parking space.  “Keep an eye out, Alberto.”

As the Lexus approached, Alberto cried, “That's gotta be him!”

Jorge confirmed the identity as the car passed by them, and then pulled out after it.  Within a half-block the Lexus’s signal light flashed and Jorge slowly followed it into the hotel garage.  “Keep an eye on him, Alberto.  We don’t want to lose him now.”

Jorge maneuvered around the hairpin turns, while Alberto watched the taillights in front.  When the Lexus pulled into a slot, Jorge stopped in mid-lane.  “Get ready!”

His passenger took out his silenced weapon, lowered the window and waited.  Just as their target came out from between the two cars, a half-dozen cops surrounded Jorge’s car with their guns drawn.

“Drop your weapons!  Get out of the car!” their leader ordered.

The passenger dropped his gun out through the open window and slowly got out of the car.  Jorge and Alberto followed suit and were immediately surrounded by police, frisked and handcuffed. 

“You are being charged with solicitation of capital murder,” the Sergeant said.  “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law . . .”

“Where’d you get that idea?” Jorge demanded.

The cop laughed ruefully.  “No sense in trying to talk your way out of the mess you’re in.  We’ve already arrested your ‘boss’, Peter Haas, and he’s confessed to hiring you two to do away with his partner, Charles Chatman.  Seems Mr. Haas has been stealing from the company for quite some time and he became worried that his partner would find out about it.”

Jorge just then noticed that although he and Alberto were cuffed and held at gunpoint, their gunman was off to one side chatting with another officer.  “Hey, what about that guy?  He’s the triggerman!”

“Well,” the cop answered with a chuckle, “it’s thanks to him that you two are in the pickle you’re in right now.  He gave us a call telling us what was coming down, your location and a description of the vehicle.  I believe he’s an undercover guy for the boys in your hometown police department.”