The Weekend Killer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
A class exercise i wrote many years ago - a story written entirely in conversation.

Submitted: August 25, 2016

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Submitted: August 25, 2016

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The Weekend Killer

Stanislas?”

Call me Ordo. Everyone has always call me Ordo. And how should I call you? Inspector? Chief Inspector? Charpentier? Do you have cigarette?

Why did you do it?”

Do what? Do what? Every day you guys come in and ask same question. Keep telling I didn’t do nothing. I’m just dumb clerk. Stupid Ordo. Stupid Ruski. All my life people call me stupid. How come suddenly think I got the brains to commit all these murders?”

But you don’t think you’re stupid.”

No. I ain’t stupid. I just never mastered your language. At home always Russian, Yiddish, Hebrew. You never stop think maybe a boy of ten finds it difficult to learn your sacred French language. You think it’s good to hit somebody and make him ridiculous?”

And so you killed Mademoiselle Bonnet. Because she made you out to be a fool?”

Anyone who had the bad luck to be in the bitch’s classroom could have killed her.”

And Gabrielle Weissman?”

Don’t mention that woman to me. A whore!”

She jilted you.”

Best thing she ever did. Rotten through and though.”

Ordo, why is it that when I go back through the lives of these 20 people I find only once common link. And that is you?”

Coincidence. 20? You said 20?”

Why?”

No reason. The papers say 19.”

The papers make mistakes. Or maybe we are blaming you for a murder you did not commit?”

Why not? It’s only Ordo. Blame him for everything. But I tell you there is just so much blame a person can take before . . . “

Before he kills?”

Theoretically yes. Oh, if only my parents had gone to Israel instead of coming to Paris. How different my life might have been.”

Ordo, you’re playing with me.”

No, am just stupid, Ruski Yid, I could not play with man like you.”

I’ve read your dossier and I’ve been into your room. You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.”

I have never hid my light. Always other people. One stupid cow tells class Ordo is an idiot, Ordo cannot speak French and, like bad smell, that had followed me around.”

But you have books by Voltaire, Montaigne, and Gide.”

I can read. I read in 12 languages, but when I talk, always old woman’s words come back. Always I get toe worst jobs because of that old woman.”

But surely, as you got older?”

No, people not think. Not for themselves. Maybe it is too difficult. Always take word of someone in authority. They never question.”

So why did you never make a fuss?”

Constraint of society.”

I note your French is improving. Cigarette? Ordo, you should have worked for the Police. What you did was incredible. You tracked down people that you hadn’t seem for 30 years. You are a genius. Then you bludgeoned them to death. Nobody saw you, heard you or even suspected you until you killed Victor!”

No kill Victor. Was good man. Only man who understood me for what I really was.”

A murderer.”

A genius. His death was coincidence. But the others, they all deserved to die. Stupid animals. Like herd of cows with old school reference instead of cowbell. You know I dream of killing that woman. Her face haunt me. Everyday of my life. I hear her voice like scratched phonograph record. One of old 78’s. And one day, so help me God, I had just been kicked out of other menial job. And I stood on the corner and I say will follow first person who walks down street wearing red. And I did. She went to the rue Delambré and stopped outside old school. And all the pain came rushing back to me and I remembered how once I had gone home and stood staring at my mother chopping cabbage and I was so tempted to that that knife and plunge it straight into my teacher’s head. But the constraints of society stopped to. Two thousand years of philosophy separated me from that knife. Oh, I wasn’t afraid to kill. Believe me, in Russia we were used to killing and death. Communist, Nazi, only different uniform. And I remember it exactly as it happened. And that so many good people had died. My relatives were soap, or dead slaves. And that woman spend the war in the Midi. She told us about it after. About her deprivations. If only we had had a quarter of food she gorged on. And I could never understand how in the scheme of things a woman like that should live.

I understand you, Ordo. But why the others?”

One for each of my relatives. A bad one for each good one.”

20.”

19.”


© Copyright 2017 Balinovsky. All rights reserved.

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