Perfect murder

PPerfect murder

(c)Nick Gabrichidze 2009


Killing of Mr. Ralph Boulder would be a perfect murder, if not my pair of glasses. I have Fendi eye glasses, a birthday present from my former band-mates. Before becoming a corporate sales manager I was kicking drums with the rock band at the Sunset boulevard. So at my thirty fifth birthday my band mates reminded me about the rocking days. Glasses were remodeled at the gallery in Santa Monica, making me look almost as Elton John, and apparently now I am the only person in the whole world who has this particular sort of design.


Why have I killed Mr. Ralph Boulder? They say that every murder in the world happens because of money, even if people justify it by other reasons. My crime was not an exception. I could waste hours and hours explaining that Ralph Boulder was nothing but arrogant, self righteous, and fat Texan frick; but there are many arrogant, fat, self righteous fricks around, and it would take a nuclear war to get rid of of them all. To make a long story short, Mr. Boulder was my boss until I shot him. Our company is located in the Century City, California and sells equipment for movie industry. I worked here for more then a decade and figured out a nice scheme of earning extra cash by supplying the written off equipment to the underdog movie makers across the border to Mexico. For a while everyone was happy: Mexican directors shot their “alternative” movies; my fee’s were wired to the offshore account through the Pay Pal online banking, our company was not actually losing a penny, because the staff which I have shipped across the border was condemned for recycling anyway. It was OK until Ralph Boulder went down to Mexico for a marketing research and suddenly found out that there are lots of our tools already circulating an that market.

Right after his return Boulder asked me into his office.
“Mr. Nil” -he said in the public-prosecutor-type-of-voice “we found out that some of our equipment is already in use across the border. We checked serial numbers: many of those items were involved in the projects you were running. We believe you own the company a serious explanation.”
My family name is Nilashi, George Nilashi. I come from Hungarian heritage, but Boulder never ever made an effort to learn how to speak out the names which sounded strange for his white trash ear, so eventually I became Mr. Nil.
“You worked for this company for a while already and have done some valuable projects Mr. Nil. So we decided to give you a chance” Boulder always spoke about his decisions an in plural, possible to make it sound more solid. “We will wait until the end of December. Unless you will provide us with satisfactory explanation we will not be able to keep you … Possibly we’ll have to press criminal charges too, Mr. Nil…”

Two or three days later, I went at the ground floor, at the storage which Boulder had proudly named “spare parts department” just to see if there was a chance of repairing the damage. Access to spare parts storage was vital in my scheme: half of the pensioned off tools which went across the border, had a temporary accommodation here first. Even the brief look at the records made it clear that there was almost nothing I could do… Serial numbers of all tools and software which went into the land of tequila and mariachi were carefully recorded in the database as "recycled promotional items". It was a grave mistake of course; but how I was supposed to know that someone would bother going down to Mexico, meeting amateur film directors and checking the serial numbers at their equipment?
It was already getting dark, air in the place was chilling. Lincoln Fred Junior, the elderly black supervisor has forgotten to close the door I thought. Lincoln Fred Jr, is my friend. When I come down here I always bring small present for him, either a scotch or a pot, and Lincoln Fred never refuses me an access to the computer and the possibility to go around the stock. He was outside, at the terrace, peacefully sleeping and tenderly holding an empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. I looked around thinking if I should wake an al’fellow up, or just leave him where he was… And suddenly I have noticed something. Something very interesting and very important…

There a private estate next to our office tower: it is the park with villa inside. It is separating our tower from the residential area where I live. I have to detour few miles around every time when I'm driving to the office because of this park. No one ever saw a human being entering or exiting this property. God only knows who owns this place: may be some MTV singer who died from overdose long ago, or forgotten movie star who is hiding her worn out vagina from the public inside the house… Park is fenced off with a weird spider-web shaped railings. Some of the spider web fragments came off loose, creating a small hole, just big enough for a man to pass through. The hole was completely covered by the bush; and it was possible to see it only from a point where I stood. Suddenly thoughts began to flash in my mind like a kaleidoscope getting into the clear idea how easy it is too get rid of Boulder - and apparently to solve all my problems. Boulder was always staying in the office until late Thursday’s, completing sales reports.
In the depths of my garage I happen to have a high speed mountain bike. Not many people know about it - only my wife Jennifer and my daughter Evelyn Driving around the block would usually take three quarters of the hour. It must be possible to get into the park from another side ,which, I knew, was close by from my home, ride to this hole, enter the office through the storage door and get back home using this mountain bike for less when a ten minutes... Plus five minutes to kill Ralph Boulder-and no one could suspect me, ever. I would have any evidence that I actually was home ten or so minutes before the man died. It was as if lightening flashed through my brain.

Christmas present, six weeks trip to Hawaii for Jennifer and Evelyn, was a first step of the plot. Would they refuse to go without me, I’d forget the whole thing, but ladies appreciated my generosity not even knowing that they have just signed execution warrant for Ralph Boulder… After they left I began building up an alibi: watching NBA, NFL, student football, baseball, even soccer on TV and turning the sound volume as high as possible, so whole neighborhood would be able to suffer it. I am sure within days everyone have gotten a clear idea of my habits. Within a week I have received the note from some lawyer writing in one of my neighbors behalf, threatening that if I will not stop “sound pollution” the law suit will be filed. Another neighbor, some redneck-wrestler character from the Mid West who had recently moved to LA with an ambition to become another Schwarzenegger visited me personally, with a gun, demanding to “switch off the damn TV” in a very convincing way.
Meanwhile I have checked the estate with a park, penetrating it through the hole in the web-shaped fence. There was the semi-ruined path made of mosaic stone which was going across the park; it was good enough to ride a bike. Park had a gate at another side, “my side of neighborhood” as I called it. My house was just few blocks away. This gate had the slam lock, it was possible to open it manually from inside. There were poles for surveillance cameras at the both sides of the gate, but actual cameras were "gone with wind" long ago; which meant that I didn’t had to worry about appearing on the tape. Our office building had four surveillance cameras as well – at the main entrance and in the public lobby, but there isn’t a single one at the back entrance, at the storage where I was planning to penetrate. The security company possibly thought that if Al Qaeda would choose our building as a target, they would check-in from a main entrance and wait in the reception room.

I decided that it was a time to strike at the second Thursday of December, two weeks before Christmas ( and Boulders deadline ). It was now or never. I felt as a lunatic whole day. Simply planning a crime, knowing that you can drop your plan at any moment is one thing, and another thing is actually crossing the line...

Usually Boulder stayed at the office until half past nine on Tuesdays... At 18.00 I drove home, decorated the table with a half empty bottles of scotch, beer and bourbon, and switched on the TV, turning volume as loud as possible. If, for some reason, no one would bother me tonight I would just leave at nine without turning volume off. Hopefully neighbors would confirm that I was home watching TV as usual. There was a risk that someone would decide to come and complain exactly at the time when I was absent, but if one goes as far as I did, risks should be taken.

Everything worked out much better then I thought.. At eight o’clock I heard my doorbell ringing. Two female cops, both very good looking, greeted me with resolute demand to turn off the volume of my "sound device". Trying to keep up with an image of drunk anti-social thug, I attempted a light flirt, but both of them stayed ice cold.
“You already have a record of disturbing a neighborhood ,sir” said a tall, Hispanic looking one, her fingers playing on the gun “We can actually put you under arrest, so please be careful, sir”
I immediately backed off. Being arrested was not part of my agenda.

They surely recorded the exact time of the visit, this making my alibi even stronger. After their car disappeared from the sight it took me less then a minute to change into training suit and a put a cap to cover the face, plus another minute to get a bike and launch what I have already was calling “Operation Boulder” in my thoughts. Getting from the backdoor of my house to the gate of the abandoned park, which I deliberately had left open yesterday, took less then two minutes, and two more more to ride across the park to the hole in the fence where I have dropped my bicycle in the bush. There used to be a parking lot between the fence and our tower, but some time ago they moved a lot down in the basement, so now it was just an empty spot with random container boxes were and here. Making it easier to move unnoticed.
To make long story short, within a six minutes I stood at the entrance of our office building. What would I do if Lincoln Fred would still be hanging around? Would I turn around and choose another day, or turn poor Lincoln Fred into collateral damage of my war against Boulder? I don't know. Fortunately the windows of storage space were not lit -that meant that good old Lincoln Fred wasn't there, or was wasted as hell which was a same for me.
All my senses were so sharp that even now I recall almost every detail. Every smell, every little item, every nose are literally stamped in my mind forever: the dead pigeon in the sidewalk few yards away from my place, the BMW flashing at the crossroad, with a rap music streaming from the open windows; the sound of Dina Washington being "mad about the boy" coming from God knows where and freaking me out to death when I entered the park; the broken lamp, the abandoned bottle of whiskey which was lying in the grass close to the hidden hole in the gate for Lord knows how long; the attache-case someone has forgotten in the office elevator; the smell of cigars at the corridor, when I was approaching Boulders door exactly ten minutes after leaving home...

I took a deep breath, kicked the door of his office with my foot and walked inside.
"What the hell is going on!”, Boulders outrage was a good overture to what was going to happen next. I had only few seconds to get a weapon. A crucial few seconds. You have possibly noticed that so far I have said nothing about the weapon I was going to use. That was because I had no weapon when I came in. No gun, or knife or even a noose. Ralph Boulder was going to provide me with a one.

Boulder always kept a gun in the first right drawer of the table; it was huge Smith and Wesson, model 22. It was not difficult to find out about it - as a mater of fact it was very hard for anyone who was working in our company not to know what particular weapon our gun loving boss owned, and where he keeps it. Boulder never missed a chance to lecture most of us, the "soft, liberal Californians" about the importance of his beloved weapon for grass-root American culture, and about the ways of handling and keeping it. So apparently everyone in a company had to learn what model 22 was, what is difference between this and all previous Smith and Wesson models, and what are the advantages of this gun compared to Colt Magnum (In Boulders opinion). Now, right now, Boulder had to experience the advantages of this gun at own skin.
Most important was to grab the gun before he would. When I managed to get above the Boulder, he already opened the box. God only knows if he was really about to shoot me, his own employee, or may be something in my face terrified him so much that his hand instinctively went for an item which he trusted most, but his move made my task even easier.
“You are insane Mr Nilashi” – Boulder hissed putting his hand on the phone when the black muzzle of his own Model 22 look him straight in the eye. “Please sir, put my gun down and get out of my office until I have called the police. If I will not see this gun back in my table in a second, you will find yourself spending rest of your life in cell additionally to losing the job which will eventually happen… I promise you that..”
Second passed; and another one.. I just watched him. He possibly saw something in my eyes because suddenly his face became pale - as if someone has spayed his face with white paint. Somehow he never tried to place a call, as if his hand was paralyzed on the phone. In my dreams I was imagining this moment many times during the past month, sometimes with fear, sometimes with gloating trying to figure if I could make him beg for his life, or say few words explaining him why all this had to happen. Too bad I could not afford any of it because of the tough timing. I had one more thing to do.
“Find the article about Jenny Pochada on-line” I said.
“What?” he mumbled. My throat was parceled so I could hardly repeat.
“I said, find an article about Jenny Pochada. Now.”
He looked at me. There was so much panic, almost animal like fear in his eyes that I understood-I was a winner.
“But how…”
“Google” I said.
“ May be we can talk things over, Mr Nilashi”
It is late for learning how to pronounce peoples names I thought. He obediently typed the name in the search box of his Internet browser and clicked at the first link which came out. I looked at the screen. The newspaper article about Jenny Pochada was there. I remembered the web address of this article by heart. I gave him a next order:
‘Print it”
I noticed that Boulder moved more confidently now. Possibly he thought that I am just trying to scare him and he’ll be safe, if he'll obey all my orders. Or, most likely, he was just waiting for a right moment to kick the gun off my hand. I will never new what he thought. As soon as I heard a sound of paper being sent out of printer, I pulled the trigger.

For a few moments I was stunned, watching the motionless body which crashed at the table desk with a pulsating blood streaming from the red messy ball where his head used to be. I have crossed the point of no return. Boulder was dead and I was a murderer. If I didn’t wanted to join him in hell, coming there through the execution chamber, I have to get over this shock and to start acting.

First, and most important thing now was taking care of the gun. I forced myself to lift Boulders hand and inserted the weapon in his palm, the finger on the trigger. When I was almost done Boulder suddenly tried to stand up-or so it seemed. Scared to death I jumped aside. Boulders body rolled a bit but gun was still in his fingers…. It was my careless punch, what caused his motion of the corpse, but it scared me to death. I allowed myself few more second of stillness, got my nerves back on track and then carefully made a step towards a printer. Two first pages fell down on the floor. Killing happened so fast that article about Jenny was not even printed completely.

I was in love with Jenny Pochada. Platonically of course: as much as married, middle aged upper - middle - class man can allow himself to be in love with Mexican girl from a nasty neighborhood. Jenny was a sexiest girl in our office, talented designer and a smart manager too. She was doing OK until Boulder had not found out that once, only once, she smoked a pot in the female toilet of the office - this being enough to fire her, and make sure that a plague of addict would follow her reference around town; eventually driving poor Jennie back into the wetback ghetto, the place she tried so hard to brake away from... This, finally forcing her to dive from the roof of Ramada tower in Downtown. Some of you might now begin guessing that Jenny' fate was a real reason why I have killed Boulder, but as I already wrote – it was about money. If not the issue of recycled equipment, Boulder would be alive now.

Before taking a final dive Jenny desperately tried to file a sexual harassment case against Boulder, but of course she failed. Since that notorious Florida recount, blanket sexual harassment cases are out of fashion as we all know-and Boulder never ever made advances towards her; sexual ones I mean. I doubt he ever had a romance with anyone except his wife. However, images her nice sexy body being crashed by the fall from hundred feet above into the streets of downtown LA made a hot media topic, and gave our righteous boss a media publicity which he would rather avoid.

So when Boulders dead body body would be discovered conclusion will be obvious: Mr. Boulder, stressed by the suicide of his former employee and recent sexual harassment case committed suicide in the office. The Boulders thick character could be an obstacle to this theory of course, but everyone could add that he was also devastated by crisis, bad sales results and pressure from stock holders; altogether it possibly cracked him up…

Before leaving the office I forced all remaining power of my convulsing brain to focus and make sure I have not missed any detail. Gun in the Boulders own hand-checked. Printed story to make an impression of suicide-checked. Fingerprints in unnecessary spots like his PC key board-taken care of. I didn’t had to worry much about finger prints or my DNA around - Boulder always used his own office for giving hard time to the employees, so apparently there had to be many fingerprints at the desk, not only mine, but also from the rest of the staff.. The small blood spots at my training closes… I was planning to burn them down as soon as I would get back home anyway, but if some cop would stop me before that moment I would be cornered. Only solution for that part was not to let myself arrested before getting back.

Almost hysterically I was tuning a old 70-s song for some mysterious reason: “I'm stepping' into the twilight zone” on the way back-in the elevator; while running back through the abandoned parking lot towards the spider web fence; while riding through the park and after that-back home, through the luckily empty street. I have picked this line from some glam rock band, I heard it when was backpacking in Europe in my college years. I thought had forgotten the song long ago, alongside with the name of the band, but somehow it woke up in my memory now… Stress does amazing things to the mind.

I entered my home through the back door, dropped the bike in the garage, and went upstairs.. It was twenty two minutes after nine. It took me only twenty minutes to get to the office, kill the bastard and get back. Usually twenty minutes isn’t enough to finish the pint of beer, not to talk about killing someone….
There was basketball game on TV. I had to focus on it, otherwise, would someone ask who was playing and what was a score I might not be able to answer… It was Lakers against Clippers, local derby, with Clippers kicking the Lakers butt off with a big gap three minutes before the end of third quarter. After the game I was planning to visit someone in the neighborhood, pretend to be drunk as hell, and offer them a bottle of Bud as a good will present. As loud and aggressive reaction would be, as better it would work out for my alibi: at nine pm I was visited by the two beautiful police female officers. At half past nine I have tried to make friends with my neighbor. So in a worse case scenario, even if cops would suspect that Boulder was actually murdered and would start investigating the employees who had a reason to hate him, they will easily see that I could not possibly have been in the office of Mr Boulder the evening when he was shot.

I went to the bathroom to get rid of the the training suit, took a shower and jumped into the old T-shirt with a UCLA logo and ripped off jeans Then I reached for glasses.
My Fendi eye glasses were not at the shell by the sink. I must have left them in the room. I went back into living room and looked everywhere, then in the kitchen, then in the stockpile of closes I was planning to destroy. I could not find the frigging glasses anywhere. With a heart in my mouth, not believing the worst, I checked the bedroom, then leaving room again… The damn pair was not anywhere. I searched again and again in the same places finally smashing the table and chair in the rage of desperation… I must have left them at the Boulders office, it was the only explanation. Basically it was like leaving my autograph next to his body. For a second I felt completely lost, then the part of my brain which kept some sanity began giving sane signals.. Dead Boulder.. Glasses… Timing… My only chance to stay away from the death row was going back into Boulders office and picking them up. I gave a room another look hoping that miracle will happen and I will see the glasses somewhere… But of course only thing I saw were pieces of broken bottles and furniture which I have destroyed in the rage... I was running out of time. Only solution was repeating the ride back in Boulders office and pick the glasses… Hopefully no one discovered the body yet…

When I opened the garage door, ready to repeat the ride, my wrestler neighbor suddenly appeared from nowhere, blocking my way.
“ Hey” he yelled ”Mr. Nilashi”
I pretended to ignore him, no matter how difficult it was.
“ I am talking to you!”
He had a gun in his hand.
“ I am talking to you” he repeated. Why do this rednecks always care the guns with them? Do they think LA is still some kind of wild west circa 1865?
“ What the hell is going on mister?” he asked
I finally managed the answer
“What’s up? Can I help you, sir..”
“ I have heard those frigging noises coming out-a-your place mister.. As if someone was fighting in your house, or furniture was crashed. What’s going on?”
“ Everything is fine, thanks for concern. I am in a hurry if you don’t mind”
“Thanks… for what? Listen to me, mister. I have a wife and daughter up there in my house and don’t want my family to be disturbed by some lunatic.”
“Sir.” I forgot blockie's name “ I understand you concern but everything is OK, please believe me. Now if you excuse me, I have to go…”
“ You not going anywhere buddy, until you’ll listen to me. “
Later I realized that there was no point of going anywhere since he already saw me leaving with a bike, this destroying my alibi. But back then I could not think clearly. Only thing I could think of, were my eye-glasses sitting somewhere next to the dead Boulder… So I could not focus on anything else. Neighbor was still blocking my way. Desperately I tried to break through. Eventually, within a second, I was brought down by some of his wrestling tricks, hardly able to breath, feeling as if my neck was about to break. Half suffocated and panic stricken I helplessly struggled to get free… When his grip loosened a bit, I grabbed the first item which came across and tried to hit him. Item was an ax.

Grip around my neck suddenly get weaker, and next thing I saw, was him, my wrestler neighbor. Lying at the floor, with dark blood streaming from the large hole in his head. His legs were convulsing for a while, and then stopped.
“Hey buddy …” I remember asking “Are you OK?"
He was not OK. I still can not figure out how could I hit him straight in the head from a position where I was … But there he was, motionless and dead as stone. Glancing red pond was spreading off underneath his head. The ax was still in my hand… It was a self defense I desperately thought. But who is going to believe it? I had to take an action, had to try some damage control; sitting there next to his corpse in desperation was no use… If cops will find a glasses, they will blame me for this murder as well, I thought. I had to go and take care of glasses. Now I understand how crazy my line of thoughts were; but, but back then, my conciousness suddenly mixed itself up, as if I was really heavily stoned or drunk. First, I rushed to the door, then realized I had to hide a neighbors body, at least temporary, and for a while I just stood there, sweet streaming from my forehead, not knowing what to do now.

My hands shaking, I began to pull neighbors body inside the garage; but then immediately dropped it. It was useless. It would take hours and hours to get rid of all the evidence and somehow redesign my garage, and judging by the movies I have seen, cops could still find evidence. Like small invisible pieces of tissue with my victims DNK or else… And his family would definitely point on me. For a second I though that may be I should focus on securing first alibi: to pick the glasses, then return home and call the cops, claiming that drunk neighbor has attacked me and I had killed him in self-defense. But the image of local troublemaker which I have so carefully built up would definitely work against me, plus I had to explain why didn’t I call the cops immediately after the incident. I sat behind the body and wept. Everything was so well planned, so perfectly arranged, and now because of some minor mistake, it was all lost, smashing my life in trash....
“Rodney” someone’s scream woke me from the stupor. My neighbors wife, the overweight, shapeless female in the bright, fluorescing pink trousers was standing few yards away, next to her car, filling the air with a blood chilling screams…

“Calm down miss it is not what you think” I tried to calm her, but in vain. She kept screaming.
“Don’t touch me!”
I grabbed a gun from underneath her husbands corpse and pointed at her.
“Stop it!” I ordered adding a b. word to sound more resolute “Shut up”
She silenced.
“Step away from your car”
She did as I ordered.
“Good.” Within a minute I was inside her vehicle, one hand on the wheel and another still holding a gun. “Now keys… please. And your cell phone”.

I was graduated as an entertainment systems engineer, I also have masters degree in marketing. Long ago when I was kicking drums at the Sunset Strip, I have messed with pot a bit, and this was as far as my experience with dark side of life goes. Of course, the prototype villain had to shoot this woman, but I simply could not bring myself to kill one more innocent person. I am not the killer, by nature, disregard what you, people, might think of me. Only thing I wanted to do was to protect my lifestyle, my family, my reputation. So instead of shooting her as any other sane criminal would in my shoes, do I just pushed her away, grabbed a car key, jumped in her vehicle and drove away. Leaving behind the career, family, credit cards, house, respect of others and two beautiful woman I valued the most in this world: my wife and my daughter.

Of course my dead neighbors wife would call the caps as soon as she would get to the phone. I was so stressed up that I almost crashed a car into the nearby post; when I finally got onto the street which would lead me to the speedway, I heard the sirens behind. Of course right thing to do was to push the accelerator, but the decade long instincts of middle class obedience were stronger then common sense. I stopped a vehicle before realizing that I was about to sign my own death warrant.
The police car stopped few yards behind. Female cop came out and was approaching. It was same lady who visited my house earlier demanding that music had be shut down. Having realized that my alibi was crashed completely, I began to panic even before she leveled my car, so when she came closer, I simply grabbed dead neighbors gun and pulled a trigger. In the movies and in the reality shows cops always have weapons handy before the bad guy would even think of taking out own gun, but this girl possibly never even though that someone will ever point a gun on her here, in the well - to -do upper class neighborhood, so close to Beverly Hills. Later on I found out that she survived. It is good, I don’t want to have one more sin on my account. My soul is probably going to end up in hell very, very soon anyway.

I didn’t knew that she had survived back then of course, I just hysterically hit the gas pedal trying to get away before my victims partner would step out and shoot me. In a same very moment I have realized that just completely crossed the line. I have completed by incarnation into the pariah, cop killer, outcast, may be even a terrorist. Everything I have known as my “life” was now thrown away in the garbage bag.

I was turning the wheel instinctively for a while not even able to focus on the road… Twice I have almost hit another car and only the combination of late hour and good neighborhood prevented me from being arrested by some other police patrol or, worse, from being killed in the accident… Occasional thoughts were rolling through my head, each striking a headache as if someone dropped a bunch of stones inside my skill… With my only source of inspiration being the Hollywood thrillers I tried my best to act as a perfect criminal. I had to get rid of this car and get a new one, the license plate of this one was possibly already marked by city police… I had to withdraw some cash from my credit card before they would track it… Then I realized that it didn’t matter because I had no credit card on me - I left my wallet back home. I opened the leather box and checked inside. There was lot of junk, including condoms, but not a penny, not to talk about cards… I needed a money otherwise I was a dead man by dawn.
At the next intersection I stopped, waited until another car would get into the sigh , and then rapidly moved mine back blocking his way. There was a risk that the other guy would hit me but fortunately he had a good reflexes. With a squeezing sound his car zigzagged and stopped few yards from me, scaring the flock of pigeons who were dwelling at the shadow of the fence nearby.
I was out of my vehicle, gun in my hand, before another guy could even realize what had happened.
“Sir please step away from your vehicle , put you wallet at the grown and lay down next to it… and no one will get hurt.. And… your cell phone too”
I tried to sound resolute and tough, but there was cracking sound in my voice, giving my real feelings away.
“What the hell is going on…” the driver responded. He was a fat fellow, possibly store supervisor or, well, another office manager...

I pressed the gun to his head.
“I said hand over your wallet, license and keys, sir”
I don’t know if I would shout him or not, in case he'd resist. The logic of the situation dictated that I had too, but remains of civility were still not washed away. Fortunately tough appearance of my opponent was just a facade; he didn’t took any chances. In a second poor fellow was lying down; I saw his wallet and cell phone thrown away.
“Thank you sir,” I could not resist saying “ I appreciate your cooperation”
Fat guy didn’t even moved his head while I jumped at his car and took off. I wonder if he even had courage to find a pay phone and call cops after I left, of just lay down there until someone picked him up…

I used this few minutes of relief to mentally sketch next step. The plan was: driving few miles to LAX, leaving a car few blocks from airport, taking the public bus to the terminal, and then taking a shuttle to some low profile tourist hotel. Cops would think I had flown away, so they will be looking for me in other places. I knew from the movies that government can track anyone cell phone, so I left the fat fella's phone in the car when I parked it in airport, taking only the gun and cash from his wallet.

I ended up in a cheap tourist place with a swimming pool and tequila bar full of middle class redneck characters, mixed with European students on vacation; most looked as if they had spent half of their savings to come here, so they could brag that they have seen a Hollywood sign, and had a drink in a bar with a guy who looked exactly like Brad Pitt...
Almost immediately I understood that choosing this hybrid of youth hostel and run-down motel as a hide out spot was a wrong decision, The whole place was too crowded, too cheesy, too full of surrogate and cheap tourist resort spirit, and I was simply falling out from this crowd like a cactus planted at the tomato farm. After taking a step, which marks you for a death chamber you are suddenly landing on other side of life, with no way back; and it effects you mentally. Your mind starts to work differently, as if someone had hit button somewhere in your brain and uploaded completely new version of your personal character.
Your senses are constantly on alert, you are constantly questioning your own behavior thinking about the proper way to calculate each step: if you should stay in your room or join a noisy “margarita happy hour” at the bar, because ignoring it would seem suspicious….But if you stay indoors, alone, both fear and guilt will drive you even more insane; if leave your room, you have have to suppress the panic every second.
Every person who passes by seems like a threat, most innocent questions scare you to death. You can not defeat the thought, that your face could have been on TV already and police can be here next second, or, worse, they are already here: may be that person you’ve just spoken with is an undercover cops who is sent here to arrest you? And the skinny girl with Australian accent who took the chair next to your table… I she watching you? Pair of wrestler-looking fellas in the black leather jackets sitting behind you, tenderly holding each others hands, are they real gay couple during the honey moon, or are they are just trying to get closer to you, so they can arrest you?
I had to pass through the crowded patio to return in the safety of my room; and when I was half way through, some worn out guy gave me a smack on the shoulder from behind. I nearly jacked out the gun before even hearing him say:
“Hallo buddy, wanna a free margarita? We offer them during the happy hour over here?”
It was simply someone from a staff, announcing happy hours. I almost shot him for that, as if I haven’t produced enough victims already.

And of course, when they really came after me I didn't knew that end is coming.
Someone called up my room from the reception at 7.30 am next morning. I hadn't slept whole night, but at the dawn I felt safer and actually doze off; then telephone rang all the sudden. Half asleep I picked up the phone, and heard the female voice in the receiver:
“Sorry for bothering sir, but your car is blocking the way here at the parking..”
Of course I had to suspect a trap, but my exhausted senses failed me. Only when I already stood by the door ready to step up I though : wait a second I had no car when I came here. I left the car at the parking lot in LAX and took the hotel charter… They made a mistake. Something was wrong. I tried to calm myself down, telling myself it was merely a paranoia, trying force myself to step out and to find out what was going on with the reception desk, and then realized what cautioned me: something was wrong with a motel yard. It was empty, completely empty: no sales people preparing to leave, so they can beat the traffic , no sexy tourist chicks returning from a party at Sunset Strip, so basically there were no folks who usually fill in the touristy LA motel yards at this time of the morning. I could not see a single soul through my room's window.
All this thoughts stroke through my mind within less then a second, much faster then I am describing it here. There must be some way out of here, I thought, may be through the back window… Even a brief look proved that it's impossible-window was covered by solid iron bars, it would take at least a day to remove them… Hunted and cursed I looked around. The gun I have gotten from this redneck idiot back home was lying on the table next to my watch, stolen wallet, stock of dollars, spare ammunition cartridge and the room key. I grabbed the gun and sat next to the window, covered by the wall so they would not see me directly. And waited.

It took them quarter an hour to realize that I am not getting out voluntary. A metallic voice come from out there saying:
“Mr Nilashi this is LAPD speaking. The cottage is surrounded. Get out of the door with your hands above you head. Mr. Nilashi that is LAPD. Any resistance is useless, please step out of the door with your hands above your head.

Of course I knew that resistance is useless. But I just could not force myself to give up voluntary.
The telephone rang again. I had a second long urge to pick up but then decided to ignore it. It had to be this negotiator character, just like in a movies, he would possibly try to convince me to give up, promising that my execution would be painless and fast. Yeah, sure. Anyway, even if it was not a negotiator, there was no point answering the phone now.

And then the happiest moments of my life began, believe me or not. I broke the glass, yelled something like "fuck you motherfucker-come-and-get-me" and fired a shoot. And my fire was of course returned...You would not believe it, but at that moment I felt happier then at my wedding day, happier compared to the days of my Sunset strip concerts; happier then the day when my daughter was born or even happier compared to the first time I had sex to the Argentinean ex model turned porn star at the run down hotel in Marina-Del-Rei. Actually the first time was pretty screwed up, I was nervous and shaking, but she took twenty bucks off me for just one time and didn’t even let me touch her boobs.

Anyway...As I have said, believe it or not, but during this quoter of the hour, surrounded by a gunpowder smoke, pieces of glass and plaster flying around the room, stunned by the weird melody of drumming shots from other side, the glass cracking, bullets squealing, and cop radio sounds at the background, I had a best time of my life. Running from window to window, high on adrenaline, jumping up to to make another shoot and falling down at the floor, not knowing if the bullet, which is going to kill me, will hit my flash next second, I have actually felt something I never had felt before. If I ever, ever, felt really free and strong in my whole life, it was during those ten or fifteen minutes. I don’t know how to describe it; it'd take Literature Nobel price winner to put it in the right words; but I am just a regular guy...

Later on they said that I have actually wounded three agents. It is very surprising, given the fact that I was not even trying to aim; and that my only shooting experience before this day was the fun shooting at the bachelor party, which one of the Boulders Texan associates had thrown in gun club five years ago..

I had to save last bullet for myself, and to end the whole thing for good, when I was still happy and free, before they finally broke through the window and handcuffed me, I know. But I hadn't done it… To bad I had no guts to do it. Someone was reading my Miranda rights. I thought that LAPD will not spare my life, finishing me off me right right there, at the spot, as they usually do to the cop killers... But no, I was not so lucky. They stripped me from my well earned fast death. I understand, they did so to spare themselves from media outrage, but for me it just means a decade long agony at the death row, before they will finally set a date of my execution and will drag me out of my cell.... Anyway there is an advantage too, would they shoot me back there, I would not be writing this story for you all.

Actually I have earned American "twenty minutes of fame" because of this shoot out; or was it supposed to be fifteen minutes? Anyway the motel yard was full of cameras and microphones when cops were taking me out. Some one managed to stick the microphone straight into my face. I heard something like: “Are you the Al Qaeda member Mr. Nilashi” and “Was your attack a political statement”; but cops moved all journalists away. When we arrived at the station, I saw my own face at TV screen. They were broadcasting my photo whole previous evening, so basically I didn't had a chance to get away.. Unless I would make it to Mexico immediately after the murders, instead of staying in this motel... Unfortunately for me, the next day Obama became an official candidate at the Democratic primaries, which was a bigger news then my story, so there were no reporters out of the police station when I was taken out to the court for preliminary hearing...

So that's an end of story folks. At this moment I am in the California's death row, but my execution date is far away; may be a decade away, my pre bono lawyer says, but... Two kinds of folks: people who have terminal cancer and guys in the death row would never know if others are just trying to conceal them or telling the truth, when we hear that death is far, far away. Generally, for me it does not really matter. I was enjoying the happiest minutes of my life squatted at this motel room, shooting bullet after bullet through the broken window onto the cops outside, all twenty four bullets, including the spare cartridge...

It's not coming back, so life is completed deal for me now. Yes, sir.

My wife Jennifer divorced me, however Evelyne still pays me a visits sometimes; she brings “greetings from mom”, but I am almost certain Jennifer does not know about this "greetings"...

Most ironic part of the story is that I am not going to be executed for murdering Ralph Boulder. I was arrested, put on trial and sensed to death for murdering my neighbor with a ax, for taking his gun and wounding a female police officer. According to the prosecution it all happened because of my submission to drugs and alcohol. Would someone bother run a test on me they could have found that there was not a drop of alcohol in my blood that evening.

Here is a funny part: officially Ralph Boulder killed himself. Reason: not being able to deal with a consequences of Jenny Pochada's recent suicide. He had a warm loving heart under the mask of tough manager, you see; and this episode made him feel too guilty media says… His suicide was confirmed both by detectives and by the internal corporate investigation, so no one in a right state of mind, even most zealot conspiracy theorists would doubt it now. I did a really good job covering up his killing. In fact I have committed a perfect murder.
I am not sure if proving the real story will make my case worse or better, after all it will add one more corpse to my account, but I believe that justice has to correct own mistakes... And this will hopefully postpone a date of my execution, what you think?.

What else...I have finally found out who owns the park which I have crossed to get to the office at the day of the murder. Believe it or not, there is a mystical aspect: this park was owned by Alistair Crowley, Englishman, the founder of Church of Satan, I was told. Later on some group of local weirdos bought it, and now it is owned by some strange organization, who are playing with dark powers: either Church of Satan or Merlin Manson's fun club... I hadn't yet figured it out. As a matter of fact this people use this park only once in a while for their parties, or whatever you'd call their meetings. They do it very rarely, once in three years may be. Anyway I was lucky not to bump into one of them when I was riding a bike through. Or may be I was unlucky, depending how you see the rest of my story...

And you are possibly wondering what was a deal with my Fendi eye-glasses? If not those glasses I would be now thinking about getting better payroll, not about postponing my execution. They found the glasses, but not at the Boulders office, as I thought originally. I was so mentally exhausted whole day before killing Ralph, that I have left'em in the diner, at launch time. I didn't remember about glasses for a whole day, until this very moment when I began looking for them, after killing Ralph and returning home. People from the diner brought this glasses back in my office day after, but I was already arrested. So they just had sent it for me here, in prison. I'm keeping those glasses here, in my cell. Believe it or not, I am planing to wear them on the way to the execution chamber.

THE END

Copyright: Nick Gabrichidze 2009