Friday 2 September 2011
FORGOTTEN by Christopher Grant
This man, this Reginald Cutter. He's what, thirty, thirty-five? He's black, he's got more gray hair than he's got black and he's got more clothes than he needs on this hot summer night.
He's homeless. That much is apparent by the state of the three t-shirts he's wearing.
He's standing one minute, he's dead the next.
No obvious sign of trauma. Except for the bullet that has left a gaping hole in the right side of his chest. The amount of blood on the sidewalk could've probably saved a couple somebodies if it hadn't been used to paint the concrete.
Reginald Cutter. The only reason anyone knows his name is it was the first thing he said to everyone he ever met.
The crowd, they know absolutely nothing except that one little fact. Not that you'd expect them to or expect them to cop to it if they did. Safer to be silent than stepping up and saying anything, even if it's bullshit.
It's not like he had much more than the t-shirts and the gray ball cap that's missing. Maybe they killed him for a couple dollars. Maybe just for the ball cap alone.
The only thing certain, tomorrow...fuck tomorrow, ten minutes from the time the circus, the flashing blue lights and the men and women in blue uniforms and suits and ties, packs up, Reginald Cutter will only be remembered in a homicide file.
Christopher Grant is a crime writer and the editor and publisher of A Twist Of Noir.