The crime

Freeman took on the job like any other routine burglary. Small ranch. Perfect setup. Owner at work all day, neighbors too, house set back a hundred feet from the street, small windows, easy rear access. Already checked, no security system. Stupid yuppies, as if that six-by-six ADT sign out front would fool an old pro like Freeman Rivers.

Being Houston, this idiot – and his neighbors – wouldn’t be home from work for hours. Even if they left now, there’d be traffic on the roads. You could always count on a Houston traffic jam to keep someone away from discovering a hit job in progress.

That morning Freeman got to the back by a neighbor’s house. No cars in the driveway, good – but the owner had a dog barking at the back door. Damn. Freeman got a look at the thing. Little red and white number. Well, he’d let it outside and go inside himself.

Jimmying the door open was a piece of cake, even with the double lock. That only meant instead of fifteen seconds, it was thirty-five to get inside. He opened the door. Dog was all over him in a second, barking and nipping. But when Freeman opened the door wide, he didn’t go outside – two cats, those Siamese kind – they ran outside.

Well, hell with them. So Freeman went in the house and left the door wide open. When the dog went out, he’d close it and get to work.

Dog began to growl when Freeman went right for the living room. Good – flat-screen TV, DVD player. All the best stuff. There was that Wedgewood on the piano. Rich guy. Had a grand piano, too. And crystal in the china cabinet – old money, looked like. Probably has jewelry. These Midtown queers, you know – yep, he saw the soft porn magnets on the fridge. Gotta get to business.

Went right for the bedroom. Jewelry box right out there on the dresser, a gold ring right on top. He grabbed the whole thing, stuffed it into his satchel. Dog was still on him, barking and growling. Freeman kicked the dog, but wasn’t prepared when the mutt sank his fangs into Freeman’s ankle.

Freeman felt a white, hot pain dart up his leg and into his knee. “Fuck!” he said, and kicked the dog in the head. Dog bit him again, this time deeper. Freeman kicked even harder. Dog kept barking and nipping at his heels.

Freeman limped, holding the jewelry box, into the living room. Got to get out of here before the dog got him even wors. He was dripping blood on the floor. DNA evidence. Shit. Damned dog. He walked by the piano, saw a black box. Just enough room in his satchel for it. Dropped it right in. Looked in the living room, DVD player, TV – can it, he’d get thousands for the jewelry.

He got out of the house, left the door open. Dog followed him outside, he was dripping blood onto the pavement. Shit, fuck, damn. DNA evidence. What the hell, got to get out. He saw the cats over at the edge of the yard, perched on a fence. The hell with them. Owner deserved to lose his pets, too. Fuck the dog owner.

Two hours later, Freeman was inside his apartment and had bandaged the two bites. Not too deep, good. And he got six gold rings and a diamond ring. Diamond ring had the initials C. M. D. on the inside. Perfect, he’d get at least a thousand for this shit at the pawn shop. And then he opened the black box. Sure it’d be more jewelry. But no. There was a plastic bag in there with ashes, and a piece of paper. Catherine Dryer, born May 9, 1930, died October 18, 2015. Shit. He got the sucker’s dead mother.

He took the bag outside and dumped the ashes in the garbage. Fuck the bitch’s son and his damned dog.