The March Conspiracy

[pchwang]

"Ma boy wuz good," muttered Wilberforce Gurney, "Over and over again, rocking in his chair."

Stuart could pay little attention to the man, who had obviously become catatonic over the loss of his son, despite the fact that he seemed to handled it better out in public. Stuart watched the man finger his silver wedding ring, and felt pity pierce through his heart.

Haley Gurney returned with a plateful of warm cookies and a mug of coffee.

"Hear ya go, inspector," she say with a bittersweet smile, "they ain't dat synth crap dat you get in them stores. These be homemade."

"Thanks," said Stuart, distracted. He had noticed another picture, on-top of the Gurney's bureau.

"Mrs. Gurney," said Stuart, pointing at the picture on the bureau, "Could I see that picture?"

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Graves Station
March 24........

A heavy set man sat before his desk. On top, there were newspaper clippings concerning the recent discovery of Captain Gurney's death. There was a closet opposite the man's desk, and only the man's desk lamp was on. Light seeped through the main entrance of the office.

Next to them, his holophone's message indicator flashed angrily at him.

The man reached out for the holophone, but before he reached the button, he quickly withdrew his hand.

He repeated the process several times until, after taking several small white pills from a bottle, he reached out and pushed the button.

"You have Two messages," said the feminine voice from the holophone.

The first began to play, "Johnny, honey, I need you to bring home some mayo and that synth paste..."

The man let his wife's voice trail off in his mind. One more to go...he thought.

The second, a gravely voice. "Mr. Henderson..." it began.

John Henderson, the heavy set man, sat up, and refused to look at the holoscreen, shivers running down his spine.

The gravely voice continued, "YOU have left your Eagle parked on Leeds for over 10 days. It WILL be towed away if you d not respond this this message within three hours. Goodday!"

Henderson took a sigh and began to pack. Home free, he thought.

He got up, but a distinctive Bretonian accent could be heard.

"Johnny, old chap," said the voice in the recording, "how are ya?"

Henderson stopped in his tracks.

"In case," continued the recording, "You were burdened with the last task, I decided to help you with it."

Henderson sat down.

"Cyanide," said the recording, "encased in plastic. Excellent substitute for digitalis."

Henderson fell out from his chair frothing at the mouth.

"You never did remember the old adage, did you Johnny?" continued the recording.

The closet door opened, and an older, wiry man stepped out, a microphone in hand. The older man shut off the microphone. And stood over Johnny Henderson's dead body.

"Trust no one," muttered the man, "johnnyboy."

---

[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<

Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?