“Mr. Funderburke, I think I may be a psychotic serial killer.”
“Mr. Funderburke, I think my cousin is trying to kill me.”
I brew a pot of coffee and try not to think of the corpse in the basement.
Old Mr. Willman’s head twitched, and with some difficulty he pointed an arthritic finger at the gigantic oak tree with the peeling bark. . .
Brown and mustard. I stared at the painted mushrooms on the wall, the same way I did every day. In the eighties, Brementown was living in seventies colors. Brown and mustard . . .
Blomfeldt, who would die across the bay in a Duluth hospice at the age of eighty-two, first had the dream in 1966, when he was still a detective with the Superior Police Department. The dream skipped back through the years like a needle in the groove at the end of an LP—the tone arm failing to automatically lift, the thup-thup sound—and he was back in the head of Patrick Severson, the fourteen-year-old paperboy . . .
Mondays Are Murder features brand-new noir fiction modeled after our award-winning Noir Series. Each story is an original one, and each takes place in a distinct location. Our web model for the series has one more restraint: a 750-word limit. Sound like murder? It is. But so are Mondays. This week, By the Balls coauthor […]