Abacus

Tracey’s half naked body, including redness, scratches and bruising around her neck and thighs. Flannery’s face was covered in scratch marks. Skin was found under her fingernails.
    “Looks like she put u p a good struggle,” he murmured. He tried to piece together her last moments. Randall had made her acutely aware that the heroin would kill her, and combined with her injuries, meant that it was likely the drug had been forced upon her by Flannery alone or in company.
    He thought about the last meeting he had with her in the car, which made him uneasy. He remembered handing her the pen and paper and looking at her trembling, fragile hands. This assignment was no place for her. While he felt some responsibility for her death, when he thought about it, as the bait, she was destined to die at some stage anyway.
    Focusing on harm minimization to the organisation, he continued to read the report to see where the investigation would track from here. He saw that it was being treated as an overdose with some sort of domestic violence angle. The narrative detailed the lengthy drug related criminal history of the bait. “Man, she has been in plenty of trouble,” he whispered, a little surprised. Next, he read through the criminal history of the target, which made everything clearer. He now knew how the Abacus had arrived at their decision. Along with a long drug history, the target had a lengthy history of violent sexual assaults with multiple female victims. It was evident, judging by his history, what the Abacus had expected the outcome to be. She was destined to be a single-use bait. A bait that would fall prey to the perverted target on her first and only assignment. While he was still saddened by her demise, his confidence in the Abacus’s decision-making was once again restored.
    “Looks like they w ill just write this one off,” he said, having read the whole report. Even though DL had far-reaching influence, it didn’t hurt to be ever vigilant.
    * * *
    It was now a couple of days since Randall had lost his last bait and strangely, he had not received instructions about a replacement. Perhaps they are just taking a little longer with the next one. Please, no more females, he prayed.
    He watched Georgie G walk through t he office and down the hall. Since the coroner himself had got involved in the Digby matter, Georgie G had been a little quiet. He definitely wasn’t his cheerful self. Randall could tell it was worrying him. He wondered whether Georgie G now had some reservations about his decision with respect to the diary. He only hoped that he wouldn’t fold under pressure or become a casualty himself if the case unravelled.
    Up until this point , Randall hadn’t given any thought to the notion that Georgie G himself could be the killer. He watched as he emerged from the hall with his arms full of folders. Well, if he was the killer , he would be perfectly placed with the inside running. He would be leading an investigation to find himself. Georgie G cursed as he awkwardly dropped the folders, scattering pages all over the floor. He watched the hapless detective clumsily pick up the pages and try to stuff them back into the folder. Randall smirked, Definitely not my Georgie G. He’s no killer , he thought.
    Needing to clear his mind, Randall pulled his pistol from the top drawer of his desk and pushed it firmly into the ankle holster. Walking out of the Fishbowl towards the hall, he called out, “Going for a shoot, guys, I’ll be back in about two hours. I’m on the phone if you need me.”
    * * *
    With pistol drawn and ear and eye protection on, Randall pumped round after round through the paper target each time it turned. The close grouping of his shots meant the wafer-thin offender, complete with nineteen seventies top hat and overcoat, had little chance of survival.
    Reefi ng the peppered target from the metal arm, he replaced it with a fresh one and sent it down range.
    Pumping all of his rounds into the target, he replaced his clip and continued the onslaught. The muffled blast, recoil of the Glock and smell of spent gunpowder was therapy for him. With each squeeze of the trigger he tried to forget his woes. The death of the female bait, the missing Digby, Helen, Cheung, but his desire to kill Jenkins was as strong as ever.
    With a fresh target and replenished firearm and clips, he pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote “Jenkins” across the new target’s forehead. Hitting the button, he