KERRI BRADY LONG

SEVEN BUSINESS DAYS

Calpurnia woke up that Monday morning with a very bad feeling. She wouldn’t call it a premonition; she didn’t believe in that kind of nonsense. She thought about staying home, but she was sixty-two years old and had taken exactly thirteen sick days over the course of her life, which included the week she had chicken pox in elementary school. And anyway, she wasn’t sick, so that would be breaking the rules. Off to work she went.

Calpurnia was an agent in the Homicide Registry Department. Government work suited her down to the tips of her perfectly polished oxfords. She adored her job, with all its complicated procedures. Its clear-cut guidelines. At its best, it was calming, methodical. At its worst -

The bell above the door jangled loudly as someone entered the outer office. Loud jangles were never a good sign.

“Anyone here?” A voice boomed. “Jeez, what the hell are my taxes for? No one in this goddamned building seems to actually do anything.”

Calpurnia affixed her name tag. She approached the man at the counter, taking her fresh cup of tea with her. “Hello,” she said, her tone pleasant. “You seem like you’re in a terrible rush.”

The man grimaced at her. He was broad-chested and barrel-bellied, ugly in his anger. “You look like my grandmother,” he said. “Gives me the willies. I hated that old shrew.”

Calpurnia waited. To her, the silence felt disarming. Professional.

The man cleared his throat. “I’m here to declare my intent to murder,” he said. “My name is Archie Hammon, and I’m going to kill my neighbor because he won’t stop his goddamned dog from shitting in my yard and barking all night, and I just can’t take it anymore.”

Calpurnia nodded. Relatively straightforward. Still, she had to ask. She and her fellow agents were trained in situational defusion, after all. “Have you considered killing the dog?” she asked. “You wouldn’t need a permit for that.”

“It’s not the dog’s fault his owner won’t train him,” Archie said, his expression aghast. “What are you, some kind of monster?”

“I adore dogs,” Calpurnia said. “I was simply suggesting an alternative.”

“Maybe keep your opinions to yourself and just do your damn job,” Archie said.

She nodded again. Clearly, de-escalation wouldn’t get her anywhere with Mr. Hammon. She pressed on to the next stage of the protocol. Her tea was cooling, and the sooner Mr. Hammon finished his business here and moved on, the better.

“You’ll need to fill out these forms,” Calpurnia said. She handed him one of the Premeditated Murder Packets from beneath the counter. “I’ll need details for both you and your intended victim. Physical addresses, email addresses. Next of kin, blood type, shoe size. I assume you know the rules?”

Archie nodded. “He’ll get a notice,” he said. “I have to wait seven days, during which he gets a chance to try to kill me first. If he doesn’t, I get to kill him.”

“Seven business days,” Calpurnia said.

“Whoa. Business days? What the shit is that?” Archie said. “I can’t wait that long.”

“I’m sorry, but those are the rules,” Calpurnia said.

And Calpurnia always followed the rules. She used her blinker to signal every turn, she paid every penny of her taxes, and she always colored inside the lines. Rules were a soothing source of clarity in this muddy, messy, chaotic world. Besides, she’d faced harder men than Mr. Hammon before, men with a plan, men with a gun. Almost always men. Always impatient. Not usually quite this rude.

“No!” Archie said. “I won’t wait seven business days. I’ll kill him now, I don’t care!”

“Then you will go to jail, Mr. Hammon,” Calpurnia said. “I’m sorry. That’s beyond the facilities of this office.”

“You’re sorry,” Archie said. “I’m being tormented, and you’re sorry. Jesus H. Hey, gimme another packet.”

With a growing sense of dread, Calpurnia handed him another Premeditated Murder Packet. “Two at a time is quite out of the ordinary,” she said.

Archie stabbed the air with the tip of his pen. “It’s Calpurnia, right?” he said. His eyes were mad, glittering. “What’s your shoe size, sweetheart?”

__________

Calpurnia had never considered how she’d take the life of another human being. Despite her many years at Homicide Registry, she’d never felt a murderous urge toward her fellow man. Even after all that unpleasantness with Mr. Hammon, it would still be difficult to want to kill him.

But she did want to live.

She took her cold tea back to her office and considered her abilities. She was flexible. She played racquetball and was still in decent shape. She was a lifelong knitter. She was a bit squeamish around blood. She’d never held a gun.

She filed Mr. Hammon’s two Intents to Murder, checking to make sure that the forms were distributed to the city council, the police department, and the proposed victims. She heard the ding of an incoming email message – her own notification that Mr. Hammon would kill her in seven business days if she didn’t kill him first - and knew that everything had been delivered.

That was a relief.

Calpurnia called in some vacation time.

On Tuesday, she took a long bath and finished the baby blanket she was knitting for her great-grand-niece.

On Wednesday, she went to confession.

On Thursday and Friday, she read through the entire Harry Potter series, wondering why it had taken her so long to try it.

On Saturday, she played doubles with Miriam.

On Sunday, she rested.

And on Monday, she went to Mr. Hammon’s house before dawn. She jimmied the lock on his car, climbed into the backseat, and waited. She knew the type of man Mr. Hammon was, knew his arrogance wouldn’t keep him behind locked doors with an arsenal. He was sure that the neighbor wouldn’t have the guts to kill him, sure that he had Calpurnia spooked. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d probably have been safe. Calpurnia knew the statistics better than anyone, and although only seventeen percent of Homicide Registry cases actually ended in murder (tempers often cooled by the end of the legal waiting period), Calpurnia was unwilling to take that kind of risk.

She had thought about contacting the neighbor, possibly combining forces, but she couldn’t find anything in the small print that clearly indicated whether this was permitted within the scope of the contract. If she survived, she was going to make sure that this oversight was rectified by bringing it up at the next Homicide Registry Department Regulations Meeting. And in case she didn’t, she had scheduled an email to be sent about it later that day.

Hours later, Mr. Hammon climbed into his car, whistling a cheerful tune.

Calpurnia quietly raised herself from the footwell and clamped her hands around Mr. Hammon’s neck. She began to squeeze.

He bucked and wriggled, clawed at her hands, but she held tight. All those years of knitting. All that squeezing of the racquet. Her hands were strong, and his lungs couldn’t get enough oxygen. She met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hammon,” she said. “But these are the rules.”

The neighbor’s dog started barking. It was horrible, incessant, a ripping, head-aching sound.

Finally, Mr. Hammon slumped. Asphyxiated.

Dead.

Calpurnia released his neck and flexed her fingers.

“You were right about the dog, though,” she said. “A terrible nuisance.”

__________

KERRI BRADY LONG GREW UP IN BUFFALO, NEW YORK, AND IS A PRODUCT OF THE BUFFALO BILLS’ BACK-TO-BACK (TO-BACK-TO-BACK) SUPER BOWL LOSSES, WHICH TAUGHT HER AN EARLY APPRECIATION FOR THE VALUE OF THE UNDERDOG STORY. MOST RECENTLY, SHE WAS A STAFF WRITER ON THE AMAZON DRAMA GOLIATH. SHE'S A UCLA KIRKWOOD PRIZE NOMINEE AND WAS ONCE EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH AT DODGER STADIUM.