It was late, the office was empty. The rest of the boys were out celebrating a job well done, I was on my way to join them but I could still hear the sound of a type writer from down the hall.

It was coming from Jack’s office. We’d been transferred to this branch of the FBI together, worked a lot of the same cases, our jackets were pretty similar.

His love of paperwork was something we did not share, however.

“Can’t you leave that ‘til the morning?” I asked.

“We blew through most this year’s budget on just this operation. All those fingerprints…Hell, I’m just glad the Brits didn’t put up any kind of any extradition fight and that the crazy bastard didn’t decide to go to some place that looks less favorably on capital punishment. That could’ve been a real legal scrape, let me tell you.”

“Jack.”

“Yeah?”

“We got James Earl Ray, got him cold. We did our job. Come get a drink and let the guys in Washington worry about paying for it.”

I flipped the light off to his office, leaving him in the dark.

He joined us at the bar not much later.

Memphis Note
The manhunt for James Earl Ray was, at that point, the largest and most expensive investigation the FBI had ever run. Tens of thousands of fingerprints were examined, hundreds of thousands of passport were scrutinized and over three thousand agents were involved. For the Memphis branch, the hunt for Ray has never been topped.

Martin blinked at the warm orange of the setting sun. He was sure everyone had been right here a moment ago, but now they were all gone, leaving the world so very still and utterly silent.

He turned around at a soft cough behind him. A thin man in an impeccable black suit stood there, smiling sadly at Martin.

“Hello.” The man said, his lips unmoving. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“Who are you?” Martin answered back, a quiver in his voice.

“A guide away from here. To the next life.”

“The next life? You mean I’m dead?” Martin expected these words to unnerve him more than they did. “What’s that make you? A grim reaper?”

The man cocked his head to the side. “That is one name.”

“Why do you look like a mortician? Where’s your scythe?”

The man shrugged. “An unfortunate side effect of modern myth. I look like what you expect me to look like. A dower old man in this case. Which is unfortunate, since I can be rather charming.”

“So, are we going up? Or…down?”

The man gave Martin a bit of a chuckle. “Doctor King, do you really have to ask?”

Memphis Note
I always have a hard time grasping anyone referring to Doctor Martin Luther King, Jr by anything other than his full name. “Martin, would you like a cup of coffee?” Just seems too informal for a man like that. I had to fight myself to be so casual with his name in this story.

The windows were open and a warm spring breeze whistled through, flapping the light curtains. Shadows danced across the sparseness of the single bedroom apartment.

He sat on the floor, holding the Remington rifle in his arms, hugging it to his chest.

Galt was there, too, keeping watch out the bathroom window. He was always with him, it seemed. He’d been with him since Mexico, maybe even since Germany. He couldn’t remember clearly anymore.

It had been Galt’s idea to do this. To leave California, head east and kill the King.

He sneezed, pain flaring up his nose.

The nose job had been Galt’s idea, too. Said it would make it so people wouldn’t be able to recognize him. Most people didn’t even recognize him in the first place, but, as with everything, Galt insisted.

He wondered if Galt had said something to the surgeon while he was under, because their noses looked awfully similar now. That was the sort of thing Galt would do to him, too. And he hated him for it.

At the window, Galt hisses.

Wearily, James Earl Ray stands up, rifle in hand, and moves to the window.

Time to kill the King, Galt whispers.

Memphis Note
James Earl Ray assassinated Martin Luther King, Jr on April 4th, 1968. Ray had been stalking him since mid-March, when he’d left California after getting a nose job. He was using his alias, Eric Starvo Galt, while he traveled. The alias was something he’d started using in Mexico, when he’d attempted to become a porn director. Until his death, Ray maintained that he was part of a larger conspiracy to kill MLK. And maybe he was. After all, a conspiracy just requires two people. Ray and Galt were two people, that just happened to share one body.

Additional Note
Memphis had a pretty bad storm last night, and due to the power outage I was unable to publish this story. I’ll post another one today to make up for it. Sorry for the delay, but act of God and all that.