Thank you to everyone who offered up a title for this first round of Build A Story With Bryan! After mulling them over (and considering my own, “Whatever Happened To Brenda Duplicki?”) I’ve decided to go with Scott Ritchie’s entry, “Hanley Spurl and the Ordinary Day.”  Congratulations Scott, a copy of this story tattooed on a cow hide should arrive at your door next week.

And once again, for your reading pleasure, here is the complete story.  

For those who knew her, or thought they knew her, the sight of Brenda Duplicki sampling face creams at the beauty shop on Dexter two days after her death came as something of a surprise. More to the point, the Victorian frock she wore was unsettling, for age had muted its ebony folds to a dusty gray and the high white-lace color to a pestilent ocher. Suddenly, the crowd of onlookers was distracted by a high-pitched scream coming from the back of the shop. 

Brenda ran out of the front door and disappeared in the crowd. But she accidentally left her purse on the beauty shop’s counter. Tossed from it, a sprawl of Turkish gold coins, an asthma inhaler and a shark’s tooth capped in silver. A passer-by, Hanley Spurl by name, idly studied the items on the countertop before his jaw dropped in astonishment. The silver-capped shark tooth was the last item the private investigator needed to find to confirm Brenda’s true identity as the notorious antiquities thief, Suzanne Zhuravlyova.  

But was this the original silver-capped shark tooth or just another imposter, inconspicuously placed in the path of Hanley Spurl that would lead him on another anonymously concocted chase lasting 7.23 years? He removed the riding gloves he’d worn every day since losing the horse 6.76 years ago, and performed a pinching test on the shark tooth his mentor Sable Dakker had taught him back when they were working the aquarium murders together. The pinch test proved it to be the original; he took a puff from the asthma inhaler, and knew what he needed to do next. He had to find the woman he suspected was Suzanne Zhuravlyova and find out who she had given their child to all those years ago. 

With a furtive glance in each direction, he scooped the contents back into the purse, tucked the whole affair next to the .45 in his jacket and slapped the gloves against his leg. He had only one hour to get back to Applebee’s. He paused, stricken by memories of their doomed relationship and the heartbreak he still felt. Or was it the lasagna? That was it. Hanley Spurl’s lifelong battle with lasagna was to blame. His eyes curled shut as did his fist to his chest. He didn’t see the danger approaching him because his eyes were firmly closed as he experienced a lasagna-induced agony. 

There she was… Suzanne Zhuravlyova. Nobody but Hanley knew it was her because she changed yet again. This time she wore stirrup pants, a They Might Be Giants oversized T-shirt, and a cute stylish hat that complimented her eyes. And it was those eyes that said it all. 

Hanley sensed her and spun, the gat already in his hand.  He aimed it square between those hazel orbs and let the lead fly.  It took her head into the next room for a chat and sent the other half of her crashing to the floor.  But wait.  Though the shark tooth was real, this Zhuravlyova was another fake, the third he’d dispatched since noon. 

Hanley heard the familiar sound of police sirens in the distance, which is inevitable after a shooting spree in broad daylight, so he decided to leg it for the nearest Metro station. His heart sank when he reached the Metro stairs and saw the sign: “Closed for repairs.” And then, right when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, it started to rain. Which in turn soaked his white shirt that revealed the physique that he hadn’t paid attention to since 2004. He quickly hopped on the 189 bus southbound in hopes of evading capture. He never expected to be sitting next to Ted Koppel on a city bus! 

Hanley began a quick study of this person next to him. But was it really THE Ted Koppel that Hanley had admired and dreamed of being with in an intimate setting since he was five years old? One telltale truth sign would confirm for Hanley if this was his Ted. Yes, by God, there it was the faint but distinctive body odor only Ted could exude and get away with. Hanley had a decision to make. What would he do? 

Hanley walked to the front of the bus and addressed the driver in as secretive a tone as possible, requesting that he make an unscheduled stop three blocks up…right next to a manhole cover marked ‘Department of Raw Sewage.’ The bus driver snorted with derision and turned to Hanley with a scowl. This was the answer he had been looking for. Since it was apparent that he could not exit to the depths of the city he felt he deserved he had no other choice than to go public…and Ted Koppel was his avenue. Hanley swung his portly wet torso back onto the seat next to Ted’s hair. In person, it dwarfed the newsman, towering close to three feet off his skull, weighting the faulty neck into a constant compensation. 

Ted barely turned the unwieldy thing to Hanley and spoke. “I’m better off than that jackass Ebert.” 

Hanley wanted to laugh but was afraid of the pain it would trigger. He thought it was the heartburn, what he often imagined was an angry little man living in his stomach, a fire-breather, who when provoked spit a stream of flame up through Hanley’s chest, his esophagus, his throat. Hanley instead tried to smile but it came out as a wince. Ted looked disappointed he hadn’t earned an outright laugh, but Ted’s hair, the way it kindly undulated, seemed to appreciate the effort. 

Hanley gazed out the bus window, pretending that the little man from his stomach was igniting the city trees they passed, and tried to remember the last time he’d smiled. Certainly it was before he’d killed the baker’s dozen of false Suzanne Zhuravlyovas, before what he thought was his child wrapped snugly inside a papoose was actually a bag of potatoes, before he’d unwittingly sold his horse to a glue factory magnate, before his life had been whittled down to as narrow a point as the tip of a silver-capped shark tooth.  

 He resolved, finally, to bury the tumultous exploits of his life deep within, and ride the bus until the end of the line, and wherever it stopped he would start anew. Gone would be Hanley Spurl the private detective, the treasure hunter, the assassin, the sucker for Russian women of dubious intent. And if Ted Koppel and Ted Koppel’s hair wished to join him in this new life all the better. Yes, thus resolved, happily, Hanley Spurl sat back against the seat and closed his eyes, confident the bus driver would wake him when they reached their final destination.  

But the bus never did stop again.