The Perfect Crime: Did It Happen? – MartinEdic

Photo by Bill Oxford on Unsplash

Sometime in the mid nineties. A group of friends in their forties sitting around a fire at a camp in the Adirondacks, drinking scotch, with at least one smoking a cigar. The conversation is quiet but filled with old jokes- we go back a long way. In some ways, we are celebrating having survived life to this point, while being fully aware of those who didn’t, or haven’t. A subject is proposed. What would be the perfect crime? And if we determined that, would we do it?

I can’t tell you why I didn’t write this story when I conceived it. I might not have had the confidence, as a writer, to do it. I know now, in hindsight of course, that I should have just plunged in and told the story and not worried about whether it was ‘good’ But I was just starting to figure that stuff out. If you’ve got a novel in you trying to get out, see this as a cautionary story: don’t wait, call eight (sorry, could resist). Seriously, just write the thing. But I digress.

Rewind that group by the campfire, but watch as an omniscient writer a few feet away in the darkness. This is the nineties. One of the people sits silently contemplating the challenge. He has recently read an article about the crazily volatile market in trading RAM chips, random access memory for computers. The demand is enormous as the internet looms and memory is the roadblock to a perfect technological world, but…only one factory in South Korea has the capacity to build these things. And it is owned by a publicly traded company. The only other source is a small company in the UK.

So, more scotch flows, and they decide to try and finish this game. And it gets serious. They find a high school friend who went to prison and he knows a guy in the Korean mafia…the factory burns, they cash out, and then everything goes wrong. A night watchman in the factory dies in the fire. He has a big family. The perps are middle class waspy white folks with liberal consciouses. Their social construct can’t support an omerta level of not talking and leaving guilt out of the picture. The entire scenario descends into chaos and disaster.

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