A Dodge Challenger sped down the road, maneuvering its way between
the lanes of Avenue 8 and overtaking other vehicles at all cost. It was
black, slick and had chromed edges with double exhaust pipes spitting out
fumes of the expended carbon gas generated by the car’s engine. Spoilers
stood on the trunk and the rims were of chrome too. The side windows
had been rolled down to let the passers-by catch a glimpse of the driver of
this wonderful machine.
Dean Huntler was seated uneasily behind the wheels of the Challenger as
he clutched his side tightly with a blue towel enclosed in his right palm. He
was in anguish as hot blood was dripping from his side and unto the black
leather seat, forming no puddle exactly but soaking his pants. The part of
his denim shirt where the bullet had burned a piece away was now getting
soaked with blood and clung to the skin. Knowing full well that the bullet
had only grazed him and not gone into or and out of his body, he still kept
his foot down on the gas pedal heavily in order to get home in time for a
first aid.
This was a necessity as he had no plans of leaving the world yet since he
still had a lot of fun to encounter and whenever Mr. Death came knocking,
all he said in reply was simple.
“Not today, man”
Finally, he arrived at his bungalow on E26th Street being welcomed by the
barking of the Alsatians in his calm and lonely neighborhood. He slowed
the car into the curb in front of the house and parked. When he had
surveyed the surrounding and found out that no one was looking at him
particularly or there was no one passing by at that time of the day, he
climbed out of the car and went to unlock the garage door. Still cautious of his surrounding, he ran back to the car and brought it to its supposed spot
in his small garage which could house only a car.
When he was satisfied and had decided to clean the car afterwards, he
went to sit on a table at the corner and raised his shirt so that he could
get a good view of the injury. It was a bad sight and when he tried to take
off some pieces of fabric he found there, the pain was terrible and made
him groan like a cat in labor.
It definitely needed a stitch.
Lieutenant Moore Elliot stood over the corpse of the assailed with his left
palm resting on his waist and the other jingling a pair of keys. The sight of
the splatter made him remember the noodles he took that morning and
his tummy made noises like a cat purr.
He was a rectangular built man, broad face with little moustache and one
could say he had already begun to favor a pot belly. His hair was receding
already and he did his best to cut it as low as possible so that it was not
too noticeable to his foes who wished to taunt him.
Bending over and looking into the car, he stared at the splash of brains on
the seat, dashboard and the windscreen and couldn't help but wonder why
someone had notched so much hatred to the extent of committing such
gruesome murder even though it was executioner’s style. The victim was
Fred Walters who had just resigned from being Mayor of the city and was
pursuing other personal businesses which were bustling till the moment of
his assassination.
The New York City Hospital arrived at the murder scene in their
ambulance some minutes later after an emergency call had been made. The
ambulance got into a reverse and four medics jumped down from the rear,
drawing out a stretcher and heading to the car where they mounted it on
its wheels. Immediately they took up their positions, Moore began to dish
out orders to the NYPD homicide squad he had come along with, pointing
and waving his large hands frantically.
“Warner, move to the victim's car… I want you with the lab boys,
supervising them as they check for samples, bullet fragments or any
goddamn evidence you can find, okay?”
“Yes, Sir”, Sergeant Tom Warner mumbled.
“You, John-Bruce”, he growled, more sternly. “You must ensure no one
gets a photograph of that body or else we are screwed. No cameras are
allowed, no press. Nothing”
“Yes, Sir, my very best”, he replied jovially.
“Connor, Vincent"
“Sir”, they chorused.
“These barrier tapes, I want them completely around the scene, no one
must get through and I mean no one”
“Yes, Sir”, they saluted in unison.
“Eddie, man the squad car. I need it parked exactly in front of the
ambulance”
“Yes Sir”
While the orders were being relayed to whoever they were meant for, a
crowd of people began to build and several news firms arrived at the scene
in a rat race. By this time, the murder scene was completely crowded and
noisy, with journalists and pressmen trying to get a photograph of the body
and car while the cops kept wading then off.
Pat Weather, a renowned journalist at the New York Times arrived at that
moment. His red Porsche Convertible drifted round a bend and unto a
sidewalk causing a few pedestrians to yell, cursing and hissing at him.
In the world of journalism especially when you are on the field, you are to
be firm in punctuality and be ready at all times. Whenever a new situation
like this one happened, you are meant to grab your gears, whether you are
properly dressed or not and run down there like hell. It is not a bad idea
to phone your colleagues to meet you there too instead of going to pick
them up or assemble before heading to the spot. However, here was Pat arriving at this hour and for a journalist to arrive that late meant that he
wasn't really concerned with the job and was certain to get a wash down
by his or her boss.
In reality, he was totally concerned about the job but had been delayed as
he woke up late after getting into bed with a hottie the previous night. He
was goddamn good at his job and he loved it so if you talked of being
punctual or having the ability to get pictures or find a way around the cops,
he was game. There was something about his good looks and sexy
masculine figure which made the ladies flock around him and in most cases,
end up in his large mahogany bed which was at the brink of splitting in two
due to steady creaks. The ladies on the other hand never stopped
returning for another dosage as he was more than capable of handling
them.
At twenty five years of age, he had already been awarded with a National
Honor having been of assistance to the US Special Forces when on a
holiday in Tehran, Iran which turned out to be momentous at the end.
He had been roaming round the rubbles of the abandoned old museum
destroyed in the extremists’ quake when he suddenly heard gunfire. As quick as a hare, he went down on his hand and knees and crouched behind
a large stone, peering around over the top and searching keenly. He caught
sight of a van loaded with armed men who wore masks over their nose
advancing while they rained ammo on an uncompleted stone building the
Special Forces troop had taken residence in. ?is journalism like art mind
took over as he took out his mobile gadget capturing the whole shootout
and airing it immediately on his blog.
Unexpectedly was an understatement for an explosion some meters away
from his position sent him reeling and shrapnel and gravels rained down on
him. The effect had been slightly tremendous as he had sprawled to the
ground and suffered a moment of the deafening effect which nearly
damaged his eardrums. In pain, confusion and terror, he arduously
struggled to get to his feet with no progress before one of the soldiers
who had been in an ambush position found him and whisked him away to
where his fellow ambushers laid. ?hen they recognized him as their fellow
American, they quickly applied medical care and treated his little bruises. After some interrogation and his stability confirmed, he was handed a
Glock 19, fully loaded, for self-protection if it became a necessity. ?e
joined them to an ensuing victory moments later and after they returned
to their country, he was summoned to the celebration and had been
handed his award.
In hastened steps, Weather hurriedly made his way through the
overpowering stench from the crowd to the barrier tape where Detective
2nd Grade Jack Connor stood, waving back the pressmen and yelling.
When he was halfway there, a reef of tobacco from a lady's mouth stung
him in the face like a cobra and the stench was enough to nearly drain him
of all energy. His brain had to work hard to keep him from sagging to his
knees and probably passing out. In the end, he managed to pull himself
together and with his elbow, shove her aside and journeyed on.
When he finally got to Connor, he drew him aside sliding a dollar bill into
his hip pockets.
“hello Jack”, he yelled in his face, to overcome the noise from the crowd.
“I just heard about the shooting now”
“Yeah, a clean shot indeed”, he yelled back in his face. “what's up with
the greenie?”
“well, about that… I could add a few bucks if you would let me get quite
a number of shots. Body, murder vehicle interior, etcetera”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Pat, Moore's given orders and no one's allowed
in for now”, he said apologetically.
“hey man, c’mon you know what I worth, just some information will do”,
he pleaded.
“As I said earlier, I’m sorry I can't”
Pat glared evilly at him, regarding him with steel gray eyes.
“well, if you're so light headed, lemme speak with Moore”
That was a sign of hostility and Connor was vexed. “he's busy now and I suggest you leave right now before you'll be sued
for disturbing police work”, he gritted, taking out the dollar bill from his
pocket. “For the record, here's your cash and have a good day!!”
And with that he edged away from him, leaving Pat circling in his own
imaginations as he stared, mouth agape.
He was mad with rage and when he recovered, he clenched his fist and
swore at him. Still furious, he spun around and charged through the crowd,
pushing and shoving aside anyone in his way. This was the first time he was
refused such and he believed it would be the last.