A Lethal Fall From ‘Fatal Heights’

            The day begins as any other: I wake up and roll over, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, which filters lazily through my drawn curtains. The air is a bit stale in this two-room apartment, but I’ve grown accustomed to it and it goes largely unnoticed. The washing machine on the first floor is making a racket.

            I yawn and sit up, letting gravity pull the remnants of my nocturnal inactivity from my mind. Once clarity is realized, I pull everything into working order, pushing myself to my feet and stretching one final time. A few of my joints crack. I walk quickly across the cold floor to the bathroom, where my shower waits with open arms, ready to accept me, dirty as I am.

            I turn on the faucet and sit on the toilet, observing the tired rusted showerhead, which drools large quantities of yellow-tinted water. Particles of dust refract the light and dance like stars in the small room. I think about all of the stars in the universe, and how many of them must be without planets.

            The water’s hot, so I strip down and step in. The mantle of cold that had collected around me is slowly but surely obliterated, shreds of it almost tangible in the humid air.

            Toweling off, I stare at the fractured surface of my only mirror, the person reflected supposedly representative of my current appearance. No beard yet, I think to myself.

            As I get dressed, I fix myself breakfast and think about life. Over my scrambled eggs, I read the morning paper, which contains a brief summary of all that happened yesterday. There’s nothing immediately interesting, but I wasn’t really expecting any different. My eyes flicker haphazardly over the content, examining and discarding stories quickly.

            While reading, I can’t help but think of my parents—every day my father reading the paper to my mother as they went about their morning routines. Then, just after I turned six, they both died suddenly in a car accident. At the time, I accepted it immediately, but as the days went on, and became weeks, which slowly morphed into months, their absence weighed on me.

After their deaths, I didn’t feel like having new parents, so I persuaded the mayor of Fatal Heights to make me an independent minor—the community would do for me what I required, and I would be given a free apartment in which to live until I turned 18, at which point a two year scholarship to the local community college was guaranteed. Not a bad deal, I’d say.

Checking the clock on the wall I put the paper down and grab my bag. With one final look around the room, I open the heavy metal door and walk out, letting it slam shut. It really reminds me of something Indiana Jones might dart under at the last moment, just barely catching his hat before the entrance is closed. Every morning, I prepare for this possibility. It’s bound to happen eventually.

I get to school a few minutes early, so I walk over to the nearest bench and take a seat. Leaning back on the short cement wall, I watch the leaves wave to the other students at Saint Malignant High School. Living alone in the apartment, I grew tired of people my age, and sought out older groups to be around. Unfortunately, I couldn’t escape the necessity of school, so I tested out of a few grades, and found myself, from fifth grade, entering ninth at Malignant High. I’m not sure what people think of it, but I honestly couldn’t care less.

As soon as the bell chimes, summoning all students to class, my mind clicks off, auto-pilot taking over. Next thing I know, I’m getting out of my chair to leave school for the day. I’ve finished all of my homework for the night too, it seems, but that’s really only to be expected—the classes here, even the APs, are pathetically easy.

With nothing better to do, I wander around the modest city of Fatal Heights, which sits twenty minutes away from Eugene, Oregon, facing the sea. I end up watching some cliché noir flick at the movie theater. It’s really nothing special: a cop in LA finds himself up against a capable adversary. It has all of the things you might expect from a mystery novel-gone-movie, including, but in no way limited to, a sexy female costar.

I walk out of the theater as soon as the credits hit the screen. While the ending was obvious from the beginning, I couldn’t’ help but like the main character. His good natured, yet hard-boiled character was a bit unusual, but overall pretty irresistible. I should get a sexy female costar.

On the way home, I pick up some groceries from the local farmer’s market. Everyone gives me a good price because of my situation. I lock the door, get into comfortable clothes, and cook myself curry, with generous servings of beef and carrots. I clean up the dishes, and turn out the lights, crawling into bed, where slowly but surely, my restlessness fades. The slight form of sleep claws along the floor to my bed, its long tail dragging along my thin carpet.

I think for a moment about who would make a good sexy costar for me if ever there became a movie based on my life, but I can’t decide on anybody before my consciousness slips away into the night.

            The morning comes quickly and without warning. Upon waking up, I immediately get out of bed, and hurry through my morning routine. Today, I enjoy a few slices of whole-wheat toast covered in apple slices for breakfast. With fifteen minutes to spare, I make my way to school.

            At the beginning of second period, I discover a new student in my class, a thin young boy of an average height. He sits down calmly in front of me as the class gets ready to begin. I lean back and look at the hair on the back of his head, which reminds me of rope, despite its being neither rough nor rope-like in style. It just reminds me of rope. In fact, it’s really quite nice; short, but well tended to, quite possibly by a professional barber. This kid is definitely upper class, though you wouldn’t be able to tell right off the bat.

            He raises his hand, and voices a “here” when an unfamiliar name is called. It would appear his name is Ohr, without a last name. I don’t rule out the possibility that he spoke with the teacher beforehand about what to be called—in fact, that’s probably exactly what happened.

            Regardless, as the class proceeds, the other students seem somehow impressed by him, much as they once were with me. It’s only to be expected though, as I’m only 11 years old and in high school, and Ohr seems to be within a year or two of the same situation. Throughout the day, I find myself wondering about what kind of home he must come from.

            During lunch, I find him sitting alone on the hill that overlooks Fatal Heights-- a few blocks from Saint Malignant High School-- where I usually eat.  I walk over and lay down next to him. He looks down at me for a moment and our eyes meet. He looks back towards the city, a very serious expression on his face.

            I wait a few moments before speaking.   

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, leave me alone.”

At that, he gets up and walks away. I shrug—as best I can, considering I’m laying down—and return to watching the clouds.

After school gets out, I make my way downtown, seeing as I’ve completed the night’s homework. Walking through the streets, I find a certain calmness wash over me, which leads me by the hand towards a small café, Eden Hall. Without a second thought, I push through the door and enter.

In the dusty yellow ambience of Eden Hall, I take a seat and order a cup of tea. After a few minutes, my drink finds me. Sipping on it, I look around the room, noting the other visitors. Besides myself, there are five: one inebriated looking man also at the bar, two college girls studying in one of the corners, the bartender, and Ohr, who sits solemnly at one of the booths, half hidden in this light. I take note of his presence halfheartedly, I’m too mellow right now to care who’s here.

Half an hour into my relaxation, Ohr’s cell phone pops into my consciousness as its soft jingle alerts him to an incoming call. He answers it, and, without thinking about it, I take down the time, 4:19 pm, and I file it away for later, not that I’ll need it.

He’s only on the phone for a couple of minutes, but after he hangs up, he gets up, pays his bill, and leaves. I consider the options, and after a few moments, I decide to follow him. Hey, I have nothing else going on, yeah?

His route through the city leaves me with very little to work with. He ambles about the local grocery store before moving on to the hardware store a couple of blocks away. It’s here he ends up taking the longest time. I stand out of the way, an isle over from him, holding some shears, as he looks over their selection of copper wire. He doesn’t buy anything, though. He simply takes down the brand, the weight and the circumference of each brand on a small notepad, which, after filling with such notes, he returns to his bag.

I can honestly say I’m getting bored of this. He’s probably just making something—I don’t know anything of his hobbies, so it’s entirely probable.

At about six he pays for one of their half-heartedly supplied candybars, which really only sit there so that children, bored with the other contents of the store, have something to beg for. He buys a Three Musketeers. I buy some gauze and the pair of shears I had investigated earlier. The cashier gives me a weird look, but I suppose it’s not every day an eleven year old buys a pair of pruning shears. I shrug, and leave the store quickly, before the salesman can rethink selling sharp tools to children.

When I exit the store, I pause within one of the darkening shadows in the doorway, searching for Ohr. From my hidden spot, a pleasant tingle slides down my spine. God, I feel like Joseph Gorden Levitt from Brick, I think pleasantly to myself. A block away, Ohr is walking briskly north, so I follow.

After a couple of minutes, he abruptly stops walking. Scanning his surroundings, he heads for one of the rarely-used payphones that line this street, like the long forgotten husks of cicadas along the trunk of a tree in fall. I make the most peculiar associations sometimes. Beyond reflecting upon myself at this time, I also pay great mind to what it is Ohr is doing.

My first thought is of his cellphone, which he used earlier. Why would he go through the trouble of using a payphone when he could just as easily whip out his cellular phone? This idea is interrupted by his voice, which comes to me softly, so I have to strain to hear what he’s saying.

            “Make it quick,” he begins. Who could he be calling? “Yes. Yes, I have. And have you… you what?” At this moment, he rubs his eyes, obviously irritated at something. “West Chester Park and Westland-avenue. Yeah. Yes. No. Yes.” Needless to say, I’m not getting much from this conversation, and, as it continues, I find myself more interested in the different types of dirt on the ground than in what he’s saying. Before long, he hangs up and, after a moment of note-taking, walks away. I follow him as far as the head of one street, but I pull away as he enters a small cream-colored house. I check the time: 6:51 PM.

“Goodnight Ohr,” I whisper. I turn away from his home and head towards my own.

When I finally get everything settled—food in my stomach, laundry taken care of, rooms cleaned, dishes cleaned and newspapers recycled—it’s getting to be pretty late, so I climb under the covers and allow the deep embrace of slumber to envelope me once again.

The following two days proceed without a hitch, my day-to-day life uninterrupted. Ohr seems to be primarily inactive, and the one or two times that I pay him any mind, I find him to be surprisingly pleasant to be around. His former animosity seems to have been carefully cast away—discarded for want of use.

Unfortunately, just as I’m adjusting to this change, something dirty hits the fan. I’m sitting at my breakfast table, minding my freshly poured cereal, when my eyes catch on a word in the newspaper. I had no intention of reading the paper this morning, but now I spread the page in front of me, a small article inhabiting every miniscule fiber of my attention.

The word that caught is “Chester”, as in “West Chester Park and Westland Avenue”, the location of a mass killing just two nights ago. I immediately recall Ohr’s conversation on the phone, and flip through the memory. Reality dissolves around me as my recollection of the conversation I overheard becomes my world. As if living it again, I pick out key words, and sort through them with great interest. Could Ohr be the one behind this? The idea seems far-fetched, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

He definitely mentioned that location specifically, but that’s all I can get out of the past.

“Well then,” I say under my breath, “let’s move forward.”

Ignoring the silent summons of the school, I walk briskly to the library. Upon entering, I’m tossed a peculiar look, complimentary of the oldest librarian; she’s really the only one who gets ticked off when I come here. All of the new people just accept me as a weird kid—she’s the kind that thinks I’m acting the part, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

I ignore her, though, as always, and head towards the nearest computer terminal. The computer I want is off, so I turn it on, only to run into a password prompt. I can feel the librarian’s smile burning into the back of my chair, and it makes me a little angry. Clicking my tongue, I run a few ideas by the machine until it accepts one. With a trained eye, you can figure out any person’s password given a couple of minutes around them.

Having easily defeated the librarian, I proceed with my original plans. Opening the web browser, I filter hastily through cyberspace, glancing at the passing landscapes. In a few moments, I pull up a detailed article on the incident in question.

Thirty-seven men, four girls, and one child were found dead in a warehouse on West Chester Park and Westland Avenue, just outside of Boston. I read through the article with a nauseating mix of interest and horror. I don’t think Ohr could have orchestrated this, but I can’t rely so heavily on opinion, either. So I clear the slate and start from the beginning, reviewing the entire event in detail.

By sunset, I’m no closer to the truth. Everything I’ve learned so far indicates that Ohr couldn’t have done it, but, at the same time, there’s no explaining the call he made hours before the murder supposedly occurred. What gives?

The article quoted police repeatedly, who explained the likelihood of it being a mob war, which I don’t rule out altogether, though I do find it hideously unlikely— a mob war like this only occurs in movies and poorly written stories. Regardless of outside speculation, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s Ohr.

I pull out my phone and enter the number of a young detective I’ve been in close contact with over the last few years. He’s been a valuable asset to me, though I have to go to some pretty elaborate lengths to keep him in the dark about a lot of things.

“Are you there?”

“Yeah . . .” He sound’s tired.

“Did you catch the newspaper article about the mass murder in Boston?”

“Just a second, let me check.” With that, the other end is quiet for a few moments.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I think I know who did it, and I’m going to try to deliver them to the appropriate authorities.”

“Need any help?”

“I might—Keep your phone on at all times, I may need to contact you in the next couple of weeks.” I hang up.

As the week drags on, I repeatedly process the information available, all the while following Ohr. I follow him enough to be able to predict at any given time, more or less accurately, his location and activity. I begin to doubt my sanity.

During the six days that I follow him, he purchases a flathead screwdriver and two sacks of a heavy, dark substance from the local store, The Horticulturalist’s Hullabaloo. I’m watching my suspicions melt away into an odorless liquid, which trails behind me, more of it falling away with every step.

Ohr changes slightly a few days later. When he sees me at school, he smiles and waves, a difference in demeanor not at all unnoticeable. While cautious of this change, I do lighten up a bit. It’s not too bad, after all, getting along with someone for once. The days proceed.

I soon forgo the good mood in favor of concentration, as Ohr’s movements become less predicable. It seems he’s moving randomly through the city, and, try as I might, the only explanation I can come up with is that he’s moving randomly on purpose. Does he know of my surveillance?

With this in mind, I begin planning out the coming week. Before I get past which days I’ll follow him, and which night to bug his room, I find Ohr to be nowhere in sight. Heading blinding towards what I believe to be the proper alley, I get into a jog, moving faster than I would like to make up for any lost ground. Ohr steps from the shadows, scratching the back of his head.

“Now this is an interesting spot we’ve found ourselves in,” he begins, his gaze locking with mine. His eyes are actually quite nice, but I’m far from wooed as he continues. “I don’t like time consuming games, and as of late, I really don’t want to deal with you. I know you’re not quite sure about it yet, but I’ll just spoil it for you.” I half consider plugging my ears, just to spite him. “I was behind the mafia’s demise.” I want to laugh at how silly he looks in his khaki pants and sweater-vest, speaking of mass homicide, despite only being halfway over four feet tall.

“So what now?” My question doesn’t really need to be answered, and we both know it. This is definitely when it really starts.

“Good luck.” God, he’s such an asshole, saying something like that. I hope he dies in a fire.

“Good luck to you too,” I say, my voice full of good will. He disappears into the shadows.

On the surface, nothing changes. Day to day, our actions are fairly normal. I stop following him, and go back to doing my homework and attending all of my classes. He seems to return to his normal schedule as far as I can tell.

Under the surface everything is moving quickly. Without knowing what he’s doing, I don’t have a solid base upon which to build. On the other hand, without following him, I’m granted a large deal more of free time, in which I can plot out my plans.

This is roughly how it works out: Given that he’s smart, my movements have to be of the utmost efficiency. No doubt he’s working quickly to put an end to my life before I can stop him. Why he told me, I don’t particularly care, and, on some levels, I’m saddened that I didn’t get to figure it out on my own, but it’s apparent that he’s impatient, which could help me in the end. If he desires nothing more than to get this over with, I may be able to set him up fairly easily . . . but how?

As the days pass, my mind works furiously to arm itself against any traps he’s undoubtedly setting for me. He wants whatever is going to happen to happen quickly, so, if nothing else, he may wait for my move before acting, forcing my hand, and running me straight into the coffin he’s placed at the end of whatever course of action I choose to take.

Slowly, however, I start noticing him receiving calls during class, and purchasing more bags from the planter’s store. Unable to catch the name of any of the products, I decide to see what I can learn about the store.

Considering the modest store-front, it’s actually surprisingly large. It’s most likely a modified warehouse from the 60’s, but I’m not in a position to know for certain. Upon entering, I find myself immediately lost, but I pay that no mind—I wouldn’t know where to find what I’m looking for anyway, maybe it’s best to wander.

For thirty minutes, I peruse the store calmly, looking here and there for any sacks that resemble the ones he’s been seeking recently. Nothing jumps out at me, so I’m forced to double back. Eventually, however, I lose the path I had taken earlier, and, somehow, I end up at one of the back loading doors. Pausing a moment to look around a bit more, I decide I have nothing better to do than walk in, and so I do so.

Despite any mythos built up around “Employee Only” areas, I find no supernatural monsters or nine-feet tall employees named Grungor, who carry around forklift cars as easily as I might carry around a paper bag. I look grudgingly at the crates, which lack any sense of excitement, and at the long boring corridors, which really only lead to dirty, dull looking dumpster bins.

I’ve completely and utterly given up hope of finding what I came here to find, and am about to leave, when I find my eyes drawn to one particular crate. When I peek through the cracks in the plywood, my heart skips a beat. The sight of the thick fibers of the canvas hits me like a wave of euphoria, though not nearly as euphoric. Immediately, I search the area for a flashlight and a crowbar, but, of course, neither are simply sitting around, so I have to improvise.

With a lantern from isle 6 and a small spade from isle 2, I get everything set up, and then proceed to break off one of the support boards from the crate, and pull one of the small, but heavy, bags from within. Setting it next to the lantern, I read over the labels. Beyond all the scientific terminology, it seems to be a synthesized form of charcoal, packed with packets of cooling agent to keep the gravelly powder in a solid state. Since I can’t figure out what the stuff is for, I put the bag back, half heartedly replace the plank, and exit the loading area. After returning the items I used to their respective shelves, I promptly start screaming. Hearing my hollers, an employee (the first I’ve seen so far) comes running to my side. I explain, through a serious of pointing gestures and sad faces, the tears about ready to burst from my eyes, that I would like to leave the store. He understands most of it, and leads me by the hand to the front entrance.

“Thanks,” I say, my features returning to a cold neutral. He looks confused as I walk from the store.

I sit on my bed, thinking about what I found. Why would Ohr need something so arbitrary? All of the explosives I’ve heard of require an oxidizing agent, and almost any gardening store sells much better alternatives than charcoal. So why this one? After a few moments, I sit up, fast enough to lose balance and fall onto the floor. I land in a sitting position with my back to the bed.

“Carbon monoxide!!” I shout. I hurriedly get up and grab my sweatshirt, pulling it on as I leave the room.

The walk to the library is cold, but not unbearable, and the movement warms me up. Nevertheless, I’m happy to see the warm glow of the library’s lights as I come over the last hill between my apartment and the main branch of Fatal Height’s Library. I walk quickly to the door but, upon closer inspection, it seems it’s closed for the night.

“Damnit.” I like keeping my curses simple. I put my hands together and blow into them, warming them and considering where to go. Fairly randomly, I decide on a small café a few blocks away. Pulling on my hood, I walk in the appropriate direction.

The café’s large front window boasts the name of the store and their catch phrase, which read “Unholy Grounds: Devine Tastes—Heathenistic Prices”. I push through the door, taking note of all present individuals: two men, a woman, and another woman, working as the cashier. The men are speaking in midnight voices, and the woman is reading a book plainly labeled “Dance Dance Dance”.

I buy myself a nonalcoholic hot apple cider, and take a seat at one of the seldom-used computer terminals. After logging in, I run a general search for neurotoxins and toxic gasses. I immediately eliminate a large portion of the resulting list, though if you were to ask me how I’d be at a loss to explain.

I open ingredient lists of the remaining toxins, almost all of which are gasses, followed by a simultaneous content search for the words “Hydrogen” and “Monoxide”. One result: Phosgene. I “wikipedia” it.

The brief description of its effects on humans is not calming in any sense, and it only serves to strengthen my resolve to stop Ohr. I email the ingredients list to my phone and leave, pushing quickly through the misty cold. As soon as I arrive home, I fall asleep, all of my energy gone.

As the morning arrives, I pull out the list and run through what Ohr has and does not have, based on what I’ve seen him acquire and what I believe to be practical to have prior to my investigations. As far as I can tell, I’ve got a week or so before he’ll have everything he needs for a solid amount of Phosgene. Very slowly, a plan starts taking form in my mind, a fuzzy haze condensing into a much more tangible mess of crisscrossed wires. All I’ve to do now is sort them out.

Two days later, the cold is tearing at my skin as I shove my way through the night, heading home. I’ve got a very general idea of what I think I should do, and what Ohr thinks I’m going to do, and what I should do, given that Ohr thinks I’m going to do what I would do otherwise. If nothing else, this is a huge gamble on Ohr’s part, but I pay no mind to him now. It’s misty tonight, and visibility is down. My nerves are a bit on edge so I keep my pace strong carving a path out of the fog.

After a few more moonlit minutes of walking, I notice a shape off to my left. It seems to stand the height of a man, but it’s obscured by shadow and mist. As I walk closer, my blood runs cold. He’s walking faster than I am, and he’s working on a slight angle, so as to intercept me in another nine or ten steps.

Still unsure as to his intentions, I attempt to maintain some sense of calm about me. Unfortunately, my prior doubts about said intentions are put to rest as a concealed knife slices into my side, the long cold blade sliding evenly under skin and muscle. I flinch away from the five-inch blade, clenching the pain back behind my teeth. Stepping hard forward, I shift all of my weight into a spin, bringing a fist to the side of his head. Without the body mass required for a knockout punch, I really only startle and anger him with this attack, so I change my offensive.

Jumping forward, I bring my knee into his shin, hard. He yells out, reaching down to grab my throat. Pushing past his hands, I manage to lock my teeth on his collarbone, and as I clench down, I twist, feeling the bone crack and splinter under my efforts. He blacks out and slumps forward, his initial lunge turning, in an instant, into a plunge towards the ground.

I wipe his blood from my lips and grab his coat by the collar, attempting to drag him. White light bursts through my mind as the cut in my side ruptures, a warm current running down over my hip and soaking into my jeans. I gasp for air, clutching the fabric of his coat, hunched and loose.

I back away from my unconscious assailant and, being very careful not to spill any blood on the ground, I tear off a piece of cloth from my shirt, tying it tight around my side. I might only have about half an hour of consciousness left, given the amount of blood that I’m losing. I look around, at a loss. How do I play this to my advantage? With time working against me, and my mind cloudy with pain, I find it difficult creating coherent thoughts. Despite this, I find myself walking towards my house.

As I walk unsteadily down the empty streets, my anger builds. You’re going to pay, Ohr, I think bitterly. I didn’t want to use that, but I have no choice now, you’ve done exactly as you wanted—you’ve forced my hand. I know he’ll be on the move soon, so I hurry, the sounds of my footsteps echoing faintly off of the high buildings around me. Soon, my apartment building looms into sight.

The stairs to the third floor are a lot more difficult than I would have though, which isn’t a good sign. I pull out my cellphone and begin dialing the number to a young detective I’ve been in contact for the last couple of days or so.

“You there?” I ask.

“Where?”

“There.”

“I have been—should I do it?”

“Yeah, thanks.” With that, I hang up and push through the door. My vision is getting a bit blurry, and my head feels lighter than usual. I move over to one of the few cushioned chairs in my room, and unpack the disposable cellphone I picked up at the store the other day. It can’t be traced this way. I dial 9 – 1 – 1, and before long, I’m on the phone with a cop. I take a deep breath before proceeding.

“Officer, please you have to help!” I yell into the receiver. “This kid next door just KILLED SOMEONE!!!” I hope the urgency in my voice reads.

“What? Calm down and slow down, what happened?”

“There’s NO TIME! I think he’s going to kill again! Our address is—” I check a slip of paper, “1103 Epidemic Ave, please hurry, I’m serious!” He clicks off for a second. A few moments later, he comes back on.

“Alright, we’ll send help—but remember, if this is a prank-” I cut him off.

“He has a gun, too!” With that, I hang up.

            I put down the phone and wipe the sweat from my forehead. Sitting up in my chair, I pull off my shirt, wincing at the pain from the deep gash in my side. My shirt, heavy with blood, hits the floor hard, splattering the nearest wall with dark red freckles. I soak a rag in alcohol and wipe the wound clean. Immediately after doing so, I put pressure on it with a large pad of gauze, which immediately darkens to a deep maroon.

            I pull the television remote to me, and use it to turn on the TV. Flipping the channels to the cartoon network, I begin stitching the wound to the musings of Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny. Life is odd sometimes.

            Having fully resealed the wound with the appropriate medical supplies, I slip into bed and pass out. Before I have a chance to come up with a topic for the night’s dreams, morning is shaking me, rousing me from my inadequate slumber. I roll out from under the covers and hit the floor hard, coughing up a thick globule of blood. I crawl to the breakfast table, and climb into the nearest chair, pulling over a half-finished carton of orange juice. I drink some, and then wait. Drink, and then wait, drink, and wait, over and over again, I drink, and wait. The citrus helps me deal with the waves of nausea, and when I push myself to my feet, I’m almost ready to start moving.

            I pick up the temporary cell phone and disassemble it, dropping the pieces into a trash bag. Finally I call the detective. He sounds tired.

            “Tell me how it happened.”

            “Well, I didn’t get a good view of it from my hiding place, but after the shots I fired off, it seems the kid got tense and pulled a pistol. He must of thought it was someone else, ‘cause when he got outside, and he saw the bright lights, he took a few shots. They were wild though, and in doing them, I guess he didn’t notice the brass behind him. Before he knew it, he was down. It seems they found the bodies, too. How did you know he’d killed his parents?”

            “I’m familiar with these sorts of cases, and when I found out he lives where he lives, I suspected something was peculiar. I looked into it right after I first called you: He and his parents are new in town, so no one really knows much about them. That’s why no one suspected anything when they didn’t show up at all for the last two months. I noticed a slight grip bruise on his upper-arm the other week—you know the type, the ones strangle victims get– and I thought that odd, seeing as I’d been monitoring all of his movements. When would he have gotten a bruise if not for when he was out of my sight in his house? No one went over, and it was about then that he began acting nicer. Only after I found out did any of the pieces fit.”

            A thoughtful silence followed.

            “You did well, I guess,” he says, laughing.

            “Whatever, I did what had to be done.”

            “What if the kid gets out?” I think about this. A smile creeps across my face.

            “I’ll be here: ready to get him again. Anyway, have a nice day, detective.”

            “What is your name, anyway?” I pause a moment.

            “Petre Angell.” With that, I hang up.

            I go back to bed and sleep. I’ll call in sick to school.