Miller Avenue Murder: An addictive police procedural legal psychological thriller
Page 29
He wanted to run, to turn on his heel and hightail out those translucent doors, anyone could find Oliver Weston, and someone else could call in to report his body. The thought of someone else taking credit itched, he couldn’t let that happen. He controlled this town; he’d single handedly driven fear through the streets and given it a home smack dab in the middle of Charlotte. No measly tom-dick-and-harry was going to come in and ride the wave he’d created. Wouldn't it work in his favor if the police couldn't trace a pattern? He didn’t know, neither did he want to. He had to do this, he'd trudged Oliver's body there, to Myers Park, he had to confess, to get it off his chest. He couldn’t get his tongue tied; he couldn’t implicate himself. He would mention the body, the bruises, if asked, he knew nothing about the pulse.
"Excuse me," A man coughed, he wasn’t that much older than Hemmings, in the middle of his twenties with tattered grey-blonde hair and tired, familiar eyes that had Alexander Hemmings skin crawling. He stepped to the side, deciding rather head straight for the phones at the back of the store. He didn't care for the foreplay; he didn't need the chips anyway and the book? Who was he kidding a drop-out like him wouldn't be caught dead near a book? There's a body at Myers Park, it's Oliver Weston's. He couldn't say that he needed to sound innocent, believable. He'd stumbled upon the body underneath a shrub by the dumpsters. What had he been doing there? It didn’t matter, it was a 9-1-1 call and not a statement, he didn’t need much of an alibi, just the facts.
The phones had clearly not been used in quite a while if the thick trails of cobwebs and the double coat of dust gave off any meaning. He reached for the closest one to him; he blew on the timeworn phone. He sneezed, Shit! There goes not drawing any attention to himself. He sneezed again. His eyes darted left and right, there was a kid not too far to his left, behind her father who couldn’t seem to care any less, and she’d held him, Alex, in a dead stare. He turned away. He couldn’t get distracted. He dialed 9-1-1. He listened.
"9-1-1 what's your emergency?"
A tear ran down his cheek, he coughed. "There's a boy, he's lying helpless in Myers Park, he's been shot." Did he regret everything he'd put Oliver through? A part of him did, but it had to happen, he was the last of them, the tenth victim.
Why did that leave Alex feeling worse than when he’d started his killing spree?
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