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28, Male
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I am a writer mostly, focusing generally on mans conflict with nature, industry, and each other. Warning: I am not simple to read.

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New Work: The Stranger

2011-01-07 17:51:33 by Junco

She had just settled in her seat when the man approached. She was put off by his presence, as she had just gotten comfortable and was ready to start her day with some "me" time. He was tall and lanky; unassuming being a good word. As he approached she sighed to herself, waiting for the man to start talking. She assumed that after some conversation he would leave her alone.
"Do you know me," he asked in a flat tone, betraying nothing.
"I don't believe so? Why, have we met before?"
"No, no we haven't."
"Oh," she said, puzzled.
"It makes things easier." His voice continued to remain unwavering.
"What do you mean," she asked, looking up from her magazine, smiling, trying to be polite.
"Because," he said, his voice breaking for a moment, "now I know you won't take this personally."
Pulling the trigger excited him a little, giving him a sense of power and dominance. After that though, little of the process gave him any joy. Turning away, he headed up the street towards Third Avenue, the woman gripping her chest. The red lipstick helped hid the blood the was rising up her throat, her head settling on the cold steel tabletop outside of the cafe. Her eyes focused momentarily on the sunset that was supposed to be one of the the first things she would see that day. As it turned out however, it ended up being the last.
As the man walked he sang lightly to himself a small jingle from him childhood, humming it under his breath as the sun rose over the buildings, the day only just begun. Though his day was far from finished, he was glad to have successfully started it, and so allowed himself to feel a certain amount of pleasure as he continued on his way, eventually letting his focus return to the task at hand.
"Ring around the rosie...
pockets full of posies...
His head matched the buzzing of the phone as he tried desperately to try and find his pants and answer the phone at the same time. Searching the floor, he found the phone and resigned himself to a sitting position on the cold steel that composed the exterior of the fold out bed. The blinds were drawn closed, only light wisps of light penetrating the darkness enough to provide illumination. The beams themselves were betraying their position via the dust that had risen from the mattress, the man doing what he could to avoid contact with them at all cost.
"Patterson," he said as he answered the phone, hoping the response would cause whoever was on the line to hang up quickly. He was hoping was hoping it was a wrong number, his mind refusing to focus long enough for him to even consider that the day was for many people was already almost half over.
"Frank," said a female voice on the other line, " we need you to come in. There was a murder about a hour ago off of third. We need your help with the witnesses."
Reaching down, Frank picked up a slice of two day old pizza. "So why call me? Is Rodriguez on duty today?"
"He is," she said quickly, a silence lingering afterwords. "But I figured it might be important to have you do it."
Again there was silence. He started to become irritated but remained composed as he munched on the crust.
"Frank," she said finally, her voice softer now. "I think it is the same guy."
Pulling the phone away from his ear, he looked at it accusatory, as if it had done something wrong.
"Give me fifteen minutes," he said. Setting the phone down he tossed the pizza aside and headed into the kitchen. As he walked he passed a picture turned face down on a glass table, and if one were a small animal, it could seen through the glass a small girl dancing in front of a swing set.
Five minutes was how long it took to find his uniform through all the mess, spending a additional two using soap and water from the sink to try and remove a smear of food from the night before. He hated being late, but being at the very least presentable meant quite a bit more. He decided he would take a shower when he got home. For now a quick spritz of aftershave gave the impression of cleanliness. In truth he hated the smell. It caused his lungs to constrict a bit, asthma kicking in earlier than he would like. It was one of the reasons he had become a sketch artist instead of a beat cop.
He arrived as he had expected, a additional minute and forty five seconds behind schedule. He approached the scene cautiously, attempting to hide a belch that erupted up his esophagus. A officer approached him, the one from the phone and directed him towards the crime scene. The sun was now another two inches above the horizon that was shaped by the buildings. It was quaint, yet normally busy street. It was strange looking upon it now, empty save for the police cars and the ambulance that sat idle, unused.
He approached the scene cautiously, nervous about what he would see. He had been on leave for only a couple of days and already he felt the sensation of his gut tightening and his heat rate growing as he approached the cafe now outlined in yellow tape.
His fellow officer noticed his condition. "Frank, if you want to go home, I can always bring the case..."
He stopped her suddenly. "No. It's alright. I will manage."
Walking up he looked upon the scene, trying to work out what happened. According to witnesses the exchange had only lasted a matter of seconds. The woman had just seated herself when the man approached. Some words were exchanged, though no one was able to determine what was said. After a couple of seconds the man drew a small gun and shot the woman in the neck. After that he simply walked away towards Third Avenue. He gathered a description of the suspect, and went to work making the drawings.
It upset him a little, constructing the face of the suspects. When it was a petty thief or a robber, that was not all that bad. Yet to draw the face of a killer brought with it a laundry list of emotions that he wished not to recognize. Not the least of these was fear. For him it was not least bit surprising that he felt this emotion as he continued his work. The main reason for this was simple. In the back of his mind he knew that for the victim the last face to be burned into their retina was likely their murderer. When the drawing was complete, the image that would stare back at him would be that of a person who had instilled the worst kind of fear.
The image he constructed however, was worse than he had imagined. The image was of a tall man, generally very skinny. He was well groomed, wearing a light colored breakfast suit and a red tie. His face was agreeable, without any sense of hostility or anger. He was completely innocent looking, one of those people who you could bump into in the middle of a busy intersection and still offer a solemn apology. And this was what made it so much worse, for two realizations came to his mind after the drawing was complete. One, he had indeed seen the man before; and two, the woman never had a chance.