Purpleprose Fiction
Number Eight
"Local Woman Murdered," screamed the headlines of The Bonsfield Review. The tiny town hardly needed a newspaper, news traveled so fast. Yet something about seeing the words in print next to a suspect sketch made the incident more real. I bought a copy, even though I would never read it. I already knew the story, anyway.
Evelyn Augsberger, 18-year old aspiring actress, shot to death. She had been leaving work after a long night of "exotic dancing" when a crazed pervert attacked her. He didn't want sex--he just wanted his money back. She screamed for help and, panicking, he shot her, took her money, and left in her car. She died instantly. The killer got away.
Unfortunately for him, I saw the entire thing. And I was now on my way to identify him.
The police had a difficult time tracking him down, but I had gotten a good look at his face, even though it was dark. The sketch in the newspapers looked just like him, and almost as soon as it hit the stands, I was called in to pick him out of a line-up.
An overweight and inappropriately informal investigator greeted me at the entrance to the police station where the nine murder suspects were called into custody. His thick, Southern drawl was not uncommon for Bonsfield. Most of the one-blinking-stoplight towns in Alabama produced accents like his.
I followed him into a small observation room that was hidden behind a two-way mirror.
"Now don't worry," he said, eyeing me. "They can't see you, and they won't know who pointed them out."
I carefully studied each of the men standing behind the glass. Really, any of them could've fit my description. Tall, muscular build, dark hair, mid-twenties. I examined their postures, listened to their voices, and stared long and hard at their faces. Finally, I pointed to Number Eight.
"That's him," I said confidently to the investigator. "No doubt about it."
He raised an eyebrow at me. Slowly crossing his hefty arms over his protruding beer gut, he looked back at the line of suspects, at Number Eight, as if he could see straight through him, and began nodding his head.
"Well, I know this must've been hard for you, but we can't thank you enough," he said after a long pause. "You know, Mr. and Mrs. Augsberger also want you to know how deep their gratitude is for you and, well, for all you've done to help us solve this case."
He looked at me for a minute, as if he wanted to say something more, but couldn't think of anything, and then opened the door.
"Free to go," he said pleasantly.
I thanked him and was out the door. As I stepped out into the sun, relief spilled over me. I got a lot of closure from identifying him in the line-up. By him, I mean John. His blank stare behind the glass was just as empty as the one he gave me the night I found him and Evelyn in bed. The night I could finally forget.
Walking down the cracked, stony path home, I debated what had given me the most satisfaction. Was it pointing my finger or pointing the gun? Perhaps it was neither. Perhaps it was pulling the trigger an inch from Evelyn's perfect face.
Katie Hodges
Katie is a recovering army brat currently residing in Brooklyn with chiropractic guru Mikey "That's Dr. To Yo" Wolfson. He saved her from the quicksands of Dallas, Texas, where she was drowning in boredom, misery, and vodka-filled cesspools. As it turns out, she's quickly rediscovering them in New York. The two met wearing "Texas to the Bone" and "Certified Angus Beef" pins while serving slabs of cow meat and Shiner Bock beer bread to country music at a steakhouse. She had never seen anyone pull off a bolo tie quite like him. So she packed her bags and voyaged over. She likes to write anything, especially nonsense, and if she could write nonsense for money, well, let's just say her bill collectors wouldn't have their own ringtones.
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