Sting

Who Killed Marnie Thomas? - Chapter 1

The sun has set over the vibrant East Harlem, and the sky darkens outside the window of an East Harlem townhouse. The sentimental items scattered atop the mantlepiece indicate that this is the dwelling of an affluent family. The presence of an eerily calm, stocky businessman molded into a velvet armchair is not out of place, nor is the presence of the debonair silver fox, Mikey Bullinger, from whom he is sat across from, however, the cameraman filming their every move, is in fact, out of place.

Mikey watches on with a charming half-smile as the man opposite him bounces his knee like a jackhammer, nullifying his cool countenance.

"You need to help me understand, why you did these things." Mikey says, breaking the silence.

At last, he speaks up, "What did I do? Whatever it is that you think you know, you're wrong. Why am I even here, why am I even entertaining this clown show?"

"Because, you want to know how much we know. That's the only reason you're still sitting here. I've been doing this a long time Chris. I know a guilty man when I see one."

"Please. You mean your little show? Seriously? Nobody even watches your documentaries anymore Mikey, and they haven't since 2009."

"That's not what this is about. That's not what's important to me. I'm here to expose you for who you really are. For what you've done. I want you to admit to what you've done, and I want everyone else who even considers doing what you do to think twice."

"You don't know anything." he replies. "This whole thing, it's a joke. You're a joke. I'm leaving."

"Fine, you don't want to hear what I have to say? Walk out that door, I dare you. Just thought you might want to be able to call your lawyer now instead of when you're sitting in jail."

Chris laughs uncomfortably. "You know what?" he says standing up, cocksure. "You don't have shit."

. . .

Chris slams the door behind him as he leaves the house and strolls over to his freshly-cleaned black Sedan, and stands at the driver's side fiddling with his keys. The camera watches him from the doorway. A red glow bounces off the hood and radiates a strange warmth uncharacteristic of a New York autumn. With a 'click click', the car unlocks, but something stops him dead in his tracks...

"Chris Birdman?" a voice calls from behind him.

He turns quickly and the sight that greets his eyes is surprising and unwelcome. The first thing to meet his eye is an NYPD detective's badge being held up in front of his face, the gold metal reflecting the red and blue lights that flash from squad cars behind it.

"NYPD, drop the keys and put your hands on the hood of the car, now!" The voice says. It's a woman's voice, feminine, but unwavering and authoritative.

The badge lowers, and his eyes meet hers - Elizabeth Baldaire. She's wearing a ballistic vest, and as the wind blows her long, onyx black, Cleopatra-cut hair behind her shoulders, he sees 'WASP' embroidered across the chest. She has a face for 1960's Hollywood, but that doesn't detract from her profound command presence. Chris shifts his gaze; behind her stands Khalil Brewster, an African American skyscraper of a man with a naturally charming disposition, leaning against a squad car, arms crossed, wearing the same vest as his partner.

After taking a few moments to gawk at the sight before him, he complies, albeit reluctantly, hissing and groaning to communicate his disapproval.

"This is a joke!"

Her only rejoinder is slapping a pair of cuffs on him: "Chris Birdman, you're under arrest for the-"

BANG, BANG, BANG!

3 shots... everything moves in slow motion... sounds seem as though they are underwater. The detective is covered in blood. It's all over her face, in her hair, on her vest, in her eyes. The warm, scarlet liquid flies through the air and glistens in the red police lights. she releases the cuffs as Chris' body slides off the hood of the car and cracks on the cold, stone pavement, blood pooling and seeping into the tread of the tires. Baldaire chokes on her choppy breaths as she looks down the street and sees someone she recognized... Gia Clark, a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl crying hysterically, and holding a smoking Smith & Wesson.

The deep sound of her partner's voice yelling "Drop the weapon!" finally jolted her back to the high-speed bedlam. She watched the girl's arrest unfold.  Brewster had kicked the gun away and put her in cuffs before the piercing gunshot sound had even reached the end of the block.

"What have you done?" Brewster exclaimed.

"He killed her! He killed my best friend! That sick son of a bitch..." She trails off as her emotions blind her.

"That's not him, Gia!"

"W-what? Yes, it is!"

"No, it's not! That was someone else! He had nothing to do with any of this!"

She lets out an animal bawl, and the detectives lock eyes as she is taken to the police car. Two lives ended on this street. Two lives ended outside of the East Harlem Townhouse.