A Collection of Short Stories

A Walk Home (Part One)

"M-my name is Jen-Jennifer Lawrence, and I . . . I usually don't do this, but I'm scared . . . ! Johnny . . . ! He-! Please! If anyone sees this, you HAVE to help me!"

She sets the recorder down carefully, eyeing the man in front of her. "You brought this in, right? And you . . ." she begins, now leaning down as she grabs the folder in front of her on the table, "Let's see. You said . . . Ah, here it is. 'I found it- Yeah, out on the street. Just- just lying there. I watched it first, but I didn't have anything to do with this, man! I-I don't know what happened to her. Honest!'"

The man sitting across the table from the detective shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Yeah, yeah, and so what? I'm the one who brought it in, and this is how I get treated? Maybe I should've just left it out on the street." The woman's eyes narrow. She leans forward, planting both hands, folder included, onto the table. "Now listen here, mister. This is a serious police case. We have to trace and follow every lead, you understand." She straightens back up, regaining what little composure she lost. "And I would appreciate it if you'd cooperate."

The one being questioned sighs, sitting up straighter, removing his arms from the table. ". . . Of course. Just- Ask away, detective."

She flips open the folder, finding a specific page she had tabbed. "Okay. You've really never seen her before?"

"No. I-I mean- You're right, ma'am."

Her eyes narrow again as she flips through the various pages. "I can't tell you much. But this is part of a serious investigation. Any help would be much appreciated." As the woman speaks, she does so with a tone that commands truth and honesty: respect and fear.

". . . Look, I- I don't know her; that part I ain't lying about. But. I, uh . . . I reckon I have seen her around before, actually- in- in one of those- those bars around her, I think, a waitress. I wasn't sure earlier, but- I do think that's where I've seen her before this."

"In the video, sir, she mentions a . . . 'Johnny.' She calls out to this Johnny fellow quite a few times. Would you happen to know anyone by this name?"

The man thinks for a moment, but ultimately shakes his head. "No . . . I . . . I can't say I do. I-I do, uh, know someone who goes by just 'Johnson' though, if- if that's who she could be, uh . . . referencin'." The detective nods. "This Johnson . . . Is he a friend of yours?"

"Me? Naw . . . No, but- he has been hanging around the bar out there, and- and I think he's friends with a few of my buddies or so. Haven't really talked to 'im much though."

"Interesting . . ." The exhausted detective looks over at the wall clock, the rusty hands barely putting forth the effort to move, to tick by each second, seconds she was not going to get back in this investigation. Even though . . .

"Okay, sir, you are free to go for the night. Thank you for your help." She glances back down at him, and manages a small smile. "All effort is appreciated."

He looks over her shoulder, behind her, and his eyes widen. He is not quite sure of what he is seeing, witnessing, but . . .

"...Detective-?" But he could not finish out his sentence. A scream emerges from behind her, and out of their room, out in the hall- emitted by one of her coworkers. Which also happens to be her best and only friend in this back-breaking facility.

She whips around, reaching for her gun immediately, a small pistol shoved into the worn holster. Though she is a detective, she had persuaded her superior to be able to carry one anyway.

The barrel is aimed out the hall, but no one is there. She hears footsteps gunning down he hall, though, and instantly runs out, chasing them. She grins. She knows the layout of this building well- this no-good friend-killer could not escape- not through bullet-proof double doors that are always jammed and never work.

When she rounds the corner, though, he is gone, her mysterious murderer, and she is left dumbfounded. There is no trace of him, and yet . . .

Metallic.

She smells something metallic. Strong- very, very strong.

She turns to see a 'message,' though barely legible- hurriedly spread onto the wall. It read, in disgusting letters:

JDL

She freezes, horrified, knowing exactly what those letters stood for . . .

Jennifer Dean Lawrence.

The murderer of that girl- the case which, now that she is thinking about it, never left the confines of this establishment . . . That monster just escaped yet again with a somehow - she gagged as she thought of the word in her mind - 'perfect' murder! First that young boy, the couple, the elderly man, the lifeguards, the poor girl, now her closest and only friend . . .

This Mr. X was getting to be quite the trouble-maker.