Majoring in Murder

Chapter 8

I spent that Saturday in my dorm room going over some lecture notes from English class that I had borrowed from a friend. I was trying to catch up on some of my studies before I allowed myself to take a nap. I didn't think I would be able to sleep because my mind was racing, but my body felt fatigued. It seemed like that evening would never arrive but as the time neared, it seemed as if it was coming on too fast.

I wasn't nervous while I conducted my dry run, but now that I was preparing for the real deal, my nerves were touchy. Up until that point, I hadn't actually done anything wrong, but I felt as guilty as if I had a body stashed under my bed.

Still, no plan arose to prevent me from doing what was expected of me.

It was 7:30 PM when I left for Doraville. I was dressed in the same clothes I used on my practice run. I carried the duffel bag down to my car and pulled around to the parking area behind the English building. There was only one other car there, sitting in one of the faculty parking spaces.

I went to my trunk, opened the duffel bag, and laid out the rifle parts on the spare tire. It was beautiful, almost like a work of art, if you're a gun aficionado anyway. The stock was made of a black synthetic material with a matte barrel that gave the gun a dark profile so it didn't reflect light. Good for concealment, I reasoned. There was a low profile scope that swivel-snapped onto the top of the barrel. I ran my finger along the bulky suppressor that I fitted to the end of the muzzle, a necessary accessory that wouldn't give away my position once I squeezed the trigger. I looked for the words stamped into the metal indicating what caliber the rifle was:.243 cal. There was a partially filled box of bullets inside the bag. That was good because it meant I didn't have to stop to buy any.

Still working inside the trunk, I loaded three of the shiny pointed bullets into the internal magazine. I slid the bolt closed, observing how smooth and efficiently the action operated. I wanted to put the gun up to my shoulder to get a feel for it, but didn't want to risk anyone seeing me with it on campus. There was plenty of time for that later. I disassembled the accessories, put them back in the duffel bag, and closed the trunk.

I arrived on Huber Street a few minutes before nine. The streetlights were already buzzing when I got out and toted the duffel bag with me to the empty house. Before I crawled to my predetermined spot, I slid the rifle out of the canvas bag, attached the suppressor and scope, and gave it another once over. Safe in the shadows, I placed the butt of the stock against my shoulder and raised it. The synthetic body was light in my hands and comfortable, as though specifically tailored to me. I familiarized myself with the trigger's safety mechanism. After enabling the safety, I crawled to my place on the hill and looked at Hector's house through the scope.

Unlike the previous night, the floodlight was off and the driveway sat in shadows. The curtains were closed and there was only one car in the driveway, a blue Honda Accord. Occasionally, I noticed movement through the slivered gap between the curtains.

I pushed the button on my watch. The indigo glow showed me that it was 9:15 PM. I remained on my stomach, waiting and watching. I wasn't sure whether I should stay or leave. It was already getting late and I doubted anyone would leave the house again that evening. Still, I decided to stick around since I had made the trip.

I perked up when I saw a man walking along the street turn down Hector's driveway. It was 9:22. He went up the front steps and knocked on the door. The door opened but the outside light remained off. Their silhouettes were visible in the doorway as they stepped into the house. After only two minutes, the door opened and the visitor emerged. He bobbed down the steps with both hands thrust into his baggy jean pockets. When he reached the street, he scanned it up and down, turned to his right, and proceeded in the direction he had come from. Most likely dropping off or buying drugs.

It seemed like an eternity passed as I lay there, listening to the neighborhood sounds: the distant wail of a siren, a barking dog, the neverending chorus of crickets. I checked my watch again. It was 9:42.

Just as I was about to give up and sneak back to my car, the floodlight came on and the front door opened. I hunkered down with the rifle pressed firmly against my shoulder and peered through the scope. Hector emerged with two white plastic garbage bags, one in each hand. He wasn't wearing any shoes and only had on a baby blue t-shirt and green sweat pants.

I moved the rifle, using the scope to follow him as he hurried down the cement steps and padded up the driveway where a silver garbage can sat. He put down one bag so he could remove the metal lid and tossed one of the bags in. He stooped, picked up the second, and tossed it in. The sound of glass bottles and aluminum cans rang out when the trash bags crashed against each other.

The floodlight and a nearby streetlight made Hector more visible through the scope. He was no more than thirty yards from my position. I trained the point of the crosshairs on his forehead and studied his magnified face, his goatee, and the tattoo running up the side of his neck.

He replaced the lid with a loud clank that echoed through the stillness and hurried back down the driveway. He took each step quickly until he reached for the front door. The tension I applied to the trigger increased as he retreated. I relaxed my finger muscles when I realized I was tightening them.

What the hell was I doing? This wasn't me!

I'm not a killer. I've never killed anything larger than a bug. What I had nearly done would have serious consequences and I knew it. The legal and moral ramifications raced through my head: visions of Court TV, local news broadcasts displaying my mug shot, orange jumpsuits, metal bars, and soap-on-a-rope.

Those thoughts flashed quickly through my mind. At the other end of the rifle barrel was a human life, even if it was a pathetic life spent dealing drugs. It was a life, nonetheless, and who was I to snuff it out like a candle flame?

I wasn't looking through the scope while I considered my situation. Instead, I was staring at the leaves on the ground between my elbows. I realized I was on the precipice of a life-altering decision and laid the rifle down. I waited until the door across the street shut and watched the flood light blink out before I dropped my forehead to the ground. Images of my family went through my mind. I thought of how my mother would react if I were killed. I thought of Hector's mother crying in hysterics at his death, and I cried because I'd nearly pulled the trigger.

When I finished sobbing, I raised my head and wiped the tears and snot from my face. I gathered my things, went back to my car, returned to school, and tossed the cell phone Carlo had given me in the back of the top drawer of my desk.