Manny Pardo sat against his couch, revolver pointed at the door, bottles of alcohol next to him. It was too late for him. They called an hour before. Asked him to come in.
They know. They know what I did, who I really am, Pardo thought. October 25th. November 10th. December 12th. December 27th.
The 27th. Pardo had left evidence at that scene. Shell casings. That's how they knew. They knew he was the Miami Mutilator. All he wanted was to be noticed. For the media to finally write something about him.
An alarm started blaring. Loud as hell. But Pardo didn't care.
They know, he thought, They know, they know. And here they come.
Everything started to get brighter. Alarms louder. Getting hotter. Pardo's aim was steady at the door. It got brighter, louder, and hotter. Too hot for anyone to handle. Too bright, he couldn't see in front of him. It felt like the alarms were right next to his ears.
Then it all went dark and silent.
