Being inspired, maybe – 45



A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance:



And, then, the words:


Every morning I took the same route, a creature of habit my ex-girlfriend, Christine, once told me, along with other so-called home truths before she left.

Basically, she called me boring.

I tried to explain that routine was important, but she was a more spontaneous sort of person.

But it never occurred to me that someone might take that routine I took for granted, and use it against me.

Not until I stumbled over Christine's body, in the park, along the route of my morning run.


It was a part of the park that was not used very often, at least I'd never seen anyone there when I went for my morning and nightly run, and put there in such a way as to make a statement.

I didn't recognize her at first, such was the transformation the killer had made (or she had, because she was training to be an actor in the movies, or so she told me) and when I did, I felt a shudder go through me.

Of course, I called the police immediately after I found the body, but in the time it took for them to get there, I had made several very basic errors of judgment.

I had tried to see if she was still alive, which she was not, but it left traces of my DNA on her body.

I had not told 911 that I had recognized who she was.

And I had forgotten she had called me only hours before she must have been killed, accusing me of something I'd not been responsible for.

I got on the roller coaster the moment the first responders arrived at the scene, three vehicles, sirens blaring, and lights flashing.


As the crime scene was cordoned off, I was taken aside by one of the policemen, notebook in hand taking down my account of the discovery, and my actions that followed.

He asked questions, filling in gaps that I had not thought about, but still did not advise him I knew who she was, even when he asked the question, did I have any idea who she was, or had I seen her before, assuming it was on my run?

More cars arrived, more people including crime scene investigators, and then the detectives, two, a man and a woman, both looking tired.

It took only a few seconds to realize one, the woman, was familiar to me, a friend, a very good friend of Christine's, and at that moment, I felt the roller coast accelerate.

Neither looked in my direction, but when to view the body, which, after several minutes I heard a cry of anguish.  The female detective.

Then, not a minute had passed before she was striding towards me, the male detective struggling to keep up.  Her expression was one of suffused anger.

"You," she spat out when she reached me.  "You did this."

"I did not.  I simply found her."

"Conveniently, I'm guessing.  She told me you threatened her, and I suspect this is the end result of those threats."

"I did not kill her."  I did make some idle threats, as anyone would when they were angry and said inane things.  She had also, in return.

She glared at me.  "Explain that to a judge.  You're under arrest for the murder of Christie Jacobson..."

That roller coaster ride just turned into a one-way way ride to hell.


© Charles Heath 2019



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