By D.J. Barber
Read by Shawn Robertson
Rain was dead. She lay sprawled across the tiny kitchen floor, blood had
pooled beneath her. Several stab wounds peppered her torso; her face was
twisted in fear and agony in a death mask of horror. Sirens wailed in the
misty rain on this dark, cold night. A chill ran through me as I left the
kitchen and walked over by the radio in the small parlor. It crackled with
Toots Malloy; his latest jazzy sax tune melodic and sweet.
Murphy and Callahan burst through the door and walked right past me
and into the terrible scene by the icebox. Both were in long, dark coats,
mismatched hats, black shoes, and wore scowls on their ugly faces. Callahan
glared at me, “You call it in?”
“Yeah,” I responded, not caring about what the city dicks thought.