The Whistle

The Whistle: A Hello Detective Series

Prologue

November 10th, 1970: Monday, 3:11 am.

I wake with the crash of thunder; light fills the room as the sound shakes the walls of the tan 1930s Craftsman Bungalow. I wake abruptly, forcing my body upwards toward the ceiling. Darting my eyes back and forth, I observe the dark room. My eyes begin with the four walls that surround me. I observe every corner, from the floral ornate plastered ceiling to the dark parquet floor. My heart is pounding out of my chest like an offbeat drum. With every breath I take, I feel pressure clinging to my chest making it difficult to inhale. What, where am I? I flinch at the rain slamming against the black roof of my tan bungalow. I adjust myself under the covers and begin to feel my face. The scratchy hairs that rest on my face and entangle down my neck bring me to a state of serenity. With the tips of my fingers, I trace the outline of my jaw and neck. I stop and release my right hand, leaving my left hand to feel for a pulse. With my pulse slowing, I take a deep breath and continue to breathe as it reaches a steady calm.

I shift my gaze to the left and see the clock on the wall.

"Eleven minutes after three," it is dark outside; a cool draft from the right brings goosebumps to my skin. With the sound of wind whispering dark secrets in my ear; I look to my right and see the sheer white curtain swaying in the wind. The moonlit sky greets me with a crescent smile and I grin knowing that the nightmare is over.

Suddenly, lightning illuminates the sky filling the room with veins of bright light. Dark shadows stand tall against the walls and their silhouettes spark terror in my heart. Hearing a loud crashing sound, I flinch in terror upon their arrival. In seconds they are gone and upon seeing them, I begin to have a flashback of the day before. A vicious murder of a young family from an unknown threat. Now, it is up to me to find who did it, but it comes with consequences. These consequences would keep me up for many nights.

I begin to remember the dismembered bodies of the victims on the floor of the living room. The picture of the missing little girl on the shelf begins to haunt me, where could she be? I wonder as I sit in bed. I start to worry for my son, Timothy. Tears fill my eyes as anxiety fills my mind. I worry that the killer might target my family next. Reluctant thoughts begin in my head as I debate to tell her. I look over my right shoulder to see my wife Maria sleeping soundly in bed. The storm cannot wake her. She has no idea of the terrors that I have witnessed or the anxiety that I feel. I need to escape. I unwrap myself from the covers, placing my left then my right leg on the floor.

Carefully stepping out of bed, I begin to make my way out of the bedroom into the hall. As I exit, the door creaks behind me. I did not want to wake her or have her worry about me. I want to check on my son and make sure he is still there. I could not bear going back to sleep until I knew Timothy was safe. I make my way down the hall and pass the bathroom. I hear the toilet hissing at me from a distance. The door to his room is slightly ajar with light escaping through the opening. I peek my head through and see him there sound asleep in his bed.