Tomorrow

"Turkey in the Straw" and a Knife in the Back

The musty air bit at Colin's lips. He was shrouded by a bleak atmosphere: howling winds, a brooding night sky, and a ghostly moonlight. Sure, it was dark, but, for once in his young life, Colin Bates felt at peace with the world. What was the thing Colin noticed most? He noticed the sound; rather, he noticed the lack of it.

    The tabloids and newspapers had been on a rave about the incidents. No single person in the small town of Breyersville hadn't heard about the infamous Backstabbing Killing Spree. People were dropping left and right like flies; every week seemed like clockwork. Nobody was sure of the killer's motive or why any psychopath would kill so many fellow human beings

     The only thing that Colin was sure of was that he wouldn't be killed; he was too careful to die. He was fully aware of the killer's cliche killing-style; the instrumental song "Turkey in the Straw" would play theatrically as the killer approached, he would slip into the building through a busted or open window, and the victim would be stabbed in the back with a kitchen knife. How did Colin know so much? He was the killer's only surviving victim.

     The occurrence was vivid in his memory. The song theatrically playing in the background, the schlik of the blade being removed from the killer's pocket, and the sensation he'd endured as the knife was thrust into his back. He was lucky. The doctors insisted that he should've died after the immense blood-loss, but, needless to say, he'd made it.

     As Colin Bates sat on a wicker chair in his small backyard, he couldn't help but wonder:

     Who will be next?

    The next morning, fear flooded the eyes of Jennifer Griffin. The front page of the paper clearly read: "Owner of local ice-creamery Robert K. Robinson found dead in store." She shuddered. Robert was her neighbor. The case became personal. She couldn't fathom how it was possibly happening; the killer never left fingerprints and nobody had a lead in the slightest. Even the murderer's only surviving victim, Colin Bates, couldn't quite remember the killer's face.

    Jennifer paused.

    That's it! she thought. I need to find Peterson. He must know something about the murderer.

    And so, Jennifer Griffin set off to find the only man in the world who could help her bring justice to the madman that was causing so much trouble in the town she loved. She knew Bates must live nearby, considering the simple fact that all of the killings had occurred within a ten-mile radius, Colin Bates' residency included.

    The following morning, Jennifer was at Colin's door. The doorbell rang and he answered, surprise the only expression on his face.

    "Colin?" Jennifer questioned, hoping that she'd found the right man.

    Colin sighed. Just what I need, he thought. A forced grin emerged on his pale face. "I suppose you're asking for me?"

    Relief wafted over Jennifer. After thirteen grueling hours of searching, she'd finally found him. She knew that other investigators had interrogated him previously, but Jennifer wasn't like other investigators. She had drive. She had conviction.

    "Jennifer Griffin," she greeted, shaking Colin's oddly clammy hands. He accepted the greeting, a forced yet slightly warm smile plastered on his face. Inside, however, Colin couldn't wait for the terrible moment to end.

    "Are you here to 'ask me a few questions?'" Colin asked, mocking the numerous other journalists and investigators.

    "Not exactly," Jennifer admitted, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm here to ask for your help." Colin's eyebrow lifted inquisitively. He liked her; she was different. They set off on their search.

    The investigation hadn't been fruitless. Colin and Jennifer had combed the entire town in their search for the killer. He'd proved himself a helpful pawn in Jennifer's game of chess; he wasn't too shy to answer her questions and had a natural scent for the killer. Together, they'd dug up a surplus of evidence, narrowed down the killer's plausible location, and had finally found a fingerprint. At the fifteenth analyzed crime scene, the killer had been clumsy; he'd forgotten to wipe the handle of a blade he'd left there. The fingerprints were being analyzed.

    The results were unimaginable. Jennifer Griffin's fingerprints had been on the blade's handle. Impossible! she'd thought. She was sure she wasn't the killer. How could she possibly end up becoming her own investigation's prime suspect?

    "It just doesn't add up, Jennifer," Colin admitted, shaking his head as he closed the door to the interrogation room. Jennifer suddenly heard something... a metal sound. Schlik. It was then that a familiar song began playing, perhaps in the depths of Jennifer's mind. An old folk song. It reminded her of the peppy tune played by ice-cream trucks back in the day... "Turkey in the Straw," was it?