Tuesday Night
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Salvatore checked his watch. 8:00 pm, it read. This would be a good time to head to Dillon’s house. He dressed casually. A white and blue striped button-down shirt, black slacks, and black shoes.
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'Father Salvatore,'
'Yes Dillon,'
'God is omniscient right? He knows all things?'
'Of course.’
'So then that means he must’ve known that making people with different skin colours would lead to division, war and eventually death. So why’d he do it anyway? Did he intentionally want us to suffer?'
'Dillon, understand this now. God will not do anything to make anyone suffer and He won’t give anyone a challenge that they can’t overcome. Think of racism as merely God’s challenge to humanity, and He strongly believes humanity will conquer it. I will not pretend to know anything about why God does things the way he does. But he has given us numerous ways to commune with Him, two of which are prayer and the Bible. Read the Bible, meditate on it and pray, then maybe you’ll get the answers you seek.’
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A short conversation between himself and Dillon that suddenly came to mind. He’d never seen a Christian so willing to question each and every move God made. Always asking philosophical questions about why God made something the way it is or why he allowed something to happen. It sickened Salvatore at times but he had the patience to understand that Dillon was a young man with a brilliant mind and a zest for knowledge. He really wondered if one year away from the seminary school had taken away his enthusiasm for learning about God and theology. He went out of the hotel, got a taxi, and informed the driver of his destination. He was now en route to Dillon. To finally see him after a whole year of worry.
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“Yo, old man, you hear the news?” The driver said from the front seat.
“No,” Salvatore replied from the comfort and space of the backseat.
“Man, they saying the President got shot during his speech.,”
“The President got shot?” Salvatore asked. Something really was going on in this town.
“Yeah man. How haven’t you heard this?”
“I’m not a resident of this town, I just came to visit someone” but in truth, he’d taken a nap after he settled in his room. What better way to pass the time than to sleep. Maybe if he’d stayed awake he may have put on the TV and watched the news.
“Oh okay.” The driver paused briefly “Makes me scared man. Some sicko's going around killing people and the police haven’t done squat about it. And to top it all off, the President gets shot while trying to reassure the people. That’s very assuring.”
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Salvatore could not help but think that he may be caught up in a situation here. He could tell something was wrong from the minute he set foot in the town but he just didn’t think it was this serious.
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A murderer on the loose?
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“Yeah man.” Salvatore hadn’t realised he voiced it out. “This is a bad time to visit anyone here man.
The town was clearly not at its safest but Salvatore was here for one thing and he had to do it no matter the cost.
“Faster please.”
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Tuesday night
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HE GOT to the front of his apartment, rummaged his pockets for the keys, opened the door and stumbled inside. He was bleeding profusely from his right arm. For all his skills and abilities, he still got shot, grazed anyway. By a sniper, he was assuming. A soldier moving by foot couldn’t have shot him with how quickly and unpredictably he was moving. He was very prodigal in evaluating the risks of the snipers opening fire and it could’ve cost him his life. But still, to think that whoever the sniper was, would shoot into the crowd and risk killing a civillian. He thought that by simply running amongst the crowd, the snipers would have to hold their fire so as not to kill an innocent person leaving the soldiers on foot as his only problem which he could easily circumvent. But that person certainly proved him wrong. Either the person was a damn good shot, or he was sick in the head. He went into his kitchen, opened up the drawer to his cabinet and picked up a box which he called his ‘healing pack'. But this so called healing pack only consisted of small pieces of cloth, needles, threads, and alcohol, which would be his antiseptic. Now he proceeded to his couch to treat himself. He took off his trenchcoat and the black t-shirt he was wearing underneath. Looking at the open wound, it dawned on him how close he was to dying out there. His mission would have been over in an instant. He would have left this world, without finishing his job. He didn’t even know if his shot had gotten the president. But if all went well, the president should be dead. He was very precise with the shot. He picked up the alcohol and removed the loosely fixed cork with his teeth. He took a deep breath in and poured the alcohol on the wound. It took every ounce of energy in him not to scream till his throat burned. He sat there grimacing, waiting for the pain to reduce by even an iota. For a cause such as this, one had to feel pain.
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'For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that will be revealed to us'
-Roman 8:18
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He proceeded to clean up the wound and sew it up. After sewing he tied a piece of cloth around his arm. There was only one way to know if the president was dead now. The news. He walked up to his TV set and put it on and walked back to his couch to seat down. He heard a knock on the door. That’s strange, he thought. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He quickly went into his bedroom, put on a new shirt, and went to the door. Could it be the cops? He looked through the peephole.
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Salvatore?
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Tuesday night
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THEY’D GOTTEN the results after hours of waiting. After running the fingerprints against their large Mellville database, they found that the fingerprints belonged to a man named Dillon Tucker. 27 years old, 5 foot 11 inches, and white. He came into town 6 months ago, had no job, no family, and no criminal record. His address was there as well. The person in that picture didn’t even look like he could hurt a fly.
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“Could that really…be the person?” Scott asked.
“Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time of work, it’s that looks can be decieving.” Powell paused and looked at him “Besides this is just a hunch, he could be innocent and this would’ve just been a complete waste of time”
“Yeah” Scott said and put his head down. This wasn’t the first time Powell had stressed the implications of this being wrong. He would’ve made Powell waste valuable time and the more time he wasted, the more time the murderer had to kill people. Powell would definitely lock him up and more if this turned out to be false. But this wasn’t false. Scott had seen the man, drink from that cup in front of him, the same man that blew up the front of the hospital. A question burned in Scott’s mind though.
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“Hey, Detective Powell”
“What?”
“The murderer being in a different location when I told you of the tip was definitely not enough reason for you to trust me. I could be working for him, in which case I’d just be here to clean up his mess.” Powell stared at him with fiery eyes and a hint of caution.
“So why did you trust me?”
“I don’t trust you, Dr. Bernard, if anything I’m more cautious of you. This is just a hunch, a gamble, and I’m following it. Apart from this we have nothing on the guy.”
“Oh…”
“But make no mistake, you are definitely on top of my list of security risks right now”
Scott gulped.
“Sure thing”
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They came out of the Mellville Police Department building and walked to Powell’s car. Powell stopped in front of his car and held his arm out palm open, indicating Scott to stop.
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“This is far enough. Go home.” Powell said
“What? I should go home? I thought you said I was a security threat and you were very cautious of me. Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on me? I should come with you.”
“No. Go home. It’s too dangerous. That man’s a murderer. Things could get messy.”
“Please sir, you have to let me follow you and be there when he’s arrested,”
“No.”
“Please,”
“I said no. Are you deaf or something.” Powell said and open the door to the driver seat. Powell entered the car and drove away. Well at least he’d done something. The police now knew who and where the murderer was. But something still weighed heavy at the back of his mind. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He brought it out. It was Maisie calling. He answered the phone.
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“Hello, Maisie,”
“Scott, oh my God where are you”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to answer that question honestly.
“I’m…I’m at my apartment.”
“What? But you said you were gonna come to mom and dad’s and…”
“Maisie, something came up,”
“What came up?”
“Look Maisie I’ll be there okay,”
“It’s eight thirty pm, when exactly are you planning to come if couldn’t come throughout the whole day?”
“Maisie, just calm down. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Maisie grunted.
“You haven’t told mom and dad anything right?” Scott asked
“No I haven’t. But I’m gonna have to.”
“Maisie, don’t, okay, don’t tell them anything.”
“See you tomorrow, Scott.”
“Maisie! Maisie!”
Maisie hung up the phone on him. She was definitely going to tell their parents. An act which will do nothing but to cause them unnecessary worry. His eyes lingered on the road, the space where Powell’s car was parked and the most dangerous idea he’d ever thought of, whizzed into his head. He could remember the murderer’s address. All he had to do was take a cab there.
And do what exactly, get killed?
It was a bad idea. Even Powell acknowledged that it would be too dangerous for him to be there. But then he knew his mind wouldn’t let him rest. Not until he could see the murderer arrested. Not until he could know he’d successfully contributed to the arrest of the serial killer.
You’re gonna get yourself killed, Scott.
And on cue a taxi was approaching. Scott stretched his arm out to stop the taxi.
Don’t do this Scott!
The taxi stopped in front of him. The driver wound the window down.
“Where are you going?”
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