“OK, so Marceau should have the warrant and
we’ll be good to go,” proclaimed an exuberant Stone, who briefly motioned his
hands towards the sky in relief until Sterling slapped him to put them back on
the steering wheel.
“Well, we’re actually pretty late. Marceau
told us to meet him an hour ago,” reminded Sterling anxiously.
“If he followed the values he preached, then
he should know that patience is a virtue. Plus I’m pretty sure that picking up
doughnuts—which could be our last meal—is always a good idea to settle our
nerves.” As they drew nearer and nearer towards the address, it became clearer
and clearer that this was not the area that you would expect a Latino serial
killer. Surrounded by suburbia, Stone was noticeably irked by all of the
yuppie, cautious and affluent white people staring at his beaten down Prius
with dismay, with antagonism. Ignoring that though, they finally pull into the
driveway of the house which was as bland as possible with no distinguishing
features from the other factors and as white as the snowy background. Marceau
was leaning on his black Mercedes, just tapping his leather shoes and his eyes
fixed on his watch, intent on nothing else. As the trio regrouped, Stone offered
Marceau a pastry which he vehemently denied, then produced a pistol and as they
neared the door alerted the group of the possibility that the killer lurking
within and to stay by his side calmly and observantly.
As the door eerily creaked, the only light
that seeped through came from the tops of the veiled curtains, as Stone
fluttered a light switch to no avail.
“Didn’t pay his damn bills,” remarked Stone in
frustration. As they drew the curtains open and let the sun into the room, the
plain emptiness unsettled them all. No rugs, no pictures, scarcely any
furniture except for a couple of chairs huddled by an old box set TV. As Stone
walked around, urging the others to follow, he couldn’t shed the feeling that
each creak, each soft thud of a footstep, even his own breath all allied
against him; the very silence deafening by revealing the barely perceptible
cacophony that surrounded him which practically embodied the soul sucking eyes
of Mister Dominguez. The silence became a presence, sharpening every one of the
group’s senses, their perception so finely tuned that their imaginations turned
against them, shadows and hushed noises alike became the enemy. Yet, as they
scoured the whole house, nothing appeared to be amiss, nothing appeared to be
out of place. In fact, it was extraordinarily ordinary noted Stone, where a
disturbing thought crept in that the mundane exterior compensated for some
horrific paraphernalia elsewhere.
As they dared to venture down to the basement
area however, a foul odor permeated the air, pungent and blood curdling, which
caused the group’s hairs to stand on end. As they approached closer and closer
to the room, the very stairs from underneath them groaned from their weight.
Stone once again drew out his Glock, which shivered over the anticipation of
grave danger. When Stone finally reached the bottom of the staircase alley and
turned the corner, he immediately ducked back as he saw Dominguez merely
standing in the middle of the room, a bizarre quirk he muttered in his mental
conscience. After pacifying Sterling and Marceau and waiting briefly yet
endlessly, Stone rallied as much audacity as he could, and ventured to peer
back at the least expected image he could think of.
Feet dangling. Sterling and Marceau convened
beside Stone, who already approached the hovering, rotting body suspended by a
sturdy rope while a toppled chair lie beneath, and all three wore flummoxed
expressions. Sterling examined closer and remarked that the body had to have
been at least 72 hours old, right after the murder.
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