J. Richard Singleton
Copyright J. Richard Singleton 2011
Published at Smashwords
Gary McGregor laid dead on his well-manicured lawn. He’d been stabbed multiple times in the chest with a long, narrow blade of some kind.
On the other side of the white picket fence--the fence that had a smear of blood running vertically along McGregor’s side--Antonin Robertson also laid dead. He’d been shot three times--once in the upper thigh, twice in the torso (“kill shots,” they were called by gun enthusiasts). His cardigan sweater had two bullet holes through it--it was an extremely ugly garment even before it had gotten bloodied—maybe because it was such a butt-ugly color, a compromise of scarlet and violet. Robertson’s lawn was clearly greener, and he bled way less on the freshly mowed grass.
Sara Robertson had died on the brick steps of the Robertson’s Dutch Colonial house. A somewhat plump woman in her early 50s, she was laying on the slightly ajar frontdoor—she was almost propped up against it.
The police would arrive in a couple of minutes--their neighborhood was a nice one. And it would be up to them to hypothesize what had happened there.