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by Frank Shortt
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He crept in like a Stealth Bomber, silent but deadly. His motive was murder.
His girlfriend was cheating on him and he didn’t take it lightly.
His outfit consisted of black
leathers. Harley Davidson was written all over him. Even the tattoo on his left shoulder was H.D. in large letters. An Oakland Raiders
ball cap topped his head with scraggly, blond hair sticking out. A several days old beard finished his facial features.
Carl Wagner met Polly Black at a local night club. They became fast friends as they both favored a certain lifestyle. Friends had
warned Carl that Polly was a player. He sluffed off all warnings thinking he was the only fish in the sea. Polly, on the other hand,
really cared for Carl’s rough and rowdy ways.
Carl was not a large man, probably five feet, nine
inches in socks. His weight fluctuated between one-hundred sixty and one-hundred seventy pounds. Was he handsome? Not too. He wouldn’t
stand out in any crowd except for the way he dressed. He had piercing blue eyes that seemed to bore holes through whatever he focused
on. Several men had made the mistake of thinking him a weakling.
Carefully, he edged around the
corner, eying her through the downstairs townhouse window. The light was on, allowing him to see any movement in the room. She sat
at the computer, probably pursuing her favorite pastime, Facebook. “How anyone could sit there for hours entering data is far beyond
me.” He reflected. He watched her hungrily, noting every movement.
Suddenly, Polly arose, making
her way to the front door. A man entered the room embracing her. The man, dressed nattily in tightly fitting Italian gabardine, wore
a wool fedora. His shirts seemed of the finest silk. Polly did not seem in a hurry to allow this man to make love to her.
Carl’s anger was aroused and under his breath he vowed to do her in and anyone who was fooling around with her. Blindness overcame
his reasoning. All that was foremost in his mind was a Neanderthal yearning for vengeance!
fools with Carl Wagner, he boasted under his breath. Who does she think she’s foolin’ with? I don’t carry this P38 with a silencer
for my health! My daddy didn’t raise no fools!”
Next day, police Detective Wright sifted
through Polly Black’s personal belongings looking for any clue to who might have slit her throat. She laid in a pool of blood on the
bedroom floor, slightly disheveled, no real signs of a struggle.
“Whoever did her in knew
her very well, the detective calculated. It must have been a disillusioned boyfriend.”
Little did Carl Wagner know that Polly Black had declared her love for him before her present suitor, Johnny Negretto, decided to
end her two-timing ways. Johnny always carried a very sharp Stilleto and wore skintight, leather, flesh tinted gloves.
Later in the day, after police found the body of Polly, two men were found dead in an alley not far from Polly’s townhouse. One died
of a single gunshot from a P38, the other from a very sharp knife, still protruding from the body.