The Amateur

At the bus depot, I was careful not to wipe off any fingerprints, or leave any of mine. The locker opened with the key, and I only touched the key itself.

I removed the packet from the locker. In its place, I put the remaining Dragunov bullets, the box of .22 shells, and the paper from the glove compartment.

I put the key in my pocket, and went in to work.

Gunderson called me at work, a little after lunch. He was excited. His hunch had played out. They had found Murphy in a church parking lot, with the gun, his brains blown out.

The papers had the story by that evening. Church sniper found dead by own hand. Local detective was under investigation for missing drug evidence, accomplice found dead from detective's pistol.

I contemplated my next move. The plan had changed. I was no longer suicidal. In fact, I was alive, addicted to the rush of the chase and the escape. I had outsmarted the police, out-thought them, out-maneuvered them; out-planned them. They were defeated; I had won.

I felt let down.

Now I had to start all over again.