• The following link is the link leading to the prior chapter of this book:

    http://gaiaonline.com/arena/writing/fiction/vote/?entry_id=100789887#title




    It's not hard to FIND STUFF when you investigate. It's hard to decipher what the things you find mean.

    It was like that for the screw driver we found in the side pocket of the car. Finding it was easy. Understanding what it had to do with the case if it had ANYTHING to do with the case was a much harder task to accomplish.

    Most investigators believed it was what caused the blood of the Sarah, and it was what was used to stab her. And, a crucial discovery was found. The finger prints literally littering the screw driver were none other than Mr. Macknollen. Which identified him, automatically as an undeniable suspect.

    We, my friend Jim and I, had rushed over to his house, ready to rub it in his face what vital mistake he had made in his proceeding. And yet, something was so odd about this. This screw driver, this whole thing. It was too obvious, and no decent murderer that has enough brains at all would leave the murder weapon covered with his handprints all over it lying in the scene of the crime.

    Barging into his house, we interrogated him with all sorts of questions.

    "Were you there when the crime took place?"

    "No."

    "Can you explain these fingerprints on this screwdriver?" He studied the screw driver, and said simply,

    "Yes. It's mine. I use it a lot."

    "Well, that would expl--" I started, but I was immediately silenced.

    "Really? Where's your car?" He shrugged.

    "Missing," he said, as though it hardly mattered.

    "Might this be your car?" asked Jim, pulling out a picture of the crime scene. Mr. Macknollen nodded, with absolutely no expression crossing his face.

    "Well," continued Jim, "what a coincidence. This is the car where your wi--"

    "She's not my wife. Not anymore. We were just getting a divorce." Jim frowned in a fake sympothy sort of way, and said,

    "I'm sorry. Now, your ex-wife, she was killed in this car."

    "I might've left my keys in my car," he explained quickly, gone with his prior nonchalant attidtude. "I can get careless." Jim shook his head.

    "But, why would this care stealer take off the license plate? If he was a skilled sort of criminal, he would've kept it on to frame you."

    "Get out of my house," he said abruptly, anger flaring in his eyes. "I didn't invite you in to accuse me of murder."

    "If you answer the question in a way in which was plausible, you won't be accused. Now please, answer--"

    "Get out. I--there's something about you. As if almost know you. You are a fatigue memory in my mind, and it's not a good one."

    "You can not--"

    "This is my property. Get out." And get out we did. I was left utterly confused at what Mr. Macknollen had said. I had asked Jim if he had known before this case. He sighed, and shrugged,
    "I don't know. Maybe." What was going on?