orley Munson saw the local detective’s car parked in his driveway as he drove up the lane leading to his family home. It was a late-model Buick and Morley Munson had seen the same vehicle around town many times (over the past few months). The sight of it was beginning to unnerve him.
Morley Munson got out of his Mercedes and walked toward his front door. He could see the local detective standing on the landing, patiently waiting for him. He glanced at Morley Munson’s bandaged hand, smiled, and began to speak. He asked one or two additional (routine) questions concerning the disappearance of Constance Freeman’s
husband, including the kind of work that he did for Morley Munson’s company, their last professional (or social) interaction and one or two general questions about Constance Freeman as well.
Morley Munson’s eyes narrowed at this line of inquiry – was the local detective on to something or just feeling him out? It was impossible to tell. Morley Munson gave a handful of vague answers, including the suggestion that he and Constance Freeman were barely acquainted but that he was sure that they had always enjoyed a very strong and loving relationship (from what he had witnessed).
Morley Munson waited for the local detective’s car to leave before he tore the fresh bandage off his wound – the holes were still a vivid red (and oozy). Morley Munson squeezed his palm with the other hand until four spots of blood sprang to the surface, erupting like lava from below the earth’s core. He reached down and licked up the drops, one by one, cleaning off his lips (with his tongue) after he had finished.
Morley Munson tugged at his tie. It felt like a noose that was tightening around his throat.
