orley Munson wept as he buried Constance Freeman in a deep, dark grave. He had imagined spending his life with her but the last few weeks had shown him the clear and present path to the gallows that they had been walking down together. There was a real chance that a woman like Constance Freeman—after some months had passed and she had brooded over the loss of her husband’s insurance money – might feel compelled to confess her (and Morley Munson’s) crimes to someone. This was a possible reality that would never come to fruition now, especially since Morley Munson had bludgeoned his beloved with twenty (or thirty) blows about the head and neck.
Morley Munson felt the weight of the last few years resting squarely on his narrow shoulders. He was smart enough to know that with fewer and fewer witnesses remaining, his own chances for survival (and eluding justice) were growing. To a man like Morley Munson—a person who had been so shaped by dashed hopes and familial unkindness—this was all that really mattered, to be able to scramble into a dark corner for another day like some cowering insect.Morley Munson returned to work and hired a new secretary. He began to spend less time on the road and even hired a salesman (or ‘salesperson,’ as she rightfully asked to be called). Life began to return to normal for Morley Munson, or as ‘normal’ as life can be for a man who feels compelled to kill and kill (and kill) again, sometimes to cover his bloody tracks and other times just for the pure pleasure of killing.
Morley Munson sat on the wide porch of his family home, sipping tea and (somewhat) at peace. Finally. He looked up as a late-model Buick pulled into his driveway.