orley Munson sat in the grass with a young man at his feet. His lifeless eyes were still open and staring up into the afternoon sun (the blue sky reflected in his pupils). Morley Munson was still breathing heavily, having just stabbed the hitchhiker in the chest with the handle from his tire jack several times.
Morley Munson knew that he hadn’t solved anything with this murder. The rational side of his brain told him that this young fellow couldn’t possibly be the person who was sending him notes in the mail and just because he happened to be standing on the road that Morley Munson traveled home on every day was no reason to believe that this dead person was also a killer (and his murderous pen pal).
Morley Munson had simply snapped inside when one of the tires on his Mercedes gave out after he had stopped to pick up the young man (along the roadside). The boy had graciously offered to help with the repairs and as he was trying to remove the flat tire Morley Munson had picked up the detachable jack handle from the rest of the kit and plunged it into the body of his passenger. It was quick and surprising and pulses
of blood bathed Morley Munson as he smashed in the young man’s chest. Morley Munson longed for this moment with his victims, a beat of recognition when at last they realized what was happening to them. That light snapping off in their eyes — only moments before it would dim forever—
was what he lived for as a murderer.
Morley Munson cleaned the blood from his hands and face with an old shirt, then lifted the body and dumped it into his trunk. He would have to get rid of the evidence later.
Illustration Rosanna Webster