orley Munson found himself crouched behind a tree and watching the cabin in the woods. He had arrived earlier than arranged and had left a light on inside the place, giving the appearance of someone waiting. Morley Munson was not a particularly clever person or a man of great cunning, but he had survived this long as a murderer by using his wits in an effort to survive. He was a bit like an insect trapped in an old bottle, with little hope for survival but continuing to scuttle back and forth out of fear (and pure instinct).
Morley Munson knew that it was probably only a matter of time now before some previously undetected clue would eventually be traced back to him, but he refused to think about these facts for very long. Ever since the death of the pretty young waitress, Morley Munson had lost the will to live. Not that he didn’t go to work every day or still think about the pure pleasures of killing from time to time, but both of these subjects had become more like afterthoughts ever since the woman of his dreams had been taken away from him. The waitress with the pretty face had represented something good and pure to him that was lost forever and all that remained for Morley Munson was the end of his own (pathetic) life.
Morley Munson heard the crunch of tires on the country road that led to the cabin (in the woods). The light was poor now—almost dark—but from his vantage point he could just make out the vehicle that came to a stop on the rocky path. It was a late model Buick and inside sat the local detective.