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    Chapter 4



    Where do you start when you're investigating a crime? Crime scene, of course, would be the obvious answer. I overturned the bed, checked the closet, with no success, when suddenly the phone went off, and I rushed over to it, and picked it up,

    "Hello?" I said, and pretty calmly too, considering my wife had just died.

    "Chad!" the other end cried, not quite as calmly. It was Charles. "You won't believe this. Your wife--your wife is dead."

    "I know, Charles," I said, closing my eyes and trying not to remember why I knew. "I got that newsflash about one hour ago."

    "Yeah, all right," he continued, rushed by the sound of it. "But I hope you can bear another newsflash, 'cause I gotta tell you, you're gonna be just as thrilled. Your wife--your wife is stuffed in my closet!" I couldn't reply. Why would she be stuffed in his closet? How'd the murderer even get there?

    "What?" I suddenly blurted out. "How'd that--how'd that happen?!"

    "You asking me?" he retorted, sounding a bit irritated. "What makes you think I know? I just got back home only 40 minutes ago!"

    "Tell me, Charles," I then said, picking a lighter voice as I tried to calm him down. "What did you hear after you heard that one gunshot?" There was a pause, as if he were wondering what I was talking about, and then suddenly the light bulb went on as he replied,

    "Oh, the gunshot on the phone...All I heard after the gunshot was the quick click of the phone hanging up. Probably your wife's murderer. No doubt, actually."

    "So you didn't hear...a second gunshot?"

    "No," was the quick reply. "I remember the whole thing. I called her, she answered and said "Hello", and then I heard the crack of the gunshot. Then the click of the phone hanging up. Nothing else."

    "You sure?"

    "If I heard something that loud," he comfirmed, "I would've remembered it. But who cares about that crap right now? There's a frikken dead woman in my closet. Your dead wife. Now get over here!"

    "Now?"

    "Nope. Tomorrow," he replied sarcastically, probably rolling his eyes on the other end. "That's why I called you today. Look, just stop what you're doing. Heck, drop the phone, and get over here!" Quickly, he hung up, as did I, and I rushed over to my car, questions boggling around in my head. With tense hands and nervous feet, I pressed down on the gas pedal, and I was off, my car vrooming on past the vacant road.

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    I reached Charles house, and stepped out of the car. There wasn't a single other person outside, and I could hear my quiet footsteps as I inched towards his house.

    His house was small; possibly even smaller than most apartments. I'm actually surprised he could scrounge enough money to fit the bill for the restaraunt, seeing how incredibly cheap his house looked like. Vines were crawling up the side of the house. The windows were chipped and scratched, and when I looked up, I had a sudden fear that a mountain of shingles would soon collapse onto me.

    I assumed Charles was watching out his old window in anticipation as he suddenly came bursting out of his house, his face looking as though he had seen a ghost. Heck, he looked like a ghost; his face white as sheet. He grabbed me by the arm, and I could feel his vibrations as his hands quivered against my skin.

    "What's wrong?" I said cooly as he dragged me towards his house. "Never seen a dead body?"

    "Shut up! I never have seen a dead body, least of all one in my house." Even though I tried to act cool, I knew this wasn't a joke.

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    We rushed inside the house, and I followed him (or more of, he pulled me like a dog and a leash) to his room, as he then let go of me, and slowly shuffled to his closet, placing his hands nervously on a crude closet's handles.

    "Don't you cry on me." I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, he thrusted his arms backwards, and the closet swung open.

    I walked over in front of it, and sure enough, there was Elizabeth, slumped back in the back of the closet. Dry blood was stained on her forehead, a bullet hole digging right into her skull, but I couldn't see any other signs of blood. I walked up to her slowly and nervously, drew my hand to her forehead, and quickly drew it back. I turned away, and disobeyed Charle's orders as a tear trickled down from on my cheek.

    "This doesn't--" I looked at Charles, who was biting his lip and looking down away from me sympathetically, like a puppy dog.

    "This doesn't make any sense," I finished, and walked away from the grim scene. Charles quickly closed the closet door, and took a deep breath, as if he had just seen his wost nightmare, and he was just taking a moment to get it all out. He supported himself against the doors of the closet, as he replied slowly like he was just as confused,

    "You're...right. It doesn't...make any sense."

    "You said you heard the gunshot, right?" He didn't say anything, but nodded.

    "And I found blood on my bed, so I definitely know the murder took place at my house..."

    "We were both gone for about an hour or two," he then said a little more confidently, heaving himself off the closet door. "Which gave the murderer probably enough time to stash away her in my closet while both of us were distracted."

    "But why? And how?" Charles shook his head, and replied,

    "I don't know. I didn't find any marks of anyone breaking in, which means they went through the front door. Which means someone had to think all that out first. Which means..." He made a dramatic pause like he was on Broadway or something, and then finished,

    "That this whole murder--this whole murder was planned. And the body was intentionally put in my house in particular."