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The Targeted

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Jerry Baxter, flipped through the phonebook, closed his eyes, and put his finger down on a name. The name was Richard Henry. He did this process again. The name was James Gilbert. Again, he went through the phonebook. Jerry looked a little pale as he saw the name. Lit a cigarette, and so it was; Richard Henry, James Gilbert and Don Johnson would die in the next 24 hours.
Meanwhile in Vancouver, Canada. Detective Alex Hall was looking over some case files. Three random people were killed in Portland two nights ago, Louise Jameson, Carl Peterson, and Sheryl Williams. Curious, these people appeared to have no connection to each other whatsoever. The murders were connected from Portland and Vancouver because a big suspect was currently living there.

Alex was a tall Norwegian stereotype who hated to be confused. Many people hated how when he would be wrong Alex would complain for the rest of the day make it miserable for others.

Later Alex’s partner came in, and yelled, “Hey Alex, there are three more random murders in Portland! It says here the names are James Gilbert, Don Johnson, and Richard Henry.” His partner said, “It happened again!”

Ever since he was a kid Jerry knew that nothing came easy, weather it was daily life, dying, or making a simple choice. Options must be weighed, and time must be taken. That is why every thing he did was random, even his choice for victims.

Bjorn’s face was about to turn red, as he stared to the window; he opened his mouth to say something. Then suddenly, said very quietly, “Let’s get a plane to Portland.”

Jerry Baxter knew once he killed Don Johnson, he would have about three minutes before somebody found him bleeding on the floor. Don Johnson was a rich affluent gentleman from Oregon. He owned a few buildings, the general public would indeed miss him. It was a good job, a quick one, but it wasn’t done by a long shot. So Jerry fled the scene, flicked his cigarette butt. As he started to take drinks of the whisky bottle previously concealed within his brown trench coat, he wondered, who would it be tomorrow night?

Alex grabbed his gun and notebook and fled to the door, his partner following right behind him. Detective Hall drove as fast as he could to the airport, his face still red with anger. The partner was starring out the window without blinking, a glazed look on his face, as if he was in deep thought. Their car ran stoplights and stop sign as they sped through the streets of Vancouver.

When Jerry was young, he was abandoned on the streets of San Diego, he had to fend for himself. There was never any time to think, all must be done quickly. When he stole a loaf of bread, there was no turning back. Once he was about to be caught. But due to the randomness of fate, Jerry sprinted through the crowded streets, a car crash occurred. Blood splattered everywhere, even the officer chasing him. He couldn’t tell if this was a blessing or a curse, he gained a bloodlust, but also a respect for authority, how they would protect even the smallest of people. After this, he slowly migrated northward, he was 15, now was a different story, he was 28.

Jerry Baxter was now on the way back to his apartment where he is registered as a different name. He was done with Portland, and was going to move to Vegas, easier to escape there, much less suspicion. Everybody from Vegas was trying to take advantage of others. He would fit in with the filth. But what the killer didn’t realize was he had left cigarette buts and small puddles of whisky, behind at the crime scene.

As detective Alex Hall and his partner arrived to Portland. They had a number one suspect, Don Johnson’s assistant, Mr. Hal Dean. They burst into his office. He looked angry, he was playing with his thumbs below the table, a hint of satisfaction shaded over his face. They both thought, it must be him. The partners questioned him for a while, but finally he explained, “Yeah, I hated Johnson, along with his guts. All of the time it was Hal this and Hal that. I couldn’t take it anymore! Sure I thought about killing him. He just docked my pay, but it wasn’t me. I wish it was though. Finally somebody got the guts to pull it off.”

A long pause filled the room with an awkward silence he didn’t like the guy. Alex would put money on it not being Hal. The assistant was innocent, yes, but also jerk.

So they visited the crime scene, Don Johnson’s house. The partners were allowed there since we were law enforcement. A breeze came in through the open window, they air was getting cool. A hazy light of dusk shone on the spot of the crime. Nobody else was there. It was a quiet setting, nothing was known. Nothing was found. The partners were about to give up just as Alex yelled to his partner, “Hey, get over here, take a look at this. Some liquid splashed on the floor, it looks and smells like whiskey, and what I think is a cigarette butt.”

“Curious,” his partner said in a low voice, “ maybe we could test it for DNA to see who it was.” The killer had left a massive clue.

Later that night, as the two walked to a hotel, as they were in the parking lot, Detective Hall said, “Who would want to kill all of these innocent people? But at least everybody will know by tomorrow who did it, right Jerry?”

“Yes, maybe so, but by that time, I will be long gone.”

“What?”

At that time, Jerry Baxter took out a knife and stabbed his partner right in the heart. He didn’t want to have to do this, but business was business. As Jerry Baxter drove off into the distance, he thought, who would be next?





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