Mr. Townsend

December 29, 2011
By Lindsay5678 BRONZE, Martinez, Georgia
Lindsay5678 BRONZE, Martinez, Georgia
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

The key. I have finally found the key I that have been searching for. The key that I have spent three weeks of my life dedicated to finding. This key will unlock the answers to the mysterious death of Mr. Townsend.
Mr. Townsend died a month ago; the police say that it was a burglary gone wrong. Being a crime journalist, it’s extremely hard to believe that a man who was once a cop and a soldier was killed by a burglar. The hardest thing for me to believe is who was convicted of killing Mr. Townsend. The man is fifty years old and has back problems. He wouldn’t be capable of hurting me, let alone a trained cop. Something much bigger is going on in this case and it is my job to figure out what it is. Three cops have been following me all week long because they fear that I am too close to finding out the truth; they are the ones who killed Mr. Townsend. I already know that they killed him but just need proof and a motive for the story I am writing for my job at the New York Times. I am hoping that this key will give me answers.
I snatch the key off the floor and stash it in my purse. I am going to guard this key with my life. I casually stand up trying to not look suspicious. Fortunately, it’s nearly impossible for that move to come across as suspicious. This is one of the sketchiest night clubs in all of New York, the place reeks of alcohol and in every corner people are smoking illegal drugs. The lights are so dim I can barely see my hand in front of my face. This was the perfect place to hide the key.
I slowly inch my way toward the door and I am almost there when…BAM! I slam right into one of the officers following me. From what I can make out, he is tall, tan, buff, and handsome. He would have looked like the typical police officer, if I didn’t know he was a murderer.
“What are you doing here Skylar?” he asked, like I was a child being scolded.
“Maybe you should ask yourself the same question. It seems to me that you have been following me everywhere. If you claim that you and your friends had nothing to do with Mr. Townsend’s death then why are you following me?” I asked quizzically.
He glares at me and I stroke my long brown hair attempting to appear aloof, but in reality I am scared out of my mind. Conversing with one of the killers isn’t exactly my idea of an enjoyable afternoon activity. I desperately hope he hasn’t realized that I am in possession of the key, but why else would I be here? Perhaps coming here while they were following me was a bad idea. Unfortunately, waiting any longer after I discovered where the key was was next to impossible. My natural journalistic curiosity got the best of me.
“What my friends and I do on with our free time is none of your business. Next time I see you doing anything that appears suspicious or even the least bit related to Mr. Townsend’s case I am going to take matters into my own hands. Now get out of here!” He seethed.
Giving up on my attempt to appear fearless, I scramble towards the door. Outside it is pouring down rain, I run as fast as I can to my car. After I am safe inside, I place my wet face into my hands, squeeze my eyes shut and wonder what I am going to do. They now know I have the key, so what’s to say they don’t decide to kill me just like Mr. Townsend. Nothing is stopping them; I haven’t told anyone I was investigating them. No one would even suspect them as the culprits for my death.
After ten minutes of sitting and thinking about what to do, I still can’t figure it out and decide to just go home. Lifting my head from my hands, I see the greatest window of opportunity, all of my little cop followers have gone in to bust the night club! If I leave now and go to the storage unit to which the key fits, it will take them a little while to come find me! I whip out of my parking space as fast as possible.

By the time I get to the storage unit, the rain has stopped and the sun is creeping up into the sky (personification). I snatch the key from my purse and read the numbers on the side, 144626. I search the number on the side of every storage unit. I am getting tired and fed up when finally I get to the last unit. I look at the side and to my delight I see # 144626, at last. The numbers on the side of the locker are the same on the key. I take a deep breath; I will finally get my answers.
I place the key in the lock to open the storage unit. My hands hesitantly slide the door open, afraid of what may be behind it. What hides behind the door is absolutely unbelievable. Huge stacks of money are scattered about everywhere. The stacks are like giant mountains covered with thick, green vegetation. How is it possible for three cops have this much money? Then realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I flashback to the time I saw Mr. Townsend talking to the cop I met in the night club. It was about two months ago, before any of this had happened. They had been arguing loudly about money. At the time, I figure it was about Mr. Townsend giving the cop a raise, but now I come to the realization that it was about this money. The money must be counterfeit.
I start to vigorously search through the money and discover that I am right, the bills are counterfeit. I am just about to take pictures of the money as proof, when there is an ear splitting, cracking sound. A gun shot. My cop followers have found me and must have just shot the security guard. The only thing I can think to do is call the police, but when my pursuers are the police I can’t exactly do that. I just stand there in the middle of all their counterfeit money, unable to move.
When the cops find me they tie me up. Their fingers craftily tie knots around my body, and my stomach turns. This horrifying experience is much like a mystery novel. Unfortunately, this is all very real.
“How did you find out where this money was?” interrogated one of the cops.
“It really was not that difficult. I overheard you and the others talking about a key, so for the next three weeks I searched for this key and as you know I found it tonight. For cops you are pretty stupid. All I had to do to find the key in the night club, was ask one of the guys at the bar if he knew where a key was and he pointed me towards it.” I replied smugly.
Finding the key in the night club was not actually that easy. I searched the floor of the place for three hours before finding it under a pinball machine. My goal was to make the cops feel stupid and like they are beneath me. I am hoping that it will keep me alive longer.
“Replies like that aren’t helping you any. You know our secret so we are going to have to kill you. I just hope for your friends and family’s sake that you didn’t tell anyone or we will have to kill them too. So tell me Skylar did you tell anyone else who killed Mr. Townsend?” He screamed.
I start to cry. I can’t help it. The end is so very near for me I can feel it coming. They are going to kill me just like they did to Mr. Townsend.

“No,” I sobbed.

“Good, good. Now you’re the only person who has to die for your curiosity.” He said viciously.

Another ear splitting shot rang out at that moment. The world in front of me dissolved. The only thing that was left was the blackness of death.

The author's comments:
The ending is a bit disappointing, I know. I wrote this story for my English class and we had a set limit on how long it could be! I may work on rewriting the ending in the future! :)

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