A/N: I don't own any of the "Criminal Minds" characters and I am not making any money from writing this.
Please forgive any minor spelling or grammar mistakes, English is not my native language.
First of all, big thanks to Marcus Gaudry for encouraging me to pursue this story, and for providing some really helpful advice-and write-ups. The part where Garcia provides basic info about the town was written by him; and he also came up with the town's name. You're the best! Check out his case!fics, they are great.
This is kind of my Halloween-themed Criminal Minds fanfiction. I found it fitting to have the BAU investigate especially creepy, complicated and even somewhat creepy case on Halloween-well, days approaching Halloween. The town featured in this story, "Crossroads", is fictional. (Think of it as a much smaller version of the unnamed crime-ridden city in "Se7en", or a non-supernatural version of Sunnydale.) Yes, it is meant to be over the top, and even tragicomical at times. I will do my best to complete this story by Halloween; but I can't make any promises.
Moonlight shone over the smal convenience store in Elm Street; one of the few successful businesses in Crossroads. Brenda, 16-year-old cashier, looked up from the magazine she was reading, alerted by something that sounded like a gunshot. She stared through the door for several moments, listening attentively as she did, but she didn't see anything suspicious, and she soon noticed a black Volvo pull up and drive down the street, past the store she was working at. Another false alarm; just an exhaust backfiring. If only those false alarms were more common than the real deal.
Brenda flinched once again, as someone ran over to her. But she sighed in relief a moment later, realizing that was no other than her boyfriend, Mike; also the employee at the store, and the only one present there at the time. Mike looked her over, making sure that she was all right, before looking around, pulling a switchblade out of his pocket. "What was that?" he whispered, his eyes wide, his forehead coated with sweat.
"Mike, it was just an exhaust backfiring," Brenda assured him, fighting an urge to roll her eyes. She sighed and pouted, leaning back in her seat. "God, why are we even doing this? What is the point of running a 24/7 store in this godforsaken town? Let alone working a nigjht shift at it, for a minimal wage? The only "customer" we can have at this hour is an armed robber, serial rapist, serial killer, or all three."
"You mean, one criminal who happens to be all three, or three different criminals raiding this store at the same time?" Mike teased her, raising his eyebrows.
Brenda groaned. "I'm serious," she maintained, glaring at him. "Everyone knows that around here, decent people don't leave their homes pass seven pm."
"Implying that there are decent people in this town. Other than you and me, I mean," Mike commented, before tapping Brenda on the head and missing with her hair. "How cute. Always an optimist."
They both flinched at the sound of the bell placed above the door, quickly turning in the direction of the sound. They saw a tall, bulky man, about thirty five years old, dressed in red T-shirt and scuffed jeans, entered the store. He briefly glared at them, a grim look on his face, his fists clenched. Mike and Brenda assumed that he was a trucker, because they had heard what sounded like a large vehicle pulling up close to the store. He seemed... angry. And both of them knew that the truckers usually only stopped at truck stops and gas stations. Not some convenience store. Especially in this town, where even pulling up at the gas station in broad daylight could easily be the death sentence. They observed him intently, doing their best not to show any fear. Eventually, he made his way further down the store, and disappeared between the shelves, barely even paying attention to them. Both Mike and Brenda sighed in relief, their pulse slowly returning to normal.
"God..." Brenda muttered, a nervous smile playing on her lips.
"Hey, no reason to worry," Mike said, grinning at her. "If that guy had tried anything, I would have kicked hid ass."
"Not so loud, please," Brenda told him, looking around. She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "God... I hate this town."
"Who doesn't?" Mike agreed more than asked, suddenly serious. "But we just have to wait..."
"And stay alive," Brenda added, cringing as she did.
"...Yeah, that too," Mike agreed, nodding his head. "But once we finally save enough money, we can leave and never come back," he said under his breath, moving a bit closer to Brenda, his face flushed, his eyes wide with sudden excitement.
Brenda scoffed, though she felt herself blush. "Yeah... and when will that be?" she commented more than asked, staring blankly at the dirty streets and abandoned buildings outside.
"It doesn't have to be a lot, just enough for a ticket and some cheap place to stay," Mike assured her, sounding strangely opimistic. "Then we can finally move somewhere safer, nicer. Like Detroit, for example. Or East St. Louis."
Brenda turned to face him, nearly jumping from her seat. Mike just stared back at her, smiling mischievously. In the next moment, they both burst out laughing.
Just when they stopped laughing, they heard a loud noise coming from near by. They both flinched, with Brenda gasping silently, before realizing that the trucker had returned, and placed a beer crate on the counter; quite loudly. Upon realizing what was going on, Brenda swallowed a lump in her throat and rushed to charge him.
"You know, it isn't really... safe to leave your vehicle parked out here, unattended, at night. Even if it is locked, with a car alarm and all," Mike warned him, almost instinctively. He flinched, immediately regretting his intrusion, but it was too late.
The trucker glared at him. "You don't say," he scoffed.
Mike gulped, rushing to explain his concern in detail, despite all the instincts telling him to stay quiet. "Well, you know, typical things..." he started, desperately trying to come up with the right words. "Some guy may walk by, see it and decided to loot the car... or the truck, whatever... or some other guy sees it and decides to steal the whole... vehicle... or two guys try stealing the truck at the same time and end up killing each other over it, then the third one comes along, steals the truck and flees, and then when you're out looking for your truck, a few other guys jump you, bludgeon you, stab you, point a gun to your head, steal your wallet, watch... or a kidney..."
"I'm fine, thank you," the trucker replied, gritting his teeth.
"You probably shouldn't be, you know... consuming this while driving," Brenda said, trying to sound as polite and well-intended as possible. "Just saying."
The trucker glared at her, grimacing. "Screw you."
After the quick trip to the convenience store, Jeremy quickly made his way back to his truck, that was parked on the vast parking lot, two blocks away from the store. It was still there. Just in case, he leaned over and took a good look at the back seat. It was definitely empty. He sighed, put the beer crate down, quickly removed the wheel locks from both front tires, unlocked the truck door, picked up the beer cart, and jumped inside. He placed the crate on the passenger seat, pulled out a bottle, opened it with his teeth, spat the cap aside, and immediately chugged down half of it. Screw those kids. And the cops. The beer would always help him stay awake during the long night rides.
He was driving relatively slowly, taking a sip of beer every now and then, doing his best to pay close attention to the road, and his surroundings. He couldn't drive fast in that town: most of the roads were bumpy, street signs were old and damaged more often than not, plenty of street lights had been busted, and there was always a possibility that some nutjob high on drugs (or just some idiot running away from the cops) would run in front of your vehicle. Crossroads. Jeremy knew the whole town pretty well, but some parts were always... remarkable. So many abandoned buildings and houses, not to mention abandoned factories, looking like a bomb had gone off inside. Some sort of a cross or memoriam on almost every street corner. Homeless people sleeping in alleyways and on street corners. (Some of them were probably dead.) Bunch of graffittis on pretty much every building... even suburban homes. If there ever was a place that deserved to be burned to the ground...
After about forty minutes, Jeremy felt a need to relieve himself. Fortunately, his GPS showed that there was a truck stop restroom located just down the road, half a mile away. He sighed in relief upon reaching it. There were no other trucks parked out front, though the lights inside were clearly on. He pulled over and quickly exited the truck, locking the doors behind. He took a good look around before heading into the restroom. Nobody appeared to be close by, and there was nothing suspicious around... but Jeremy still felt unease. Of course, almost anyone felt like that when being outside at night, in Crossroads... but that time was different somehow. It was like the lights on inside the restroom really set off his alarm bells, for some reason.
Jeremy walked inside the restroom, made two steps forward... and stopped in his tracks upon seeing a dead body lying on the floor.
Jeremy gasped and jumped in place. He quickly looked around, immediately pulling a switchblade out of his pocket, then rushed outside and toward his truck, carefully inspecting the area as he did. Not a soul, not a sound. The killer was definitely no longer there. He stopped and took a deep breath, taking a few moments to calm himself down before going back inside the restroom.
Jeremy slowly made his way back to the body, his stomach in knots, cold sweat covering his forehead and back, his heart still thundering against his chest. The victim was a young African American woman. Her nude body was covered with bruises and stab wounds, especially the face and chest area. Jeremy leaned over and checked his pulse. There was none. And her skin was cold. Just like he had expected.
Jeremy sighed, before pulling out his phone and glancing at the screen. Luckily, there was phone reception there. "Not again..." he muttered as he dialed 911.
#
Four days later, BAU found themselves with a busy day ahead of them. Early that morning, everyone was sitting at the round table, already flipping through the latest case file (well, files) on their tablets. Well, everyone but Penelope Garcia, who was standing next to the screen, a remote in her hand, and Spencer Reid, who was standing right next to her, an excited but also concerned look on his face.
"Let me introduce you guys to Crossroads, Indiana," Garcia exclaimed as she clicked on the remote, maps and panorama shots appearing on the screen. "The locals of Crossroads, Indiana, located on the Eastern bank of the Wabash River, like to think of themselves and their town as the cousin of Perrysville, which is on the Western Bank. In reality, however, Crossroads is little more than a wide space in the road on State Road 32, that serves predominantely as a Truck Stop for delivery drivers within the Mid-Westerns State of Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Nebraska and Kentucky."
"Ah, Crossroads," Rossi remarked, sighing heavily as he started flipping through the case file. "The place where the notorious 2007 Crossroads massacre took place."
"Not to be mistaken with the original 2007 Crossroads massacre, that took place in January the same year, but was a completely unrelated crime," Spencer clarified, though that information even made him shiver.
"And with that, I shall hand the torch to the good doctor, who has expressed desire to present this case to you," Garcia exclaimed, handing the remote to Reid.
"I've studied that town for years," Reid remarked, giving Penelope a grateful smile.
"However, I will stay here to make sure everything goes... alright," Penelope declared, glaring at the remote in Spencer's hand as she sat down.
"This place consistently ranks as one of the highest murder rates per capita in the USA, for over two decades," Spencer explained. "it has been mentioned on almost every FBI briefing meeting at least once; it has been a subject of several true-crime books and documentaries... I'm actually surprised we haven't been called in sooner. Really fascinating case study. There have been two true-crime books written about the town itself, and three about the particular cases from it."
"I guess we can be looking at three new books soon," Rossi commented.
"Murder is almost an everyday occurrence in that town, and they... haven't had lots of positive experiences with the FBI," Emily explained. "But the local police department had pretty much no choice but to call us in by this point."
"On June 11th 2018, 17-year-old Lisa Monroy had her throat slit in an alleyway," Spencer started, clicking on the remote, as Penelope observed him carefully, sighing in relief once everything turned out alright. Several crime scene photographs immediately popped up on the screen. "Her body was discovered the next morning, by the waste collectors. The killer had put it in a nearby dumpster and covered it with trash."
"The investigation revealed she was a high-risk victim; a runaway and a prostitute," JJ read, sadness evident in her voice.
"Little over a month later, on July 15th, twenty five years old Shanna Ketchum, African American, was bludgeoned and garroted to death in an alleyway," Spencer continued, clicking at the remote again. Anothet set of crime scene photpgraphs, showing a completely different woman, appeared on the screen. "Long criminal record for prostitution, grand larceny and drug possession. No effort to delay the discovery of the body."
"No apparent connection between the victims... other than their "profession"," Luke remarked.
"On August 30th, 30-year-old Maggie Brenner, Caucasian, also a prostitute, was found bludgeoned to death in an alleyway," Spencer stated, as a new set of crime scene photographs appeared on the screen, only to soon be replaced with a different set. "On October 10th, Johnny Gould, Caucasian, 19-year-old male prostitute, was found bludgeoned to death in a local park."
"Heavy, blunt object," Tara read. "Most likely a hammer, possibly a crowbar."
"And on October 22nd, five days ago, 22-year-old African American prostitute, Natalie Jones, was found bludgeoned to death in a truckstop bathroom," Spencer concluded, letting out a heavy sigh.
"A definite pattern," David noted. "All the victims were prostitutes, most of them bludgeoned to death and left on public places. The first two murders are different, but that is not uncommon. When committing their first murder, most of the unsubs are nervous, sloppy, they just want to get it over with and flee. They often feel disgust or remorse afterwards, or simply panic, and try to cover up their crime. Then they grow bolder, but they often still experiment, trying to find themselves. By the third murder, the unsub has established his M.O.; bludgeoning, attacking and leaving the victims on public locations, late at night. Leaving the latest victim in a truck stop restroom could mean that he is escalating. Of course, maybe that, too, was a pick-up spot."
"He is murdering both male and female prostitutes," Luke noted. "He could be bisexual. Or brutally murdering his victims, male or female, is simply what gets him off."
"No evidence of sexual assault on any of the victims," JJ read. "He could suffer from erectile dysfunction. That could explain all this rage."
"Or he is simply an opportunistic sexual sadist," Luke countered.
"The unsub might not be sexually motivated," Tara suggested. "He could be a moral vigilante. A "house cleaner". That would explain why is he murdering both male and female prostitutes, and why is he leaving the bodies on public locations, without any attempt to hide them. He could be sending a message. And a warning."
"Which, sadly, is probably why this isn't the only series of murders currently happening in Crossroads," Spencer informed them, a grim look on his face. "On September 28th 2018, 40-year-old Robert West, a local trucker, was found shot to death downtown, near an abandoned steel mill. The killer used a .45 caliber gun. Multiple gunshot wounds, mostly to the head and chest. Robert's truck was left at the scene, with the cargo intact, but robbery hasn't been ruled out as the motive. His wallet and watch were missing, as well as the car radio."
Spencer sighed before clicking at the remote again, a different set of crime scene photographs appearing on the screen. "On October 10th, 30-year-old old Michael Gray, also a trucker, Caucasian, was found shot to death near an abandoned chocolate factory. Once again, truck and cargo were left intact, but smaller valuables were missing, including Michael's wedding ring. Ballistics proved that the same gun was used to murder Robert West two weeks prior. No match in IBIS."
Another click; a new set of crime scene photographs. "On October 18th, 30-year-old old truck driver named James Miller, African American, was found shot to death near an inactive coal mine. .45 caliber gun was used. The same one."
And, immediately afterwards, information about one more victim. "And on October 25th, two days ago, 28-years-old Joe Hill, a truck driver, Caucasian, was found shot to death near an abandoned car parts factory. Ballistic analysis came back as a match. The same gun used to commit the previous three murders," Spencer concluded, sounding both intrigued and quite worried, almost creeped out, at the same time.
"In all four cases, the victims had also been pistol whipped and shot in the knees or hands, indicating torture," JJ read, frowning. "And all four victims were found completely naked, but the autopsy revealed no evidence of sexual assault, or a recent sexual activity in general."
"Removing their clothes could be a forensic countermeasure," Matt suggested.
"Or an intimidation tactic, if the unsub makes them undress before torturing them and killing them," Rossi countered. "Makes them feel exposed, more vulnerable, and even less likely to try to flee or fight back."
"The motive seems less clear with these murders," Tara pointed out, frowning. "The murders don't appear to be sexually motivated. Some valuables are stolen, but I'm not sure is that reason enough for four brutal murders. The victims could be surrogates for someone."
"Or maybe the unsub has something against the truckers, or the trucking industry in general," Matt suggested.
"Maybe, though it is hard to see why," Emily commented. "Truckers are the main sources of income in that town. And they sure need any profit that they can get."
"All four victims were killed while on their route, not while driving back," JJ noted. "But even though the unsub stole their wallets and watches, as well as car radios, the cargo was always left behind."
"The first victim was transporting furniture," Matt read, frowning. "The second was transporting fruits and vegetables. The third victim was transporting various kitchen appliances. The fourth victim was transporting various car parts and tools."
"Maybe the unsub simply doesn't have access to the vehicle necessary to transport all those valuables, and he knows that stealing the whole truck would be too risky, too noticeable," Luke suggested. "Especially since they are all equipped with GPS."
"In that town, it would be more difficult to find someone who owns the car," Emily commented. "Legally."
"To say that they have their share of troubles would be an understatement of a century," Spencer agreed. "Which leads us to the third current series of murders taking place there..."
Rossi groaned, leaning back in his seat. "You gotta be kidding me," he commented, rubbing his forehead.
Spencer rushed to summatrize the third case to the team, clicking on the remote every ten seconds, as Garcia carefully observed the device in his hand, a worried look on her face. "Timothy Lehane, 50, Caucasian, homeless man, shot to death in an alleyway on September 5th," Spencer started, both excitement and worry evident in his voice. "Veronica Johnson, 25, Caucasian, cashier, shot to death on September 22nd, in front of the mall she worked at, while she was out on a smoke break. Tracy Jeffries, 27, African American, a prostitute, shot to death while exiting the apartment building she lived in, on October 5th. Peter Monroe, 16, Caucasian, a High school student, shot to death while entering school grounds, on October 17th. And Michael Davis, 30, African American, security guard shot to death in front of the city hospital he worked at on October 24th, three days ago. All victims were shot in drive-by shootings, with a high-powered hunting rifle."
"Victims of varying age, sex and ethnicities, shot to death on public locations, sometimes in a drive-by shooting, no evidence of torture or sexual assault, no apparent financial gain derived from the murders, no apparent connection between the victims, all the attacks have taken place early in the morning or the afternoon... it all points to the thrill kill," Emily concluded, a worried expression on her face.
"He managed to murder all of them in a drive-by shooting, and he seems to aim for the head and neck," Spencer pointed out. "Kill-shots. He is definitely methodical and experienced."
"And the ballistic analysis showed that CZ-550 American Safari Magnum was used in all five murders," Rossi read. "No match in IBIS. We should look into local hunters, as well as go to the local shooting ranges and ask around, see if someone have been practicing a lot recently."
"According to the witness statements, and two of the viable security footages, red Sedan was used in shootings #1 and #4, while a dark-blue SUV was used in the shootings #2, #3 and #5," JJ read, frowning. "Both cars had tinted windows, so there is no clear recording of the driver's face. Both license plates numbers were recorded, and they were both traces back to the cars that had been impounded to the junkyard years ago."
"Somebody who owns two different vehicles," Tara noted. "There can't be many of such people in that town, I'd bet."
"Owns, or has an access to," Spencer remarked. "Car theft is extremely common there... as well as pretty much any other kind of crime. Though we should also look into people who work in car repair shops and car hire companies."
"Two serial killers active in the same city or town at the same time is rare, but not unheard of," Matt pointed out, shifting in his seat. "We recently worked on a case like that in Detroit. Three though... that is pretty extreme."
"As of 2016, their average murder rate in "Crossroads" has been three per week," Spencer explained. "And now, with three serial killers active in the town at the same time, that is probably on an all-time rise."
"The last thing they need," Rossi commented.
"This whole town is creepy as hell," JJ noted. "Has been for years, from what I've heard."
"According to about 90 percent of online comments about that town, "Crossroads" makes Gary, Indiana look like a Mayberry," Rossi clarified.
"Yikes," Tara remarked, shuddering.
"Honestly, I doubt that place was ever nice," Luke said.
"Back in 2005, the town's population was 25000," Spencer pointed out. "At the 2010 consensues, it was 19000. As of 2016, it was 14000 estimated. Probably even lower now."
"Most of permanent residents don't leave their homes pass seven pm, from what I've heard," Emily added.
"Do they have security cameras?" Tara wondered. "At every corner, preferrably?"
"They are still working on that," Spencer explained, a solemn look on his face. "Most of the cameras get smashed beyond repair within days of being put up, or even stolen, and the town's budget is, well, almost non-existent by this point, so..."
"Their major herself recently stated that, if depression and misery had a capital, "Crossroads" would be it," Emily revealed.
"The only unsolved school shooting in the US history took place there, back in 2010," Spencer pointed out, still eager to discuss the town's bizarre-and violent-history. "Ten students and staff murdered, twenty wounded. In 2012, a group of centrist extemists planned to poison the town's drinking water with cyanide, but they were all murdered in an unrelated home invasion/robbery gone wrong, before they could carry out the attack. While processing the crime scene, the detectives found ten barrels full of cyanide hidden in the basement, as well as information about the town's water system on the victim's laptops, and a 200-page long manifesto detailing their ideology, as well as the terrorist plot."
"Radical centrism is a thing?" JJ asked, frowning.
"It is in Crossroads," Spencer answered, wincing. "Well, it was..."
"I have a friend who had the misfortune of driving through that town three years ago," Luke revealed, grimacing. "At one point, he was in his car, waiting at the train crossing for some big, long train to pass, so he could continue driving down the road, and there were several other cars behind him. He was bored, looking at the rear view mirror and stuff, and he saw several thugs walk over to one of the cars parked behind him, at the end of the line. A family of four was inside. The thugs forced open the car door, beat up everyone inside, beat them to a bloody pulp, and stole everything from the victims and from inside the car. Watches, wallets, car radio, all. Then they moved on to the second car and did the same, moving towards the end of the line, towards my friend. And, of course, the train was driving really slow and was, like, terrifying long. Well, terrifyingly in that context. My friend tried calling 911, but there was no phone signal. It could have been a coincidence, but I think the thugs used some sort of device to jam the signal. Luckily, just when the thugs were about to approach the last car, his car, the train was gone, and he drove off, going 150 mph. He still has nightmares about that night."
"Imagine living in that place permanently," JJ commented, clearly uncomfortable by that very thought.
"Well, we're about to spend at least a few days there," Tara pointed out, tremors evident in her voice.
"The situation is definitely serious, and those people need our help now, more than ever," Emily declared, standing up. "Wheels up in twenty."
"To the murderous, crime-ridden wasteland we go!" Rossi exclaimed upon standing up and heading outside with Emily, followed by the others.
#
15-year-old Anthony Stork sighed as he cleared out his locker, before glancing at the clock on the wall. 3:30 pm. He sighed before shoving his wallet and cellphone down his pocket, and walked out of the locker room and then outside through the back door, feeling a shiver go down his back as he stepped out on the street.
He kept looking around, hands down his pockets, one of them constantly gripping the cellphone in his pocket. He had managed to leave work for over three months without getting assaulted or something worse, but he was still constantly careful and tense, on the look out. He had no other choice: his parents didn't own a car (anymore), they were currently at work anyway, and the closest bus station was half a mile away. And they definitely needed money. Still, when he was close to reaching the closest bus stop, without experiencing anything uncomfortable or even witnessing anything suspicious, he breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, he had to skip school, but at least this was much safer than returning home following late-afternoon, or a night shift.
Just when he felt at ease, making his way down the small alleyway, Anthony suddenly felt someone jump next to him, grip his collar and push him against the wall. He gasped, his heart skipping a beat, and found himself face to face with a young brunette, who pressed a knife against his throat.
"Don't move, don't make a sound," the woman hissed, holding the blade firmly against throat, pressing it so hard she almost drew blood.
"God..." Anthony whimpered, his face pale, his whole body shaking.
"Quiet!" the mugger hissed, pressing the blade even harder as she leaned over, her eyes burning through. "Give me all your money or I'm gonna cut you to the ribbons!" she hissed, every word dripping with anger.
Anthony gulped. He knew that he was in danger and that he should just comply, but it was like he froze up, like he couldn't say or do anything, and as if his mind still couldn't process it all. He looked around, desperately hoping to spot someone who would save him, or something that he could use to fight off the mugger. But there was no one around. And nothing around, except for abandoned buildings, dumpsters, and some bricks and beer bottles, all way too far out of his reach.
"Eyes on me!" the mugger commanded. "Nobody is here to help you. Come on!"
Anthony knew the safest thing to do was to simply give the money. But he simply couldn't follow through with that idea, for some reason.
"I... My family needs the money..." Anthony tried, his heart pounding in his chest, cold sweat covering his body.
"Shut up!" the mugger spat out, nearly slicing over neck. Anthony cried out, nearly falling down due to shock. "Are you stupid? Money! All!"
Finally, Anthony complied. He slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed it to the mugger. He felt a sharp pain in his chest as he saw the mugger take it, a wide grin on her face. But he had no other choice.
"Thanks," the mugger said mockingly, holding the wallet tightly. She took a step closer, looking Anthony in the eyes as she glared at him, pressing the blade even harder against his throat. "Now I've got your IDs," she whispered in a sinister voice, smirking as she did. "I know where you live. Where your family lives. Don't say a word about this. Clear?"
Anthony nodded his head, unable to say anything.
"Good boy," the mugger whispered, before stepping aside and removing the blade from his throat. Anthony gasped in relief, immediately reaching out to touch his neck, crying out in relief once he realized there was no blood.
The mugger chuckled, glancing at Anthony as she walked away. "Chickenshit," she commented before opening the wallet and looking inside, still holding the knife in her hand.
Just as the mugger made the first two steps down the street, a shot rang out. The mugger cried out in pain and fear and fell down on the ground, blood pouring out of the gunshot wound on her chest, her face twisted in pain and shock. Anthony screamed and quickly ducked down, covering his head with his hands, just around the time when the second shot rang out.
Anthony remained in that position for ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Nothing. No more gunshots. No sounds at all, except for weak cries and groans. He finally looked up and carefully looked around, examining the area. There was nobody around. He straightened himself up and examined the area again. Nothing. The shoots must have came from that car; that was long gone by that point.
A bit calmer, he swallowed a lump in his throat and took a deep breath. His gaze soon landed on the young woman bleeding on the pavement... and his wallet, lying right next to her. Two gunshot wounds: one on her chest, the other to her neck. He walked over to the victim and stared down at her, his fists clenched, a glare forming in his look as he noticed the knife laying on the ground next to her, and kicked it away. She looked up at him pleadingly, blood pouring out of her chest and mouth, her face pale and her eyes watery, filled with fear and pain.
"Please..." she barely managed to speak up, her breathing labored and uneven. "Please... I don't have the phone... call 911... get me help... call an ambulance, quickly, I'm begging you... ple-"
"Nobody is here to help you," Anthony calmly replied, before leaning over, picking up his wallet off the ground, and walking away. "Chickenshit."
By the time she took her last breath, he was long gone.
~OPENING ROLES AND CREDITS~