I, Jimmy Cheng

7. A Little After That

7. A Little After That

The cops were ones Tim Pryce (the one with less hair and shorter) and Sam Grandin (the one with more hair and taller). Tim had a wooden crucifix hanging around his neck, while Sam had traces of a tattoo poking outside his undershirt. A tiny, black stroke of a shape.

They questioned Oliver and I together, and jotted a few things down on their notepad. It went on for a few minutes, starting with all the basics (what did you see?) to them eventually asking about the murderers themselves.

I told the cops about the details on their van.

“It was white. I didn’t catch the license plates or the brand. But the van had some kind of decorative puzzle piece.”

“A puzzle piece, you say?”

“Yeah. It was hanging on the mirror.”

Moving on.

“Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Melissa?”

That was more a question for Oliver than it was for me. All I knew was that she knew that someone was going to try and do something to her. And for whatever reason, she thought it was me. 

Of course, I didn’t admit that much. Strangely enough, Oliver on the other hand had even less to tell the cops on that front.

“I don’t know.”

Tim scratched his nose. Sam bit his lip. The former turned to me and asked the next question.

“What about you?”

“No. We never talked. But she was a little off lately.”

“How do you mean?”

“She was a little emotional,” I told him, and my wandering eyes happened to catch Oliver’s. “I saw her crying yesterday and the day before.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. We never talked.”

“What do you mean, never talked?”

He asked it like there was some kind of hidden meaning behind my statement.

“We weren’t friends.”

Oliver cut in.

“She was worried about something.”

“Worried about what?”

“She didn’t say. She wouldn’t tell me anything. I think that whoever,” he paused. “She probably knew who it was. That was why she never wanted to leave the house without me. She was afraid.”

“Melissa was in some kind of trouble.”

“Yeah. She was. But I don’t know why.”

“Was she having problems with friends?”

“No.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Of course.”

“Problems with money?”

“No.”

“Did she ever talk about money?”

“No.”

“Did she ever do drugs?”

“No.”

Oliver scratched his head, and something came up.

“My tires were scratched,” he said. “They must have done that on purpose. Whoever it was, they were targeting her so they slashed my wheels.”

I slumped in my chair, trying to make myself as invisible as I possibly could.

“It might have been vandals,” I said, throwing it in the air, hoping it would stick. Oliver wasn’t having it.

“It was them. I know it was them.”

“Any names?”

He shook his head.

The cops sighed. No leads. No answers. Not so much as a wild theory. For the next few minutes they bombarded us both with more questions about the shooter until the doctor came in and allowed Oliver and the policemen to examine the body.

“Can I go home now?” I asked.

“For now,” came the one with more hair. Sam. “We’ll let you know if we have any more questions.”

I was definitely not excited for that.

“Sure thing officers. Happy to help.”

This has been a novel by Mortimer Jackson. New chapter will be released every Sunday right here on Wattpad. You can also find the completed work on Smashwords. For more of Mortimer Jackson's works, visit his website:

www.themorningdread.weebly.com