Fugitive

Chapter 9

A key card slot was placed just beside it. I swiped the card I had stolen from the cop on the ground moments earlier. The light flashed green and I opened the door. I flicked on the lights which immediately lit up the room. It was a fluorescent white light that made my skin look an awful shade. Like I had cancer or was on the verge of death. Most of the files are online now but there were still boxes and boxes sorted by year spread across two shelves. The other shelves were covered with evidence boxes. Again, these were sorted by date. 2009. 2012. 2008. 2008? Who the fuck organized this place? I backtracked and went around the corner. Finally, 2017. 

I checked my watch. Only a few more minutes. I was sweating under the pressure. There wasn't much there. It's a quiet town. I quickly found the evidence box. There was no time to check inside. Before I knew it, I was out the door. Unfortunately, so were the cops. They shouldn't have been back that quickly. It would have taken them exactly 12 minutes to get form the police station to the address I gave them. Then another 12 to get back. Not including a few minutes, they would spend there trying to figure what was going on. Someone must have traced the call or something. I could see their cars from the end of the street speeding in my direction. They skidded to a stop. 

Still running for the car, I looked back briefly. A gun was aimed at my back. "Freeze"! "Hands in the air Rogers"! I ignored the yelling and jumped into the car starting it in seconds. Right before it started I had this paralyzing fear that it wouldn't start. Which, from the state of it, is highly possible. The teen I stole it from must have been trying to be a mechanic. Trip out his car, make it go faster or something, sounds like something I would do. Anyway, he was clearly no mechanic. 

Shots were fired ricocheting off the car. The windshield shattered. I wound down my window and picked up my gun as I drove around the cop cars. One was already on the move turning around ready for pursuit. Bracing my injured shoulder against the seat and holding the staring wheel I used the other hand to put a bullet in the tires of each car. Perks of being a sniper. I was a good shot. One of the best. I was trained that way. 

I sped off with the evidence box in the back seat. I parked down an alleyway between a restaurant and an old nightclub. The building screaming for repair. No cops went past for a good five minutes so I figured I had lost the trail. The occasional group of people walked by. Girls wearing short dresses with low necklines and guys following their every move. I wanted to laugh at the sight. I was one of those guys once. 

The light in the car didn't provide much light. My eyes were adjusting. I didn't know what was inside the box. What they had against me. Either way I didn't stop to let myself think about it too much. Instead I lifted the top and stared at the contents inside. Inside an evidence bag was my gun. Of course, it would be here. There was a strand of hair in a smaller bag that looked a lot like mine. Stupid bloody cops. Wow you found a strand of my hair in the house I've been living in for two months. Shocker. 

Other than that, there really wasn't much physical evidence. There were two files. One contained information about my gun and the hair. They also had a bunch of fingerprints lifted from the scene. Nothing from the actual killer of course. My finger prints on the gun. A report about my 'motives'. Information about my therapy sessions. What the hell? I thought that stuff was confidential! I've never actually seen my therapy files.

 It's for the therapist only. I spared a moment to read through the comments. None of them really displayed me as a threatening person. Mostly the same kind of stuff. 'Jacob is working through facing what he has seen overseas as part of the marines. He feels central guilt for what he has done' or 'Jacob is suffering from mild depression, note: check keep eye out for more signs next session and recommend pills. Also, recommended he gets more involved with his work to keep mind occupied'. Mild depression huh?