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Aug. 8th, 2005 05:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seymoure“The Letter”
The seventh case file was the first to contain something other than newspapers articles and police pictures. The only other piece of hard evidence they had gotten came, or so it claimed, from the killer himself.
Four days after the killing of #6 (Jason Davidson, 17) this letter was pushed under the door of this newspaper office.
On it, in glued words, was a poem.
They had recognized the cut out words (most were full words, a couple were individual letters cut out to form words. Possibly because the one who put together the letter couldn’t find just the words he wanted complete.)
Most of the words were obviously from comic books. A couple were news print that might have come from some mail order catalog or the like, but they were never 100% sure.
All of the boy’s rooms were rechecked, but none of them had any comic books, even though their mothers seemed to remember them reading them. Could they have been taken by the killer?
Some one ever theorized that this might be a motive, before he was stared down by his F.B.I. compatriots.
Finally the letter was attributed to a crank. But it was still kept. The letter was never publicized either.
The letter said:
“I am the darkness,
I am the night,
I take your sons,
And leave you with fright.
A whole generation
Eaten by we soldiers of fear,
And you’ll never forget
The terror of this year.”
Shakespeare had nothing to worry about.
They had always said that it was just a prank by some kid. Pappy always thought there was something here that they were all missing.
He thought he might take it over to Ames and let some of the folks
at the college look at it.
The worst they could tell him was that there was nothing to it, and he had heard that before.
His fingers stroked the paper, trying to feel something he hadn’t in the thousand times he had held the letter before.
There was something here that was the clue he needed.
Something here told him something about the killer. He had to find out who this guy was and why he would send this poem to him.
It was really personal now.
He was the only one left of the original investigators. If this was the same killer it was now the two of them, one on one.
He put the letter back in the envelope, set it aside, closed the seventh folder and put it in the smaller of the two stacks on the table.
Now he would move on to the eighth folder.
He didn’t know how much longer he could do this. © 2005 by C. Wayne Owens
