Manhunt. Volume 2, Number 10, December, 1954

And even if they find it at once, nothing points to me. I got the car back in the garage and myself back in my room without incident. When Mother rapped on the door at six, I was deeply engrossed in my law books.

Friday night: I was up nearly all last night with both Mary’s folks and my own, waiting for some word from the police. Of course no word came.

I believe I act as convincingly worried as the others.

Saturday night: The police questioned me for a long time today, but seemed entirely unsuspicious. Since I have a perfect alibi and both Mary’s folks and mine told them Mary and I got along wonderfully, they haven’t any reason to be suspicious. Most of their questions were about whether anything had been on Mary’s mind recently, and particularly whether there was any possibility of her having eloped with some other man.

I told them the suggestion was preposterous, that we were engaged to be married and she never went with other men.

Monday night: Mary’s mother is confined to bed. Emotional upset, the doctor says. Last night, as we all sat around at Mary’s house waiting for the phone to ring, she suddenly screamed, “It would even be a relief to learn she’s dead! I can’t stand this not knowing another minute!”

Then she started to sob and was still sobbing when the doctor came.

I suppose it will be some time before Mary’s folks and mine stop talking about the mysterious disappearance. But eventually they’ll have to. You can’t sit up night after night forever waiting for news which is never going to arrive.

And I must be on with the Lord’s work.

Tonight: This is the first time I have watched you since Mary’s death. What would you think if you knew an agent of God was staring at you this very moment? Would you be frightened?

You should be, for at last I am able to penetrate that pleasant outer manner of yours and see the real person inside. I’m sickened that you can sit there, reading your magazine with such a serene expression on your face, when your mind is a sewer of carnal thoughts.

You look very comfortable sprawled in that chair. Do you know how I am watching you? Over the sights of my gun, which is centered on your neck just below the ear.

It’s time for you to start praying now, because my finger is whitening on the trigger...

Opportunity by Russell E. Bruce

The girl called up and said she was going to kill herself. That’s what gave the reporter his very special.

* * *

I was working the late rewrite trick when the call came in. The night city editor took it, then cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and yelled at me.

“This girl says she’s going to pull the dutch act. Talk to her while I try to trace it.”

I cursed silently as I cut in on the extension. God damn women; there’s always one phoning the City Room and saying she’s going to kill herself. Either they’re drunk or want assurance that their homemade sendoff will make page one.

I asked the girl her means of exit. A gun, she said. A gun, I told her, leaves a mess. So why didn’t she hike down to the corner drugstore for some sleeping pills? She started whimpering.

That did it. I said this was a damn busy newspaper and suggested she hang up like a nice girl and hit the sack.

Her voice became apologetic. She had mailed the newspaper a letter. Would I personally watch for it? She described the stationery and I said I would. She thanked me and blew her brains out.

Later I went back to Morgue for a routine background check before I wrote her obit. I didn’t expect to find anything; her name meant nothing to me. But there was a skinny folder with Ann Hastings typed neatly in the corner. Inside were two clips — a brief story and a picture.

The story told of her graduation from college with highest honors three years ago. The picture showed an attractive brunette accepting congratulations from her parents. But it was a dark little man standing slightly to the side that caught my attention. I put an eye glass on him to make sure. It was Louis J. Oriole.

Louie was top bully for the local political machine. A real nice fellow who got his kicks clobbering old women and children.

What the hell was a guy like Louie doing at the college graduation of a girl like Ann?

I went off duty at five in the morning and spent three hours in a bar trying for the answer. It wouldn’t come. I told no one about the picture or the letter. If there was a story, I wanted it for myself.

I returned to the office just in time to catch a copy boy coming in off the early morning mail run. He tossed the first class mail on a desk and I picked out the letter in a couple of seconds — a blue envelope with red lettering.

Inside was a key to a locker at the Central Bus Terminal.

The brief case wasn’t locked. I pulled out a batch of papers. On top was a short letter signed by Ann Hastings.