By Garry Vakarian
After two hours on the road, she arrived at the suspect’s house. Lost in the woods, it was an old mansion that looked more like a ruin or a haunted house than the golden boy’s villa she was led to believe it was on paper.
She stepped out of her Chevrolet Suburban and immediately she felt oppressed, the dark and cold air pierced her body like daggers. The smell around the mansion was foul and the atmosphere as unwelcoming as possible. The gate at the front fell down on the un-mowed lawn and the windows were closed.
She reached up to the door and knocked. Gently at first then increasingly louder as nobody was answering her calls. She was about to give up when her last stroke on the old door broke the rotten wood around the lock. Slowly the door opened with a screeching sound.
“FBI!” she shouted at the empty darkness in front of her. Nothing. She decided to enter and take a quick look, even if it was contrary to the Bureau’s regulations.
Inside the entryway she could spot some old and dusty furniture at first, but when her eyes adjusted to the penumbra, she noticed some recent footprints leading to the staircase. There was no sound around but her gut feelings told her she was not alone.
She took out her flashlight and her Glock from the holster on her belt, and walked up the stairs. She was trying to stay as silent as possible while she reached the second floor and walked all the way to the bedroom door.
After a brief pause, she carefully turned the knob and discovered the truth…