It's likely you will find errors and such but I thought i'd share it none the less.
A clap of thunder roars through the night sky, accompanied by a glimmer of lightning, illuminating the darkened street below. Rain falls like torrents from the murky twilight above, knocking upon the roof of the car as it travels towards the floor. I roll down the car window, close my eyes and extend my arm drenching it with the heavy rainfall outside; to serve as a reminder that I’m still alive.
Drawing my arm back inside the car, I fumble around my coat pocket for a book of matches. Taking one out, accidently dropping the remainder, I strike it taking the cigarette rested between my fingers and place it on my lips. The brief burning smell of the match fills my nostrils and the warm glow of the flame embraces me. I take a draw from the cigarette, exhaling the smoke I let out a long dejected sigh.
Finally opening my eyes, I’d come to the realization that I've been sat here far longer than I'd anticipated, long enough to know something isn't right.
I’m waiting for them to make a move. One last piece, one last piece of evidence is all I need. One more thing and they will finally be put to justice and this whole nightmare will finally be over.
At least that’s what I’ve come to believe…
Wanted for the murder of countless criminals and low life’s in the area, steeped in irony by the fact they themselves are now regarded as a criminal.
Everybody has the right to a fair trial or so they say something which the murderer shows a blatant disregard for. I found myself tied in the middle of a moral conflict. Rapists, murderers, thugs; do they really deserve a fair trial? On the other side of the coin they could be innocent men, in which case a trial and sufficient evidence would prove their innocence.
I should head back to my office and review all of the current evidence, time to think up a new approach to the case.
Upon arrival I notice the door is ajar, I slowly ready my pistol and enter. There’s nobody here although a brown envelope is placed prominently on the desk. I open the damp tattered envelope and inspect the note inside, it reads; here is your final piece of evidence, what will you choose to do with it?
My stomach sinks and a powerful chill races down my spine and paralyzes me. The handwriting is all too familiar. How is this true, could she really be responsible for the murders?