John pulled forward and parked next to the cruiser giving it a wide berth just in case his luck turns out like it normally does. He got out and looked around quickly to make sure no one was watching. He scolded himself for it, be he was always nervous around crime scenes. No matter how many he’d been to, he always felt guilty without knowing why. It’s not like he did anything wrong and the reporter would make a terrible suspect, he thought. Or would that make him the perfect suspect because no one would ever expect Joe Journalist of foul play. He could at least stop acting shifty, he thought as he snuck over to the window, avoiding the loose rocks and broken glass in the parking lot.
His hand reached for the door knob, but he stopped and reached up to wipe the window so he could sneak a peak inside. He smeared the grim on the window, but wasn’t able to clean the pane. The windows were spray painted black from the inside. The secret lab of Dr. Victor Salas, he thought looking at his filthy palm. Gross.
John crunched across the broken glass, more concerned with the crud that was on his hand. He grabbed a cleaning wipe from his trunk and wiped off his hand. Can’t have dirty hands when talking to the cops, he thought. He smirked. That’s a phrase that’s never going to become popular.
336/50,000
: |
Seriously tired of being sick.
Hang in there, buddy.