TITLE: An Obscure Homicide
Jimmy Madison didn't look like a killer.
When mothers saw him jogging along the beach, they'd think, now there's a nice boy. Why can't my daughter meet a guy like that? He was tall and lanky, with a cheerful countenance and the kind of wide-eyed innocence you'd associate with a child, although he had a bullet-hole scar in his back. Barely nineteen, he looked like a surfer with long blond hair and deeply tanned face, but he had an air of purpose about him that people admired even without knowing he went to the community college at night and worked full-time to help support his family.
Those admiring sidewalk mothers—unaware his father was serving a life term back in Connecticut for murdering a young girl—would figure, correctly, that Jimmy already had a girlfriend. In fact, he was happily engaged to his high school sweetheart, the wedding six months away. He was working hard, saving money.
Killing was just part of his job.
He sat on the sand and closed his eyes, anticipating.
Once you were in the mood, it was easy and fun. Not to mention exciting.
You squeeze the trigger. The recoil from the weapon—a 9 mm Uzi, a Heckler & Koch MP7, or a ridiculously potent multi-barreled auto-feed cannon—throws you backward. The explosion pounds your eardrums. The bright flash lingers on your retina. The projectile sears the gap, leaving a faint trail of pungent smoke and displaced air, and slams into the enemy.