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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required They would never catch him for they were not global thinkers. Good ole’ boy thinkers who were not forensic experts in any way. Stale men who had not been through police training for so long, They let people walk through the clerk’s blood trail at the first murder scene. Sheriff Dickerson was a nice guy, but he was a born and bred small town fish. His deputy, Chet, followed him around like a puppy, asking him questions And he had been his deputy for nigh onto twenty-six years. I had been their school teacher; neither had taken to books. Dickerson was a math whiz. The only thing Chet could do was run track, so he did that. I raced down there the second I heard about the second murder. “Miss Marnie! What are you doing here?” they asked. Dickerson gave me a smile. Chet glowered at me. He has held a grudge since I flunked him in second grade. “Don’t you think it odd that this is the second murder in the same store?” I asked them. “What clues do you have?” They gave me all of their clues, I was their teacher, right? “I cannot help you with this one, I told them. Not enough clues.” “We know he was wearing a blue hat,” Chet said. “And he was driving a black car.” “I drive a black car,” I told them. “Want to look it over?” Even Chet laughed. I made my way down to that store for murder numbers three, four, and five too. They gave me all their clues. I went home, satisified. They thought it had been a man. Wrong. They thought he was wearing a blue cap. Wrong. They thought it could not possibly be me. Wrong.
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