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Suspense Murder Mystery

Our young heroine sat at her desk, listened and
daydreamed. "...Most criminals are too stupid for that,
though. Instead of committing their crime themselves, they
wear a mask and let their mask identity commit the crime, then
try to become their old appearance identity again. This, in the
criminal vernacular is 'fucked up!' My way would work so
much better, see? The criminal himself would commit the
crime, not the criminal trying to be an innocent hiding behind a
mask. The criminal's appearance identity would be the
obvious suspect, meanwhile the criminal has assumed his
mask identity and joins the ranks of the accusing citizenry.
You see, my way there is no mystery, there is no need for
those gaudy courts of law! The criminal did it! Everyone
knows that-she looked right at the cameras and said 'IT WAS
ME, MOTHERFUCKERS! COME AND GET ME!' Then
two weeks later the fellow, who was the criminal is sitting
home watching the news behind his beard and business suit
mask saying 'I HOPE THEY FRY THAT PUNK!' But See,
the old way, there was mystery. It was a big mystery--the
guilty party could be anybody and since the criminal was part
of anybody, the criminal might be considered as a suspect of
guilt. He's screwed from the start--but not my way, see .... "
The academic's argument would go on for hours, but having
lost interest in the argument, the academic, and the
schoolhouse as a whole, our heroine excused herself from
class and left for home. It's not that she didn't have reason to
consider the academic or his argument. He was actually quite

handsome and after all she was a criminal herself now. So as a
member of The Wanted, she would have done well to consider
the ideas being presented before her, but then again it was a
little late for such ideas now and besides, she was beginning to
feel a little hungry.

Presently she had disembarked from the bus, followed
the sidewalk to her house and was standing on her beloved
porch. Actually, the porch was only a set of three steps and a
small landing, but she liked to think of it as a porch anyway.
As was her nightly ritual, she peered into the box on the wall

56 Contrast Spring 1988