Detective Wilkinson had worked the crime scene, outside the victim’s home. He’d been in a fight, there were defensive bruises on his inside wrists and a large bruise on his face but Wilkinson soon realized that wasn’t the cause of his demise. It was a gunshot he hadn’t seen coming.
Someone had been waiting for the victim. Whether they knew where he lived, or followed him home, for whatever reason, he hadn’t turned to look at who was behind him. His keys were still clutched in his hand. Whoever shot him, was either lucky or had good aim because he’d been killed instantly.
Wilkinson held the Vic’s cell phone in his hand and tracked through it hoping to find family or friends. The next-door neighbours knew him, but not well. Said he was friendly, amiable, and quiet overall. Once a year, he threw a party which the neighbours were invited to and he had never caused trouble.
The victim, John Harrison, 30 years old owned his home. From what he could see, he took care of himself, exercised or ran and was muscled, not excessively, but nicely. He’d been handsome and even the photos with he assumed family, showed a positive happy spirit emanated from him. It begged the question, then about who was so angry they wanted him dead.
After contacting family and relating the heart-breaking news that would forever change their lives, a part of the job he found abhorrent, he asked about his friends and which ones he was closest to.
Jerald Abernathy and Don Arrowsmith were exceedingly close, they’d grown up together, attended university together, and still hung out. When asked they’d all agreed that neither would be responsible in any way for an attack on John.
Wilkinson contacted both men, in person, told them the news, watching their reaction intently. Both men were seriously affected and it was obvious they were close and cared. When asked if they knew anyone with a grudge or angry with Harrison, they’d said not that they were aware of. He tended to keep business separate but that they’d all attended a bar the night he was killed and a brawl had ensued. Some drunk ass had bumped into John and spilled his beer all over him and even though John had shaken it off, the guy insinuated John was responsible and wouldn’t let it go. It was after the guy came at John and began throwing punches that they’d decided to leave. They’d agreed on another bar and had eaten dinner there, enjoyed a beer and left early since John had an early morning meeting he wanted to prepare for. That left Detective Wilkinson in little doubt that it was highly possible the drunk from the bar might have followed him and shot him. When asked if they knew the individual involved in the brawl, they’d said no, he was just a random bloke from the pup.
Wilkinson knew he had his leg work cut out for him, so he went to the bar in question and asked who had seen the brawl and whether they knew who was involved. He had a name, a regular that was a bit of a hothead and whom they’d thrown out on more than one occasion.
It seemed inconceivable that John could have been killed over a spilled drink, one he was the recipient of, but as Wilkinson headed out the door he knew murders had happened over far less. He sighed in frustration at the knowledge that so many had so little self-control and were so eager for vengeance or trouble that it could escalate into murder.