Three Ticks From Death E2

Female crime suspect


Some facts don’t add up and others curiously do. The detective must try to piece together clues before time runs out in this thrilling finale.

Tripple Jeopardy

The officers arrive at Shante’s apartment, shrouded in the darkness of the evening. As Detective Megan Anthony presses the doorbell, an eerie silence hangs in the air. It’s broken only by the distant echoes of city sounds. When there’s no response to the bell, Megan bangs on the door. Finally, Shante responds, “Who is it?”

Megan clears her throat, her voice steady yet laced with authority. “My name is Detective Megan Anthony. My partner and I have a few questions for you.” The door swings open, revealing a glimpse of the dimly lit apartment. Megan presents her identification, a flicker of apology dancing in her eyes. “Can we step in for a moment?”

Shante, her bloodshot eyes weary and filled with grief, allows them entry. The apartment exudes a sense of disarray, a reflection of the tumultuous events that have transpired. The scent of incense in the air partially masks the marijuana. “Yes, come in. It’s been a stressful week. I took something to help me relax and went to sleep. What’s this about?”

Megan responds, “We understand, and the relaxation aid we smell is perfectly legal here so we’re not going to bust you for that. I do want to express my condolences on the loss of your companion.”

Shante acknowledges with appreciation. “Thank you.”

The detective’s gaze narrows, piercing through the veil of coincidence. A dark cloud of suspicion threatens to consume the room. “ It’s become apparent that you have been present during a few highly traumatic events this week—more than some people witness in a lifetime,” Megan remarks.

Shante’s voice wavers, a fragile thread of resignation woven into her response. “Yes, hopefully it’s over. You know what they say, everybody gets three minutes of fame in their lifetime.” Her words hang in the air, pregnant with an undercurrent of something more sinister.

Raising an oblique eyebrow, Megan replies, “I believe the expression is three minutes of fame, but the sentiment is not lost.”

Within the confines of the living room, the officers meticulously search for a closer connection to the perpetrators. Their alert eyes continue scanning the surroundings for hidden secrets. Shante’s stories remain consistent, intertwining with the original narratives. However, as the detective delves deeper into Shante’s relationship with Raymond, a nagging unease settles in.

Megan’s gaze drifts toward the absence of the couple’s photos, her voice laced with curiosity. “I notice you don’t have any visible pictures of your boyfriend. Were you two on good terms?” The air thickens with tension, anticipation swirling between them.

Fidgeting, Shante’s response teeters on the edge of discomfort. “Um, pictures? His photos are on my phone.” Her words carry a hint of evasion, betraying a hidden truth lurking beneath the surface.

Detective Megan seizes the moment, her determination unyielding. “And I didn’t catch whether you were on good terms.”

Shante senses the fragility of the situation, aware that a single admission could unravel her carefully constructed façade. “Actually, there were dual purposes for our weekend getaway. Firstly, I needed to relax after the other two traumas. Secondly, I planned to break up with Raymond.”

The detective raises an eyebrow, her voice tinged with skepticism. “Oh, that’s something that wasn’t in the original report. Can I ask how tense things were?” The room crackles with the weight of hidden emotions, secrets lingering like unspoken promises.

“Honestly, he was smothering me,” Shante admits, her voice quivering with the weight of her confession. The figurative chains that bound her echo through her words.

Megan seeks clarity, her voice probing. “Do you mean literally or figuratively?” The distinction hangs in the air, a pivotal moment that could unravel the truth.

“He smothered me, figuratively with his obsessions,” Shante replies, her voice wavering like a fragile thread on the brink of snapping. The words dangle precariously, hinting at a dark reality that lurks beneath the surface.

As the conversation unfolds, Detective Frank subtly gestures toward a gun lying on the dining room table, a silent testament to the mysteries yet to be unraveled.

Megan switches up her line of questioning. “Shante, I need you to keep your eyes on me and tell me about the gun. Whose is it? Is there anyone else in the apartment?”

“It’s mine. I don’t think it’s loaded. With so much going on, it seemed I needed some protection.”

Frank puts on latex gloves and checks the chamber. “There are three bullets in here and it’s been fired recently.”

Megan informs Shante, that the gun gives them probable cause to search the premises. “Sit here while Officer Jacobs keeps an eye on you.”

Trifecta of Commonality

While verifying that there are no other persons in the small apartment, the detective notices a recurring pattern of threes. There are three bullets in the gun, three rings on Shante’s fingers; three pillows on the sofa; three knickknacks on the coffee table; and three pairs of shoes under the bed. Sets of items with larger numbers are divisible by three.

Megan purses her lips, recalling there were three crimes on March 3rd and 6th, each of which had some mention of three minutes. There are too many coincidences, so she enters the living room and says she must take Shante to the police station. As the suspect offers resistance, Frank handcuffs her.

Back at the police station, Megan delves deeper into the three crimes, desperate to uncover the hidden truths connecting them. A common thread emerges—both shooters had a history with Shante. Suspicion settles in Megan’s heart, whispering that Shante orchestrated these acts of violence with meticulous precision.

Returning to the holding room, Megan confronts Shante, her voice laced with a mix of accusation and resignation. “Thanks for your patience. We know your presence at all three incidents this week was not accidental. I don’t think Raymond was the obsessive one. That’s your thing, isn’t it?”

Shante’s reaction is swift, her defensive walls rising. “If I’m under arrest, read me my rights and get me a lawyer,” she retorts, her voice tinged with defiance.

Megan, undeterred, continues to press. “I’ll do all of that for you. But just tell me about the significance of the gun we found in your apartment. Was that for some kind of Russian Roulette game?” The final plea for the truth evaporates like mist in the air.

Her eyes fixed on the minute hand of a ticking wall clock, Shante remains silent. At precisely 9 o’clock, a large explosion shakes the building foundations. Everyone exits to assess the damage. Megan, resolute in her duty, handcuffs Shante inside a police car, ready to face the fallout. Three minutes later, a second explosion goes off on the floor where prisoners are held. More people stream out as Megan phones the bomb squad.

Megan looks to Shante and asks, “Is this your doing? Is there another bomb?”

Then, with a thunderous explosion, chaos erupts again, ripping apart the precinct evidence room. As the dust settles and Megan turns back to confront Shante, the escape artist has vanished into thin air. She leaves behind only the lingering echoes of suspicion. With three fugitives at large for murder, Megan vows to bring them to justice. Yet, without one clue, let alone three, a plan for doing so is as elusive as Shante.

The End

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