Chapter Five
Six bullets.
That was it. Six of them.
Only two of them found their mark.
Two of them are in the wall, behind the body.
One of them found its way to a painting.
A $300 painting.
No one was very concerned with the painting. They were more concerned with the body and the blood. They ended up throwing out the painting.
James went to prison.
He probably wouldn’t of if he hadn’t attempted to kill Voah.
But he did. And that was that.
His friends backed off. They didn’t want any trouble. They heard what hell James was going through.
The Vanquisher continued to carry his gun with him everywhere, a year after the attack. He was seventeen.
As an internship he joined the local police forensics chapter. He spent most of his time examining anonymous mail and looking at criminal profiles.
A death threat came in for the police commissioner, and the whole crew got on it right away. Voah worked on it obsessively. He wanted to solve a case.
The answer came to him while he was reading the local paper. A letter to the editor complained about the new parking meters.
But the writing.
Something clicked. That tiny invisible force in the Vanquisher’s head let him know that here he had the answer.
He went to the paper and asked to see the return address.
They denied him.
It took two days to convince the other guys to get a search warrant, but he did. The letter was found. They went to the house and arrested the suspect.
She never confessed, but they found plenty of newspaper clipping regarding the police commissioner. More than enough evidence.
She was let out on bail.
The police did not do a background check or a psychological examination. That was their mistake.
Her name was Alexandra Potters.
Two years ago she had been diagnosed with a severe case of schizophrenia.
In the paper she saw the boy who had found her shaking hands with the mayor. From then on, she had one goal.
Kill the boy.
She didn’t know why, really, but she knew she had to.
She took the shotgun she kept under the bed and carefully sawed the end off, putting it into her purse.
She looked up his address and walked there.
She had a car.
But the voices told her not to take it.
She walked.
It took her two hours of walking. The boy lived quite a while away.
She found two cars in the driveway and the front door open, the warm May air drifting into the house.
The parents were home, undoubtedly. The boy wouldn’t leave the door open if he was home alone.
She walked in and encountered the mother in the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
Alexandra smiled and walked up the stairs. The mother called for the father to come. He did.
She found the boy at a desk in his room, doing homework.
Voah turned and quickly recognized her. His hand dived into his desk, reaching for the gun he knew was there.
The woman took out her own shotgun, but it was too late. He turned and shot six times.
Two buried themselves into her chest. As she fell, three more flew above her, one hitting the painting.
The sixth bullet was unfortunate.
His father sprinted when he heard the roar of the first bullet firing.
He reached the room as the last bullet was traveling towards him.
It hit him in the throat.
The hollow point bullet expanded quickly at impact, mushrooming to 18 millimeters.
He never had a chance.
That was it. Six of them.
Only two of them found their mark.
Two of them are in the wall, behind the body.
One of them found its way to a painting.
A $300 painting.
No one was very concerned with the painting. They were more concerned with the body and the blood. They ended up throwing out the painting.
James went to prison.
He probably wouldn’t of if he hadn’t attempted to kill Voah.
But he did. And that was that.
His friends backed off. They didn’t want any trouble. They heard what hell James was going through.
The Vanquisher continued to carry his gun with him everywhere, a year after the attack. He was seventeen.
As an internship he joined the local police forensics chapter. He spent most of his time examining anonymous mail and looking at criminal profiles.
A death threat came in for the police commissioner, and the whole crew got on it right away. Voah worked on it obsessively. He wanted to solve a case.
The answer came to him while he was reading the local paper. A letter to the editor complained about the new parking meters.
But the writing.
Something clicked. That tiny invisible force in the Vanquisher’s head let him know that here he had the answer.
He went to the paper and asked to see the return address.
They denied him.
It took two days to convince the other guys to get a search warrant, but he did. The letter was found. They went to the house and arrested the suspect.
She never confessed, but they found plenty of newspaper clipping regarding the police commissioner. More than enough evidence.
She was let out on bail.
The police did not do a background check or a psychological examination. That was their mistake.
Her name was Alexandra Potters.
Two years ago she had been diagnosed with a severe case of schizophrenia.
In the paper she saw the boy who had found her shaking hands with the mayor. From then on, she had one goal.
Kill the boy.
She didn’t know why, really, but she knew she had to.
She took the shotgun she kept under the bed and carefully sawed the end off, putting it into her purse.
She looked up his address and walked there.
She had a car.
But the voices told her not to take it.
She walked.
It took her two hours of walking. The boy lived quite a while away.
She found two cars in the driveway and the front door open, the warm May air drifting into the house.
The parents were home, undoubtedly. The boy wouldn’t leave the door open if he was home alone.
She walked in and encountered the mother in the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
Alexandra smiled and walked up the stairs. The mother called for the father to come. He did.
She found the boy at a desk in his room, doing homework.
Voah turned and quickly recognized her. His hand dived into his desk, reaching for the gun he knew was there.
The woman took out her own shotgun, but it was too late. He turned and shot six times.
Two buried themselves into her chest. As she fell, three more flew above her, one hitting the painting.
The sixth bullet was unfortunate.
His father sprinted when he heard the roar of the first bullet firing.
He reached the room as the last bullet was traveling towards him.
It hit him in the throat.
The hollow point bullet expanded quickly at impact, mushrooming to 18 millimeters.
He never had a chance.
