Agent George Stone
Agent George Stone had been driving all day in the sweltering heat of the Arizona sun. Night had finally came and without warning a thick fog had descended down upon the road and his heavy eyelids. He decided to pull of the road at what appeared to be a tourist spot. The site was vacant and appeared to be more of a hang out for lusting teenagers or weekend troublemakers by the looks of things. Beer cans and cigarette butts trashed the bare parking area that was graced with one lone oak tree. Still it was a beautiful area as it looked down over the town below. For miles he saw nothing but rows and rows of brightly lit houses that all formed the shape of a U around a giant shimmering lake. The lights twinkling in the town below almost looked like the stars had fallen from heaven.
George picked up his phone to call in his evening report back at headquarters. "This is Agent George Stone. It is now 2200 hours and…" About that time George heard a hard rapping on his window. Turning his head he saw an overweight, mid 50s, sheriff standing and pointing a gun straight at his head motioning him to roll down his window. George drop the phone on the seat and very slowly began to roll down the window with his other hand in the air.
Before George could ask what the problem was the sheriff blurted out, "Yeah, I caught you, you crack head. Talking on the phone to your crack head dealer I'm sure of it."
"No sir," George answered backed calmly.
"Yeah right. You crack heads are all alike. This is where you all come to meet to do your dealing. You all got a different story to tell. Well this time I got your crack head ass," the sheriff rambled on.
"No sir, I swear," George repeated again staying calm.
"Then who the hell are you and what hell are you doing up here?" yelled the sheriff still pointing his gun at George.
"My name is Agent George Stone and I'm with the FBI. I simply pulled over because I was tired and needed to make my end of the day report."
"Whoo Hooh, did you hear that Ted? He says he's with the FBI. I got to hand it to you son. That's the most original one I've heard so far."
George started to reach inside of his suit pocket when the sheriff became extremely excited and screamed, "Watch it boy! Don't you move. I haven't shot anyone all day long and my trigger finger is feeling mighty itchy."
"Sir, if you will allow me to reach inside my vest pocket I can hand you some identification verifying who I am. I promise to move very slowly."
"Alright, boy. But I mean you better go slow!" said the sheriff with emphasis.
George reached in, grabbed his badge, and handed it over to the sheriff. The sheriff shined his flashlight onto it looking it over and over again. "Hey, Ted. Come here. Tell me if this looks real to you."
Ted slowly walked over to inspect the badge. He was about 25, had the face of a teenager, and was tall and skinny. "Yelp. Looks real to me sheriff."
"O.k. I guess you can put your hands down now Agent Stone. Sorry if I scared you. You just don't know…" Suddenly voices interrupted him coming across his police radio.
Ted shouted, "We got another one."
"We have to go now Agent. This is the fifth murder in five days. Hey, maybe you could come with us and offer some of your expertise?"
George sat for a second and thought. Being the adrenaline junky he was he just couldn't turn down a murder. He replied, "I'll follow you."
The sheriff hit his lights and his siren and George threw his light on top of his car. They ensued through the thick fog down a dark and curvy mountain at speeds in excess of 90 miles per hour. George's heart pumped with excitement.
They arrived at a one story, yellow house with blue shutters that sat on a dead end street in a Leave It To Beaver neighborhood. George thought this was odd. Upon getting out and questioning witnesses he found that the suspect had gotten away with no one seeing a thing.
The sheriff piped up, "What you doing out there asking all those stupid questions for. I could have told you didn't no one see him. No one never does." George was a little ruffled by his remark. Wasn't it the sheriff that wanted his help?
George walked into the house were he saw the body of an eight year old girl slain, and lying in the middle of the living room floor. He continued to mull throughout the house following the trail of bloody footprints.
"Hey, Agent, the freaking body is in here. What kind of FBI agent are you anyway?" asked the sheriff laughing. George's patience was starting to wear thin with the no-it-all sheriff.
Back in the living room stood the grieving parents. George immediately noticed the fathers bloody shoes among other things from around the scene that made it obvious to George that the father was the killer. George walked over to the sheriff and told him to arrest the father and explained why. The sheriff belly laughed at him and proclaimed that there was no way.
Suddenly George's phone rang. "This is Agent Stone."
"Yes," George continued.
"Are you sure?" George then asked.
"I'll meet you at our special place," George said and hung up his phone.
"I've got to go now sheriff. Good luck on this one," George announced on his way out the door.
"Wait. How are we suppose to figure this out? Who were you talking to?" asked the sheriff.
"I was talking to my drug dealer," George replied with a smile.