Gregson lay in bed, letting the morphine work its magic. He felt like a hospital Rockstar. He could stare at the walls all day, completely entertained, but there was something blocking his view.
“Gregson, I’ve been wanting to drop by and show you something. Crime is a passion of mine. You know, the mystery novels and detective stories. Well… there’s been some strange murders happening in the area.” Fred tossed Gregson a large manilla envelope and some poorly developed pictures slipped out.
“Took them myself. I know a few guys on the police force; buy them coffee and doughnuts when I can, and they let me take these pictures. Do you see anything similar, about them?”
“Just that the bodies are mutilated and opened up. Looks like we have a real sicko on our hands.”
“Exactly. I know you’re feeling a bit under the weather, but if you could just get well, we could catch this killer.”
“I don’t have much time left.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, they’re only giving me a few months left to live.”
“All the more reason to die with your boots on.”
“I don’t know, I need to write my memoirs.”
“When you start doing that, your life is over. Why not try to solve these crimes before you kick off. You’re catholic, right?
“Yeah. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, there won’t be many criminals in heaven; so, now is the time to do what you were meant to do.”
Gregson smiled. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course, I’m right. Now, when can you check yourself out of here?”
“Doctor Graves told me one week.”
“You gotta push it. Besides, doctors make things up all the time.”
“Okay Fred, let’s check out.” Gregson got up and felt his sutures pulling apart. He was like Frankenstein’s monster.