Susan Wheeler died on the 21st of June. The warm breeze gave her away to the first passerby, a seventeen year-old man (or a boy, if one talked to his mother) named Brad Pinkerton. He passed her body, not yet cooled (as if anything could cool on the sidewalks of Pasadena), and he was reported saying "She smelled like last weeks garbage."
The autopsy report confirmed that the body was only a few hours old. Both parents confirmed that the nineteen year old had gone missing earlier that day, just after lunch, when the sun cooked eggs on the concrete. Later they identified Wheeler's dark tresses and the mole on her left cheek. Her parents couldn't recognize much else.
Police investigated the case, calling the case a homicide. Five years later and no murderer had been found. Every third Friday a twenty-four year old woman visits the lawn, though the police have long since removed the yellow tape. She runs her hand along the blazing concrete and smirks, before she walks off, the sun catching the wave in her dark curls.
No comments:
Post a Comment