Pinch Hitter, Part 6

(Click here for Part 5 of Pinch Hitter):

As usual, nobody came to pay Eddie Snead a visit at his house tonight. The little bastard stayed up late and I was beginning to worry that he was a tweaker; never sleeping, wired, unpredictable, and potentially violent. Which could also account for the bones in Herman’s garden. Around 2:15 A.M., he finally turned his living room and bedroom lights off. But I decided to wait another hour just to be safe.

It’s 3:15 now, so I exit my truck, which is parked two blocks from his house on the street, and slip into the shadows until I’m crouched in his backyard beside his garden. Like Batman, I’m wearing a mask and a belt with a multitude of tools hidden in it. Some of these tools are for picking locks, so I retrieve the right ones for the job and creep over to the back door.

I can pick locks in my sleep, so it’s not necessary to use a flashlight to see what I’m doing, but almost immediately, as I’m inserting my pick tools into the lock, I know that something is wrong. The angle of the lock is not right. I apply light pressure to the door and it begins to creak open—somebody had kicked the door in.

In a relatively seamless set of movements, I return the pick tools to the belt, draw my .45 semi-automatic pistol with my right hand and flashlight with my left. I remove the safety from the .45, but leave the flashlight off for the time being. Slowly, I duck walk into the house letting my left shoulder carry the door open. It is dead quiet inside. I keep my pistol and flashlight aimed about chest-level, finger on the trigger and thumb on the power switch. I hold my flashlight out away from my body, however, in case someone takes aim at it once I turn it on.

Without even turning on the flashlight, I can tell that the kitchen is dark and empty. I continue duck walking into the living room, where the street light gives me enough visibility to determine its condition is no different from the kitchen.

Through the living room toward my left is a hallway that inevitably leads to the bedrooms. I keep moving slow and steadily, feeling the burn in my thighs. At the first open door on my right, I shower the inside with a burst from my flashlight—it’s an unoccupied and pretty filthy bathroom. The next door on the other side of the hall is also open. I shine light inside. It looks like it could be Eddie’s “office,” but no one’s inside this room either, and by the looks of it, the door had been locked and kicked open as well.

Only one door left, also wide open. I power the flashlight on again.

The pool of blood in the carpet confirms that Eddie Snead had visitors tonight after all.