CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Once again, in the wee hours, I had to call 911. In the wrong neighborhood. I thought about running, but what was the point? I had no weapon on me. But had my inquiries led to another killing? Maybe. Maybe not.
This time the police arrived so quickly and in such force, the whole neighborhood turned into a psychedelic circus. They blocked off the street and brought in squadrons of police officers and one serious-looking SWAT crew. Perhaps the National Guard would come next. The normally peaceful facades of suburban ranchers and colonials were splashed with color from the police cars’ red and blue disco lights. Radios crackled in the still of early morning.
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