Hello, my name is Crenshaw; remember that for I will only say it once. No, it is not my real name, nor shall I reveal my true identity to you. Over the course of the next few hours I am going to explain to you exactly how I came to be where I am today. Where am I? That you will also not find out, all that you need to know is I am here, and I am closer than you could possibly imagine. Here, written on these pages, you will witness a confession unlike any other. Allow me to backtrack, back to the beginning, back to where it all started.
I was eight years old. My family and I had just moved to a town much like your own. I was your average eight year old boy; I wanted to be a reporter. Everywhere my little legs ventured my notebook and pen went along with me. I would be the best reporter in the world.
It wasn't until I was nearly twelve that I witnessed my very first corpse. It was a young woman, blonde, probably in her late thirties. She had been tied down and cut, ear to ear, with some blade that I never truly did find. For days I sat with the decaying corpse, grasping every detail I possibly could about this misfortunate event. She had been very wealthy and very alone. Widowed at a young age, she lived by herself in the large manor located nearly directly behind my family and myself. It was ruled that I never cross over into her plot, knowing nothing of the woman or of her intentions, my parents were very cautious.
The police eventually discovered the body one day. I never did get to finish my article. I was distraught for days. What could I do? How would I finish? Pacing soon became muttering, which slowly turned to mindless rambling. Writers block, never have I had it to such an extreme before, you think misplacing your car keys is frustrating? Have you ever wanted something so badly but couldn't have it? That's what writers block was to me. The ideas were there, yet never could I call them to the surface of my mind.
Many years have passed since that fateful day. I'm now twenty-three, working for the most prestigious and popular newspaper in the country. I cannot forfeit the name of this company for the act of doing so may further lead to my imminent capture. I am undergoing an investigation with the local police. There was a murder, located directly behind my current home. They labeled me not only as the witness, but as the suspect as well.
The victim was a young girl, mid-twenties, she was beautiful…once. She wore a classy red gown that caught my attention. It was brilliant, blood red, low cut, and oh so wonderfully crafted of the finest silk. I couldn't quite figure out what it was about this gown that caught my eye, but it was there. The police blocked off the area surrounding my home. The constant flashing of cameras began to give me a headache. I took note of every little detail of the crime scene. This would be my big break; this would be the best article I've ever written. I refused to let this one get away from me so very much like what had happened years ago.
The worst part of any reporters job is getting on the inside, getting your hands on the classified information. I was capable of this, more so than most, if not all other reporters. You see I was the inside man. Anything the police needed, I could get. How I obtained what they asked for was never under question. Only that I got it for them in time to complete the investigation, which I always did. Ill have you know now, I did not kill this girl. I have done many wrongs in my life and will fully admit to it all, but this girl, this girl and her red dress, I did not kill. Ill tell you one thing though, be it the girl or the dress, or whatever it was that caught my attention so fiercely, I was destined to discover exactly what happened on this fateful day.