Twisted Mind

He stared up at the angels on the ceiling, awed by the magnificent masterpiece. The sudden footsteps startled him and he spun around.

“Gregor,” he said with a nod of his head, stepping forward, but not offering his hand.

The other let the outstretched hand fall back to his side.

“We spoke on the phone,” the man named Gregor said, nervously balling his fists, unsure what to say.

“Yes,” he simply replied. “You know what you have to do?”

He nodded, not wanting to admit that the task petrified him.

“Come back here in twenty-four hours when the deed is done. The body,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “dispose of that as you wish, but make sure no one finds out. Leave no fingerprints.”

Gregor nodded again, more eager this time, wanting to please his superior. “Of course, of course.”

Then he left the church, wondering what a sick mind would choose such as place to discuss details of a murder.

Back in his car, Gregor switched on the ignition and immediately radioed his real superior back at the FBI.

© 2016

FFfAW, Week of 05-24-2016

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