Midnight Murder Fifteen year old Conrad Clark just came home from basketball practice where he was absolutely exhausted. He is the best player on his undefeated school basketball team. He lives with just his mom and only sibling Thomas after his father had recently been murdered by an unknown killer. As he approached the front door of his massive three story mansion located basically in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a lake and lots of wildlife, a gut punching feeling went through his body. He was remembering what had happened before he left for practice. He got in a huge fight with his mom about his grades in school, and was regretting some of the things he said. He goes through the front door and goes up to his bedroom on the third story. He lays down on his bed and he sees a note telling him that his mom and Thomas, are at a party and will be gone all night. He puts the note down and closes his eyes. About forty five minutes later he wakes up to his alarm going off. He turns off the alarm clock reading 10:30 p.m and is wondering why his alarm went off for no reason. He lets it go past him and goes down to the first floor and turns the television on. He turns on his favorite show, Criminal Minds, when Bang! At that moment Conrad knew that something bad
In 1888 on a Thursday afternoon 235 people were killed by a blizzard on their way home from school. Taking place in the Northwest Plains region of the United States the blizzard came without a warning temperature went down 100 degrees in a 24 hour. On a Thursday afternoon, a
The National Geographic film, A Portrait of a Killer, examines the types of stress that living beings can endure, and how it can thus affect the rest of their bodies. Severe chronic stress can lead even lead to the destruction of brain cells. Dr. Robert Sapolsky is a neurobiologist of Stanford University who has been researching stress for over thirty years. In order to study stress and its implications upon nonhumans, he went to Africa to study baboons. This species has only three hours of stress caused by eating, and the rest of their daily routine is consumed by about nine hours of free time. Much like Western society, baboons socially stress out one another, as they have social hierarchies to regulate how them interact with one another.
The chill of winter air had nudged her from her slumber. Gazing through the window upon the dreary horizon, the blur of gray told Hulga that rain was nearing. Nervously, she backed into the corner away from the window and curled up next to a pile of hay and settled in. Soon after repositioning herself, Hulga heard the consistent patter of rain on the roof of the barn. Her eyes watered as she wondered if her mother had been frantically searching for her.
At three o’clock in the morning, Chris Salyer (109) and I discovered Steven Strominger (117) drunk being walked home by Morgan Hall from Davis (232). According to Steven, he fell asleep outside on a bench and Jordan Hawkins told him to come inside Davis. Somehow, Steven made his way to the second floor and knocked on Morgan’s door. He knocked on her door because his friend who left him went to hook up with her roommate, and he thought it would be cool. Morgan helped him get back to DK. When he entered, Chris and I were in the lounge talking. Steven was very forgetful, but he was very chill about everything. He tried using his Drivers License on the swipe access. Morgan and Chris helped him to the bathroom and Morgan told me that he could apparently
AHHHHHH!!!!! His died, oh wait.....Hey I'm Miss. White, Boddy's housecleaner, And I'm going to tell you who murder Boddy on the night of Friday the 13th .Well first of all, I am from a small town in Canada. Also, I'm married to a retired body builder. I'm 37 years old and I have two kids one 18 and one 11.I have known Boddy for about 10-11 years. Also I work for Boddy almost every day.
In February of 2008, I was sitting in a General Court Martial proceeding to defend myself against third-degree murder charges, which arose from a raid my platoon conducted in the rural areas outside of Kirkuk, Iraq. On the night of June 23, 2007, my Platoon Sergeant (PSG) shot and killed a detainee that we had captured early that evening. Realizing what he had just done, my PSG gave me an order that would eventually have me implicated in his crime. I was acquitted of the murder charges, but found guilty of assault through my own testimony. The fact of the matter is, I had a psychotic Platoon Sergeant; Trey Corrales was the walking definition of “Toxic Leadership.” Under the control of Trey Corrales, serving in this platoon was one of the
It was February 12, 2006. My wife and I are about to get ready for the day we’ve been waiting for, we are finally going to seek justice for the man that killed my innocent 4 year old daughter. Since March 3rd I have slept absolutely none, but after today everything will be finished with.
What if you were sent to jail for a robbery that excelled to a murder that you didn’t commit. Well this event happened to a young black boy, named Steve, that was influenced by his environment. The crime that Steve was a part of was robbery and first degree murder.The reason he took part in these events are unknown, but one thing that is certain is he will be charged and have to be proven innocent or guilty. What do you think? Will Steve be proven innocent or guilty of the crimes he was charged with? In all honesty Steve should be held accountable for the robbery with his associate’s James King and Bobo Evans but not for the charge of first degree murder of Mr. Nesbitt (the drug’s store owner). After reading all the evidence it can be proven
Armed with her best parasol, she left the house after briefly saying goodbye to her extremely distraught father. Their carriage made it’s way to the fair and dropped them at the front, but after less than two hours perusing the grounds, another storm rolled in. The rain came fast and hard, drenching the pair within minutes. They huddled under the scant protection their umbrellas offered while waiting for the coach. Once inside, they giggled and began peeling off their more delicate accessories, gently laying them out while assuring each other the wet would not harm their
Running in out of the sun, you met what seemed total obscurity inside. There were almost tangible smells – licorice recently sucked in a child’s cheek, dill pickle brine that had leaked through a paper sack in a fresh trail across the wooden floor, ammonia-loaded ice that had been hoisted from wet croker sacks and slammed in to the icebox with its sweet butter at the door, and perhaps the smell of still-untrapped mice. (155)
November 2001, I was arrested as I was leaving my job. I am now being linked to the killings of 48 women, I say I killed 61 to 71. After about 20 years of running, I was finally caught. I committed most of these between1982 and 1983, although I think I remember one last kill around 1985. Like above states, I would kill them and drip them near the Green River in Washington. This earned me the name “The Green River Killer.” Even if I were innocent, I would probably still be referred to as
“He’s old,” she told Edwin. “He doesn’t exist.” She felt less akin to him than to a bird or toad.
It started on a nightly walk back home from work. Brogan E. Willis, worked at the small town hall, just outside of Elbridge, where she lived. Willis always started her night with a small stroll back into town, where she was permitted to park her vehicle. The trail however, was a very vigorous path, especially in her small black leather pumps. It was a muggy night, the dirt on the trail, damp and loose, her clothes slightly wet from the fog. The smell of rain radiating around the dark woods slightly soothed the sharp feeling of someone watching her ahead in the undergrowth.
His bag laid heavy on his lap on the bus, grounding him to the seat as he looked out to the overcast sky. Water droplets trailed the window of the bus, creating thick streaks, and temporarily distorting the view where they ran. The clouds were roiling, bubbling with a purple tint, and the sky above the city was yellow, the eminent light of the skyline latching to and holding on to the rain. Steve could feel the cold air through the glass on his right, and he briefly put his hand on it, absorbing the chill, raising goosebumps on the back of his neck, and leaving a foggy handprint when he took it off. A late May thunderstorm.