THE SPRINGWOOD SLASHER
CHAPTER 30- LOCK DOWN


What came next was like a blur. There were a bevy of bright lights and sirens. Brilliant flashes of red and blue swirled all around, seemingly creating a symphony with the loud ear-piercing roar of the sirens. The muffled voices of police officers and paramedics alike broke the silence of the night, but Lexi couldn’t understand a lot of what they were saying. She did, however, manage to make out the voice of her mother, which comforted her.

In her unconscious, then semi-conscious, then unconscious again state, she could only make out bits and pieces of what was being discussed, but what she did register told her all she needed to know:

“I want this town on lock down...” one raspy voice said. “No questions.”

And then, after fading in and out,

“Oh my god...we got two more upstairs...” another said.

Later, after that, more sirens came, and then it was the voice of her mother again, hysterical:

“NO! She can’t be dead! Not her, too!”

And then, nothing. She wanted very much to tell her mother she was okay, but couldn’t muster up enough strength. Her head was spinning and she had no idea if she was even conscious. Then, in a flash, she felt a sharp pain in her arm, heard a couple doors close, then her lights dimmed once again.


***


It didn’t take long for the Springwood police department to quarantine the entire area. Lexi’s house was roped off entirely in yellow police tape and road blocks were set up at each end of Elm Street, as well as at every entrance and exit of town. No one was getting in or getting out. Chief Wilkinson made sure of that. If there was a killer on the loose, they were gonna find him.

But what the chief and the entire Springwood P.D. didn’t know (aside from the truth), was that someone was already on Elm Street. Someone who had been there for quite awhile, in fact. And that someone was at their very crime scene, hiding directly across the street. The tall, dark man stood as stiff as the elm tree he hid behind, not moving a muscle. His appearance was concealed under his long black trench coat and black fedora, and no one knew he was even there. Still, he didn’t want to compromise his cover by making a mistake, so he stood very still, taking in the scene and listening to the chatter of the chief and a few others on the front lawn.

Wilkinson was apparently being briefed on the situation when one of his deputies pulled him aside and whispered something into his ear. Wilkinson’s eyes widened with horror at whatever was said, and stepped aside to collect himself for a moment before breaking his silence.

“I want this town on lock down,” Chief Wilkinson said, clearing his throat. “No questions.”

“Yes, sir,” the deputy replied, repeating the order into his police radio.

Wilkinson then started up the front steps, when he was met halfway by another deputy who came rushing out of the house, pale in the face.

Reluctant to report, the deputy struggled to get the words out: “Oh my god, chief, we got two more upstairs.”

“What?” Wilkinson responded, shocked. “Who?”

“It’s Jones and Washington, sir,” the deputy stammered. “But I don’t think you want to go up there.”

Chief Wilkinson didn’t hear the second half of what was said. After hearing the names of Jones and Washington, Wilkinson just blindly stared up at the dark night sky, flabbergasted at what could have transpired.

He was in a momentary trance, but was brought out of it by the same deputy, who asked, “What the hell’s going on here?”

“Huh?” Wilkinson mumbled in his raspy voice. “Nothing’s going on here, deputy. Just make sure the crime scene is secure.”

“Yes, sir,” the deputy replied, going over to help two orderlies, who were lifting a gurney nearby.

Just then, an unmarked squad car pulled up, and Sandra Murphy hurried out of the back seat, not waiting for the officers to let her out.

“Who’s that?” she ordered, noticing the gurney.

No answer.

“WHO IS THAT?!” she repeated, feeling her heart drop to her stomach as the orderlies loaded a second body into the ambulance.

Two deputies hesitated, then pulled her aside and told her the news. “Please, oh god! NO! She can’t be dead! Not her, too!” Sandra cried, falling to her knees in grief.

The two deputies, glancing over at Chief Wilkinson, grabbed her fast and falsely tried to comfort her, not letting her anywhere near the ambulance.

“How in the hell did SHE get here?” Wilkinson said, accosting another officer nearby. The officer looked dumbfounded, so the chief gave out his instructions. “Nevermind that. Take her down to the station on the double. I’ll be right behind you. That’s an order!”

So the officers escorted Mrs. Murphy into one of their squad cars and drove off down the road, followed by the ambulance, which tailed them about four lengths behind.

Not long after the vehicles were just beyond the horizon, the orderlies brought out a third body. Instructed by the chief to move quickly, they covered the body in a white sheet and loaded it into the back of a white van nearby. The man in black couldn’t quite make out who was under there, but he could have sworn he saw something moving, so he took a closer look. He couldn’t see much, but right as they closed the double-doors to the back of the van, an arm slid out from underneath the sheet, and he spotted all he needed to see: a kelly green wristband emblazoned with a white number 7.

A moment later, the van doors closed and the Man in Black saw where it was headed. There, stenciled on the back door in black paint, it read: Westin Hills Psychiatric Hospital.


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