The Harem on the Hill (Part XCVI)

You roll Juan off Helen and begin CPR.  You don’t bother to check Juan's pulse.  You can see it fading firsthand.  The throbbing geyser of blood erupting from his headwound gradually ebbs like a tightening spigot.  Within a minute, the discharge has reduced to an ooze and you’re certain his heart is as dead as his brain. The only remaining sign of life is his engorged member, which, with rigor mortis setting in, seems destined to point skyward for eternity. 

Hopefully, they can shut his coffin door.

With Juan gone, you focus on Helen.  While the extent of your CPR training comes from a corporate leadership retreat almost twenty years ago, you remember the gist.  Thirty chest compressions followed by two breaths of mouth-to-mouth.  You also recall the instructor’s advice to time the compressions with the beat of “Another One Bites the Dust.”  You thought it a curious choice for a lifesaving technique, but apparently the dark humor resonated because you immediately fall in rhythm with the song’s pulsing bassline.

Unfortunately, you never actually feel a pulse.

By the time you reach the final verse, it’s clear that Helen, like the victims of Steve’s machine gun, had bitten the dust.  Rather than violating the poor girl’s corpse any further, you stand, hoping to find a landline from which you can anonymously dial 911.  They couldn’t save her—you’re out in the sticks and help is at least thirty minutes away—but whatever her foibles, Helen deserves to be buried beneath something besides a necrophiliac ranch hand.   

Surprisingly, it’s a call you don’t have to make.

“Freeze!”

You pivot in the pool of blood to find Officer Petty standing in the doorway, his service revolver leveled at your chest. 

“Hands above your head.”

You raise your blood-soaked palms.  He’s caught you red-handed—a policeman’s dream.

Petty grimaces at Helen’s manhandled body.  “What happened to her?”

You nod toward Juan.  “He killed her.”

“W-what happened to him?” Petty asks, momentarily distracted by the decedent’s perky pecker. 

“I killed him.”  There was no point in lying. 

Petty remains as frozen as you are, caught between curiosity and protocol. 

BZZZZZZT!

A buzz from the walkie-talkie at Petty’s waist causes him to jump.  Fortunately for you, it doesn’t result in a panicked trigger pull.  

The young deputy raises the radio to his lips with his left hand while keeping you in his sights with his right.  Both are trembling.  You could probably escape if you wanted.  Petty’s in over his head.  His only previous experience with double homicides probably came from television.

“Petty here.”

“Petty,” comes the urgent response.  You recognize the voice.  It’s Captain Tucker.  “I need you to get to 125 Sycamore Lane, ASAP.”

You also recognize the address and worry about what’s to come.

“I have my hands full right now, chief.”

“Whatever it is, drop it.  This is bigger.  The bastard did it again.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?  The rich fuck on the hill.  He just killed a girl here less than a half-hour ago.”

Petty’s gaze is as fixed on your face as his barrel is on your chest.  For a moment, you’re worried he may pull the trigger.  It wouldn’t be the first time a small-town cop bypassed due process to solve a problem.

Then, Petty says something sensible under the circumstances.  “I think there may be a problem with your theory, chief.”  

What do you do?