Mourn the Hangman — Harry Whittington

Blake opened the door and took his first step into Hell. He had come to his apartment with a lilt in his walk, pleasantly burdened with candy and flowers. This was to be a reconciliation with his wife, Stella. Stella, who hated private investigators -- “private snitches,” she called them.

So he had resigned from the firm of Bricker and Blake: Investigators. Too bad it had to be in the middle of the tough Arrenhower job. But Stella was worth it.

The room was in shambles. There was Stella, battered and bloody, sprawled on a chair. She had been brutally bludgeoned to death.

I'm dead, Steve black thought, and I can't cry. Who will I cry for? For Stella, who'd never hear me now? Maybe I'll cry for the man who killed her. Maybe I'll cry for him when I find him -- and maybe God himself will cry for him before I'm through...