There was something electric in the beach air today that thrilled Sam. The huge waves had finally subsided and he walked barefoot in between the flotsam and jetsam the ocean had spewed onto the craggy shore. There was nothing he loved more than the beach after a storm.
He bent over to pick up a broken shell, as he usually did. But this time something else caught his eye. It was big, solid—and it frightened him.
Sam stopped and stared. A few feet away, under a pile of driftwood, a human leg stuck out.
Sam felt as if he were in a dream.
He ran over, pulled the wood off the body, and gasped. An older man, same age as him almost, lay there. Dead. His skull appeared to be brutally crushed in. The vicious blows all over the face told a story of pain and torment.
“NO!” Sam shouted wildly to the empty sky as he leaned over the corpse, wondering what humanity had come to.
*
It seemed like no time at all before the beach was filled with cops, reporters, and photographers. Photos were being taken of the body. Yellow ribbons were being set up around the crime scene to keep people out and preserve whatever evidence hadn’t been washed away.
What the hell good would it do? thought Sam. The ocean kept rolling in and out, washing all the evidence away. It probably had already. There was no chance this guy’s killer could have left any footprints that hadn’t been destroyed.
“Did you know the victim, buddy?” one police officer asked.
“No,” Sam answered, “I didn’t know the guy. Never saw him before in my life. I was just strolling the beach like I do every day.”
Sam heard a cop mention that despite the injuries, it wouldn’t be hard to identify the victim. In fact, someone at the scene had recognized him right away. Morton Townsend. Owned a string of medical clinics in town. He donated a lot to charity, too. In fact, his picture was in the paper regularly.
Very nice, thought Sam.
And what good did all that do?