Face of Murder Retail Sample
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
prologue, Professor Ralph Henderson side rubbed the bridge of his nose and fished around in the pocket of his coat for his car keys. It had been a long evening of marking English papers, and either his students were getting more stupid or he was getting more tired of his job. He was more than ready to prop himself up in bed for the night with a small glass of whiskey and one of the classics, The Georgetown parking garage was almost empty. Most of the other faculty members having had enough sense to go home long ago. It was chilly and gloomy, the electric strip lights flickering overhead as mods bumped into them with suicidal intent. Henderson cut across the empty spaces, taking a shortcut to his car. He briefly trifled with the idea of stopping off somewhere for a take out coffee on the way back. Or would it be better just to get home as soon as possible to the safety and warmth of one's own domain? His footsteps echoed with an eerie residence through the garage, the concrete ceiling and the concrete floor throwing the sounds back and forth. It was on nights like these that the garage transformed into a different kind of beast, a place where unsavory types might lurk in the shadows, ready to pounce the kind of thinking that you couldn't shake, even when you repeatedly told yourself You're in adult and shouldn't be afraid of the dark anymore, Mind you, there was good reason to be nervous tonight. The campus had been buzzing with news of a murder that had taken place right there under their own noses. A student that Henderson had known. Maybe that was the reason the hair stood up on the back of his neck as he crossed the garage, and why he couldn't help but dart furtive and wide eyed glances into the shadows, trying to see if there was someone hiding within. He tried to distract himself. There was more to think about. There was a kid he'd had to throw out of the class for failing yet another paper. It was so frustrating to teach, to see these kids with so much potential, getting caught up in parties and not taking their studies seriously. It was with regret that Henderson had had to flunk him, but he felt more than justified. Now, after getting an email from the student full of vitriol. The email was borderline threatening. Apparently, the kid didn't appreciate being kicked out and wanted to make sure that Henderson knew it, as if such a gesture was somehow going to get him reinstated in the course, huh? The kid had a lot to learn about life and about how people reacted to the way you treated them. Henderson reached the car and fumbled with his keys, his fingers thick and slow from having written out so many comments while grading the students, he cursed himself, a shaking, taking over his hands, driven by the isolation of the parking garage. At night, he was being silly. He was a grown man, for God's sakes, and he walked through this garage in the light of day without ever a second thought. Anyway, he thought to himself darkly, if anyone was going to be after him, it would be that angry student. And he wasn't smart enough to stock a professor in the dark of a parking garage. He was the kind of kid who sent angry emails and left a trail. Nothing to worry about, really. Henderson would report it to the dean tomorrow, and that would be that. What was that noise? A footstep? Something was wrong here. He had been dismissing his fears all this time, but now he was less shore. The prickling feeling on the back of Henderson's neck increased something like a premonition. But before he could turn, his head was hitting the car window with a sharp crash. Henderson barely had time to register this fact, and the flooding pain coming from his nose before the hand on the back of his head smashed it into the side of the car again. He was slipping lower, taken down by the shock and the injury, his body going limp. He tried to twist away a little, his briefcase lying for gotten on the floor. But he couldn't fight the next blow or the next over and over his head hit The red chasse is his temple, the top oven eye socket, his jaw just below the ear. He felt the damage with a kind of detached shock, the crack of a bone breaking the thought of bruises blossoming across his face, then of cuts and abrasions. Then of something more serious. All he could think stupidly was that his face was going to be ruined, only had time to think before it was seemingly over. The gripping hand released him, and Henderson sank unceremoniously to the floor, hitting a shoulder on the way down. He barely felt it against all the rest. He was twisted enough now to groggily turn his head and look.