Taking a subway to Midtown, he switched trains and took another to Queens near his old mail route in Astoria. It was nearly 8:30pm and getting dark when he got off the subway. After several blocks he made a right turn. Down on the left were several rows of locked garages. The key to one of them was always kept in his breast pocket. Thrusting it into the lock of storage unit #17, he pushed open the metal door and flipped on the single bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. The room was musty and the stench of mildew quickly crept into his nostrils. It reminded him of his mother’s house, which he found oddly comforting. Renting the unit after she died to store her things, the little garage had become his escape hatch if he ever had to get out of town fast. That day had come and he was ready.

A large military-style green and beige duffel bag sat on top of his mother’s old wooden dresser in the corner. The bag held a week’s worth of clothes; toiletries; energy bars; bottles of water; a guidebook for Atlanta, Georgia; a burner phone; a fake driver’s license; maps, and a bus schedule. A locked waterproof metal box held a wallet full of cash. Opening the box he let out a relieved breath—all the money was still there.

Noticing his Class of ’99 high school yearbook on a chair, he picked it up and opened it. Yellowed newspaper clippings about several old murders in New York City were sandwiched between the pages: one about a girl who went missing in the Bronx and another about two girls found dead in Astoria.

In the back of the book were more recent articles clipped from The New York Echo. He unfolded one and smiled. It was a picture of Lisa Eng. Such pretty long hair, he thought. Six other articles—including one about the teacher strangled in Central Park fell to the floor. He had been out for a late walk that night and spotted the obviously intoxicated woman going into the park alone. She had expired in his hands within minutes. Hardly worth the effort, he thought. After that night, he swore off “unplanned dates”.

Ready to start a new life in Atlanta, he placed a few last items into the duffel. I’ve had a taste of the Big Apple, but now my mouth is watering for a sweet Georgia peach. As he zipped the bag up, the storage unit door flew open with a bang slamming against the concrete wall. Seven policemen in riot gear with guns drawn barreled into the small space.

“Hands where we can see them, Arnold,” shouted one of the officers as two other cops grabbed Jonathan’s arms. “Detectives, we’ve got him,” yelled another officer at the door as Daryl Williams and Heather Kim raced into the unit.