Garret McClean arrived at the crime scene just before midnight, numb to the grisly scene sprawled before him. A man was dead, reportedly for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Garret’s gut told him there was more to the crime, and when you have a gut like Garret’s, you listen.
“Felton Noble” said the voice as Garret pulled out his notebook, his memory not what it used to be. “What else you got?” mumbled Garret to himself. As always, the voice refused to answer.
For as long as he could remember, Garret has had “the gift”. He would’ve rather been able to hit a 95 mile per hour fastball, or run a four minute mile, but Garret was never very good at sports. Instead, Garret had always been able to answer the question “whodunit?”. This was the easy part. Getting his premonition to stick in court had always been the problem.
Garret pulled out his cell phone and pressed one. “I’m sure she’s still up”, Garret thought.
“Stacy? Garret here. Find out what you can about a Felton Noble.”