by G W Thomas
I wanted to kill him since the day I started at the post office. It had to be the perfect murder. So I waited until the strike, last December. It was easy to slip in when the others were at the far end of our picket. We had to cover the entire block. I strangled him with the strapping machine. I left no prints with winter gloves on. I slipped out, rejoined my fellow strikers. The police questioned us all. No, we hadn't seen anyone enter the building. And we'd know-we'd been there all day.
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