Studies show that Monday morning is the most common time for homicides. With the coming week stretched out ahead like an infinite expanse of desert, it is not hard to imagine why this might be. But for Buzz Stanley, Monday the fifteenth of October was just a Monday and he, most likely, had no intention of disappearing from the world on that particular day. Unfortunately for Buzz, small towns sometimes have a way of manipulating the private lives of individuals. In Bristol, a town where everybody knew more than enough about Mr. Stanley, the coming week did indeed seem infinite and the Bristol residents, on that particular morning, felt overwhelmed by the prospect of facing those next six days.
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At seven thirty-eight A.M, on October fifteenth, Buzz Stanley left his blue trailer at the end of Griffon Street and drove north in his green pickup truck. Despite the cold weather, he rolled down the passenger window to allow his mixed breed dog, Sidney, to loll her head out the window. Her ears made a leathery slapping sound as they flapped against the roof.
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On the other side of town, a complaint had been filed the previous night. Now stored away in the sheriff’s beige filing cabinet, was a manila folder containing a total of eighty two complaints concerning Buzz Stanley. The Sheriff, leaning back in his secondhand swivel chair, enjoying the morning news, was aware of the violent outbursts that that particular individual seemed prone to. But on Monday morning, the weakness of his coffee and the sad state of the stock market seemed like far more pressing matters.
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At eight-fifty-six, as Buzz Stanley pulled into the parking lot of “Ms. Mabel’s Doughnut Shop”, a quiet crowed was forming. About forty nine of Bristol’s most prominent members gathered in a circle around the green pickup. The owner of the local hardware store was there as well as the minister’s wife, the librarian and of course Ms. Mabel herself. It was not a mob in the traditional sense of the word. Despite later embellishments by both national and local reporters, there was no force involved, no shouting or angry accusations. One unidentified member of the community simply pulled a hand gun from his or her coat pocket and shot Buzz Stanley through the windshield.

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In the moments that followed the death of Buzz Stanley, no tangible change could be sensed in Bristol. Besides the dog’s frightened whines and the sound of dried leaves scuttling in the wind across the pavement, the parking lot was absolutely silent. There was no running, no fleeing from the scene. Every witness, accomplice and killer stood patiently as the weapon was passed from hand to hand, then laid on the hood of the truck. By the time police were called, the gun had been handled by forty nine individuals. Red, a local mail carrier, stepped out of the crowd as the sheriff approached and handed him the murder weapon. “Here,” he said quietly “This might be considered evidence.”