A Murder in Monument Valley.

It was the of middle of early fall. Jayson set at his desk, back against the corner window that provided a view of his beloved city like no other to the east, filling out paperwork for his bosses. The role of middle mangerment; but it was better than the others: the ones he looked down at from his high untouchable tower. Untouchable... So he thought.

There was something different about the unexpected knock on the window.

He would get up to watch the flocks of birds, navigate through the structures--- the "monument valley" as he referred to it as--- of the skyline, flying above the traffic just a few floors below. All natural migrainous created creatures by nature heading south to Brazil for the long northern winter creeping in more and more hourly. Kites without strings attached. In a way he was comparable to the signature fowl he admired from above: flying across the country, to escape the cold hands of Jack Frost, but in the current meantime it was form after form. Christmas break was still a few months away.

**

Jayson grew up in the middle of what could only be titled: the forgotten dirt. The blackwater ways, that chopped the land of the backwoods county, were nothing in particular to the asphalt shingles that covered the concert jungle's thoroughfares: far from the cipher of his Louisiana passages. He has been mastering the travelways for 15 years now but still can't tell you how to get to the airport: thank God this maze worships the gifts of taxi drivers alongside etc-go-to stagecoaches. Fifteen years and he can still get you from the Walmart parking lot of Baton Rouge to the colonial-era French Quarter streets of New Orleans --- last minute; in time to get a few drinks in before the raucous Mardi Gras festival.

Mardi Gras was his look into the world outside of the swamp marsh that made his town on the bayou. The type of place most people longed to get divorced with. With Jayson the thing was: he wasn't looking at leaving any time soon. The answer to how soon was in the form of meeting the woman who would become his comfortability: his gravitational pull that lead him north. Gator, as he was know as back there in the wetlands, had been a cook with skills of a master chef. It had been his gumbo cocktail that sweeped the Yankee off her feet, and his southern charm, damn Cajun seasoning and voodoo nibbling away at her heart: like a swamp rat going at a sardine. The lines from a sonnet by a Redneck Romeo. Jayson's dad worked out on the oil rigs. He was going to follow in the old man's foot prints until he met the lover of his lizard brew --- Lauren Morgan Stanley.

Lauren grew up on her family's wealth. Her grandmother was the wife of Bank Titan : J.P Morgan. And her father was Joshua Josef Hytunni-Stanley a billionaire with coinage older than that of J.P Morgan's. She was a student at the Juilliard School. Taking a group of drama students to perform at the "spring semester tour": their act landed on the streets of Jazz-Town causing the little lady to turnup at Gator's Bowl. ( His restaurant)

***

" nine-one-one, what is your emergency?", The operations manager asked too softly: unaware of the horrible thing taking place in the city limits.

" Oh my God he just ....", the only words, to describe the things happening, the dispatcher's details read. " Dear .... There is.. another one."

" Car 22 to dispatch. Where is the location of...". Other calls cut in on the line. " Sara... Sara.... Car 22 out.

Today was going to be the worst day of office Miller's life.

( Across town)

It was a Tuesday morning and just shy of 15 minutes until his nine o'clock meeting with the team to go over the next phase of the project. Jayson just laid down the pen that signed the contract, picking up his coffee and doughnut, heading over to the fish tank to feed Squirts the falling crumbs of the blackberry bearclaw.

There was something different about the unexpected knock on the window.

It followed the sound of an explosion. It shock the whole building and covered his view of the city of Lower Manhattan in thick smoke and dust.

Four commercial airliners from somewhere in the north east took flight with scheduled landings to be in California. Among them had been American Airlines Flight 11: a Boeing 767 aircraft, which had not long ago departed Logan Airport at 7:59 a.m, en route to Los Angeles. It took to the sky with a crew of 11 and 76 passengers--- this count of course did not including five hijackers. The hijackers took control of the aircraft in mid-fight and flew the plane into the northern facade of the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City at 8:46 a.m.

His tight grip loosen around the cup and without hesitation, within the blink of an eye, fell to the floor below. In the distance, to the south side of the building which he could not see, a second airship was aimed. Unknown to him was another hijacking had taken place in the air. United airlines flight 175 was going to crash into the south tower of the World Trade Center complex.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone and dialed Lauren, then ran for the stairwell.

" Baby." He was almost cut off by her response. " Something just happened to the north building." Again almost cut off by her wondering and worried reply." There is smoke and dust coming from the place. I'm coming home."

The Boeing 767 aircraft, which also departed Logan Airport, but at 8:14 a.m, was en route to Los Angeles. Onboard stood a crew of nine attending to 51 passengers (not including five hijackers). At 9.03am the southern facade of the South Tower was torn into.

He had made it a few floors down. A fire caused him to back track a few levels. In passing he heard about the account being an acttack on American. He was running through the halls when he had to talk a woman out of jumping from the window like a few others had been doing. He told her that murder was already in Monument Valley that suicide did not need to be added.

The South Tower was the first to collapse at 9:58 am