That was the last thing she saw.
It was headed straight for her chest, a glittering blade, and she saw it in slow-motion. After that, however, all she saw was blackness.
The killer straightened up after her last convulsive shudders were over. He wiped the knife almost as an afterthought on his torn jeans. His face betrayed no emotion. He walked away slowly but deliberately from the crime scene, over to a payphone. The street was deserted, the sky, blank. Slipping his hand in his pocket, the killer took out a quarter and placed it in the machine. He dialed 911. On the other end, some one picked up. In an instant, his voice changed, and he was sobbing. "I just... I just found..."
The police cars came, lights flashing. They examined the body and did an autopsy. They said it was murder. They held a trial, but the killer was nowhere to be found.
What could they have done? They arrested someone else instead.