crime story
The room was filled with blood. Covering the floor in disturbing streaks of crimson, the wall painted in its shiny hue.
The detective walked through the gruesome murder scene, taking particular care not to touch any of the evidence labelled with the little yellow cones. The brutality that caused such mayhem made her heave, shuddering as she tried to keep down her breakfast of decaffeinated coffee, and half a banana.
No one had seen anything. But then again, no one ever did. The victim was identified as one Mike Adams, a tenant in the building. Single guy, paid his bills on time…. Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. But, when was there? The routine back up check would tell.
He (or what was left of him) was found by the landlady, who had had complaints of the “unearthly odours,” deriving from under his door, placing his time of death prior to 9.30 am. Provided she wasn’t lying. Which everyone does…
The woman was a right mess; seated in the corner, shrouded in a blanket with a mug of something steamy, she was in definite shock, traumatised by the grisly scene before them. The detective turned her back on her. The woman was useless. Or the murderer.
Dealing in absolutes helped her think, helped her to rationalise the conflict of crime and chaos that would have otherwise driven her insane. She took a canister from her suit pocket, withdrawing two pills, and a cigarette, or “nails,” as she liked to call them.
There was something unsettling about this crime. It was too… unnecessary. Too extravagant. Mere anger, mere hate, was not the cause of the destructive violence that had caused the scene before her. There was no reason for covering the room with gore and disgust. Unless they wanted to hide something….
“Get all this blood back to the labs, immediately,” she commanded to the somewhat stunned forensic investigators. Arrogant pricks, she thought to herself. A separate unit, technically they didn’t have to answer to the police, and they took this power in their
The detective walked through the gruesome murder scene, taking particular care not to touch any of the evidence labelled with the little yellow cones. The brutality that caused such mayhem made her heave, shuddering as she tried to keep down her breakfast of decaffeinated coffee, and half a banana.
No one had seen anything. But then again, no one ever did. The victim was identified as one Mike Adams, a tenant in the building. Single guy, paid his bills on time…. Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. But, when was there? The routine back up check would tell.
He (or what was left of him) was found by the landlady, who had had complaints of the “unearthly odours,” deriving from under his door, placing his time of death prior to 9.30 am. Provided she wasn’t lying. Which everyone does…
The woman was a right mess; seated in the corner, shrouded in a blanket with a mug of something steamy, she was in definite shock, traumatised by the grisly scene before them. The detective turned her back on her. The woman was useless. Or the murderer.
Dealing in absolutes helped her think, helped her to rationalise the conflict of crime and chaos that would have otherwise driven her insane. She took a canister from her suit pocket, withdrawing two pills, and a cigarette, or “nails,” as she liked to call them.
There was something unsettling about this crime. It was too… unnecessary. Too extravagant. Mere anger, mere hate, was not the cause of the destructive violence that had caused the scene before her. There was no reason for covering the room with gore and disgust. Unless they wanted to hide something….
“Get all this blood back to the labs, immediately,” she commanded to the somewhat stunned forensic investigators. Arrogant pricks, she thought to herself. A separate unit, technically they didn’t have to answer to the police, and they took this power in their