** Special Report ** A gruesome scene was discovered on February 16, 2015. Approximately at 2:36pm—an unidentified pedestrian notified authorities of a possible homicide. Police arrived at the scene and concluded the following: a flowery white carpet was stained with blood. The body was possibly dragged to a different location. No weapon was recovered.
For viable leads: call 1-800-Stop-Crime
The case arrived on my desk about a month ago. A brown folder. No labels.
I remember my fingers gliding over the folder’s smooth skin. Doubt crept into my skull: are you sure you want to open it? Do you remember what happened last time? You couldn’t sleep for weeks…
…I didn’t listen.
My fingers grasped the folder and placed it near a dish of cigarette ash, and then I split it open upon the middle of the desk. My body recoiled. I tried looking away.
My eyes denied me.
A nearby window offered me a moment of sanctuary. City lights glistened against a rusted sky. People buzzed inside of towering metal hives. Some laughed. Some cried. A daydream drifted me toward the window—my eyes ventured across an open chasm—toward a nearby apartment building. Little worlds visible through tiny windows: a couple ate dinner…kids played near a television…a fat man sat alone…prostitutes danced for a client…
…The folder whispered my name, and then I returned to my seat.
A red oasis hypnotized me.
Dry biological oil stained a flowery carpet: how can someone do this? Are there any atrocities humanity won’t commit? Who were the victims? What happened to their families? Was it revenge? Murder? Does it matter?
The questions made me vomit. I didn’t have any answers.
No bodies were discovered. No weapons. The only thing that’s certain—someone died—and their blood was the only thing left behind.