Try, Try Again

No sooner did the tape end than Martin grabbed his coat and went to the police department. Cold night wind biting at his exposed face, he mounted the stairs and threw the door open. Snow and ice followed in his wake as he approached the secretary's desk. She looked at him over her horn rimmed glasses.

"May I help you sir?" Her voice was high-pitched and nasally, the stereotypical secretary that you would see in plays.

"I hope so. I need to speak to either Sergeant Nielson or the Sheriff, now." He replied with a tone of urgency. 

"I'm sorry sir, they've already gone home for the night. Is this an emergency?" Her voice had taken on the lifelessness of an emergency operator.

"No, it's not an emergency, but I have a clue for a case I'm working on that they really need to know about."

"Well, sir, I can give them a call if you'd like. Who should I say is calling?" The secretary picked up the phone and began dialing.

"Martin Elwood."

As she finished dialing the number, she looked him over. "Ya know, you're a bit of a celebrity around here. Ever since you cracked that gambling den over in Rockwell C- Oh, yes sir, this is Barbara at the department. I was calling because I have Martin Elwood here saying he found something out regarding the case he's on."

Silence.

"Yes, sir."

Silence.

"Okay, sir." She hung up the phone. "Sergeant Nielson said he'll be here in fifteen minutes. But like I was saying; impressive work on that R C bust." 

"Thank you, it wasn't an easy case, though."

"I can imagine." 

Small talk continued until Nielson finally walked through the door, in casual clothes. "This had better be good, Elwood."

"Well, you know how you said that interview didn't really give us much? It gave me enough evidence to bring John back in for questioning." Martin said.

"Oh? And what might this 'evidence' be?" The Sergeant crossed his arms and looked at Martin with an eyebrow arched.

"In the interview, when asked about what he saw, MacPherson claimed that he saw blood dripping into the road from the body. However, when we were at the scene, there was no blood anywhere to be seen. So either he's lying, or somebody cleaned all the blood from the crime scene while he called us." 

Nielson's arms came unfolded and were now limp at his sides as he stood there. His expression was unreadable. "Fine, we'll bring him back in. I'll let you question him this time, though." His voice was flat as he replied. "It'll be a couple hours before we can bring him in, however. So sit tight, I'll make the necessary calls, and we'll have him soon." With that, Nielson walked towards his office.

A Useless Interview

It was early evening by the time Elwood's phone finally rang. That metallic clang of the phone's bell grated on his ears harshly until he answered.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Elwood?" Whoever was on the other end of the line replied.

"This is he. May I ask who is calling?"

"This is the CPD calling. We have finished questioning of one Mr. MacPherson, and we have the interview recorded and other personal information waiting for your scrutiny."

"Thank you, I'll be there shortly to pick it all up."

Downing the last dregs of his drink, Elwood stood up and made his way down to the lobby of the hotel. He walked out into the freezing wind outside, and walked to the police head quarters. Sergeant Nielson stood just inside the front entrance, with a brown package in his hands.

"The interview didn't give us much, just as we had expected." Nielson said.

"That's yet to be seen, my friend." Elwood said as he nodded at the Sergeant and turned on his heel to walk away. Just a short walk and an elevator ride later, Martin found himself back in his hotel room, with another glass of scotch in front of him. He took one sip from it before turning his full attention on the box of evidence.  Inside was a small stack of papers, the mugshot of John MacPherson along with the pictures of the most recent victims, and at the bottom of the box was a tape recorder, already loaded and rewound. Elwood chose this as the first piece to inspect. Walking up to the record player on the wall, he unplugged it, and connected the tape recorder to the speakers, then pressed 'play'.

The static-muffled voices began their conversation.

"Alright, we just have a few easy questions for you. First, name?"

"John MacPherson."

"Age?"

"Fifty-four."

"Occupation?"

"I own several apartment complexes throughout the city."

"You called in the murder of Ron Carlson, correct?"

"That is correct."

"Around what time did you make this call?"

"It was around 7:45 to 8 o'clock in the morning."

"Did you touch the body at all before you called?"

"No. I did not."

"Were you certain he was dead when you called?"

"Yes, I was. He had bullet wounds to his chest, and was not breathing."

"Did you see anybody around the scene before you called?"

"No. The streets were fairly empty around that time."

There was about an hour's worth of these pointless questions before something caught Martin's attention.

"Explain what you saw when you first discovered his body."

"I was standing across the street, and I saw a man lying on the ground, blood dripping into the road. I ran up to him and inspected his body, only to see multiple gunshot wounds to his torso. I then rushed to the convenience store down the road, and called nine-one-one immediately."

Elwood gave a single, dry laugh before sipping on his drink again. "The interview didn't tell us anything, huh?"

The First Clue

Elwood was ready just minutes later. He began working on his tie as the sergeant lead him to the black and white squad car waiting for them. The wind whipped the fresh, powdery snow into their faces after leaving the hotel through the front lobby door. Neilson opened the driver's door, and climbed in. A moment later, Martin followed suit, and sat in the passenger's side. There was not any conversation during the ride. That suited Elwood just fine, as he never was much of a people person. About fifteen minutes later, they had arrived on the north side of the inner city. There was a row of police cars setting a perimeter around the crime scene, with an ambulance waiting until they could take the body away. Both the sergeant and the private eye climbed out of the vehicle and walked past the wall of cops and cars.

Once past the mass of black clothing and guns, Martin was met by the sight of three detectives closely examining the gruesome scene in front of them. Ignoring the body in the middle of them all, he looked for the smaller details. First thing that caught his eye; the empty gun cartridges. He could not count them from where he was at the time, but he was sure it was the same as every other crime scene. Next, the same hankie that was found every time one of these murders happened. After looking around a bit more, he realized something.

Beckoning for Sergeant Neilson to come over, he stood, eyes transfixed on this oddity. Once the policeman was there, Elwood asked, "Has anyone moved the body at all?"

"Not that I can tell. Give me a minute, and I'll find out for you." with that, the sergeant set off to ask questions of the detectives and a few choice cops. A few minutes later, he returned, shaking his head. "I've asked everyone that's been here since the report came in. They all said the same thing. No one here has moved the body."

"Then do we know who called in the murder?" Elwood asked, his eyes still not moving from the body. As if this clue was going to disappear from right under his nose.

"That we do know. A middle-aged man. Goes by the name, uh," Neilson trailed off as he flipped through his notepad, looking for the name. "Goes by the name John MacPherson."

"You may want to bring him in for questioning." the private eye stated simply.

"Why is that?"

"Because, there isn't any blood on this scene except for what's on this man's clothing and possibly what finished draining from him once the body was put there. This suggests that the body was moved."

Sergeant Neilson looked around the area incredulously. "How did no one else notice that?" He looked around a little more, trying to find even a speck of blood anywhere other than on this man's body, just to prove Elwood wrong. But to no avail. "Alright. We'll have him brought in. Anything else?"

"Let me look a bit more, and I'll let you know."

About an hour later, Martin's search brought up nothing else. He stuck his hands deep in his trench coat pockets as he walked up to Neilson. "Nothing else. I'm ready to move on."

"Alright. I'll give you a ride back to your hotel."

A short, silent car ride later, the two pulled up to the hotel, and Elwood climbed out. "We'll give you a call after we finish questioning Mr. MacPherson, so you can grab the report." Sergeant Neilson said just before driving off.

Sergeant Neilson

Morning announced itself with a bright beam of light shining through a gap in the curtains right onto Elwood's face. Reluctantly his eyes opened, revealing his bedroom. First he saw the ceiling, made up of hammered copper, with an intricate design of vines flowing from wall to wall. It was old and tarnished, green flecks intertwined with the dull brown color. As he moved his head lazily, a man in uniform came into view. It was a police officer.

Mid twenties to early thirties at the oldest, clothes in pristine condition, uncomfortably so, his badge polished to perfection, black shoes gleaming in the light brought in by the windows, gun holster and belt perfectly level with his waistline, and hat tucked under his arm. It occurred to Elwood, through the fog of sleep still clouding his mind, that the fact a man that he had never seen before was standing in his room without his permission may say something about his personal security.

"May I help you?" Elwood asked.

"Martin Elwood?" Inquired the officer.

"That would be me." Martin replied as he forced himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed,"I ask again, may I help you?"

With a curt nod, the officer said,"I'm Sergeant Patrick Neilson, of the CPD. I came here under the orders of Chief Mackinaw to inform you of another murder that took place at about five o'clock this morning over on Argyle street. I'm to escort you to the scene of the crime so that you can investigate."

Elwood rolled his shoulders as he stood up,"Now this is a surprise. Normally I'm the one that has to go to the station in order to get any information. Glad to see you are finally taking this case seriously enough to bring me to a fresh scene, instead of giving me pictures."

"Sir, we have been taking this seriously since the beginning." The sergeant said indignantly.

"Sure doesn't seem that way." With that, Martin walked over to his closet, grabbed a trench coat along with his clothes for the day, and walked over to the bathroom to change. "Just give me a moment and we can be off."

The Evidence

After opening the package, Mr. Elwood took out the contents one-by-one. First out of the box, was a small stack of papers which he briefly glanced over. Just a list of names with black-and-white mugshots of different suspects for the recent murders. Nothing too interesting there, but he kept it on the rough, wooden surface of the coffee table in order to keep track of it. Moving on, he next grabbed a small handful of small, brass, bullet cartridges out of a paper bag labelled, "Evidence". He set those off to the side as well, making a mental list of all the bullets that matched the shells, as he always did. Next, he grabbed a picture of what he supposed was the crime scene, and four more, each of different people lying in a pool of their own blood. He made a note of the gender and around what age each person was. This was becoming too routine.

After lingering on the last picture for a moment, one of a young girl who looked to have been no older than ten or eleven, he pulled out the last item from the box. A small, white, blood-stained handkerchief that had the letters "R.C." on it. He let out a heavy sigh. He could not find a pattern of people that were killed, nor could he think of any names from the list of suspects with the initials, "R.C." Elwood took another sip of his scotch, trying to get the cold that had settled on him to disperse.

'R.C. R.C. R.C.' The two letters that haunted him every time he received any evidence on the new murders anymore. He thought a while longer. It was the same at every crime scene. No connection between any of the victims, no evidence other than the same amount of empty gun shells that were left at every crime scene, and the same handkerchief next to each body, with exactly five drops of blood, just above the letters. The only two things that differed each time there was a batch of murders, were: one; the amount of people killed, and two; where they were killed. 

No two people had as of yet been killed in the same area, but each murder almost always took place within minutes of one another, which is why the police were hesitant to believe it was a single person committing these crimes. Another sip of scotch. Elwood grunted bitterly. He might have a few leads by now if the CPD had called him soon enough after the crime to actually make it to the different scenes. But no, they just took their pictures, and let the ambulance take the bodies away. That was the major disadvantage of being a private eye. He was often the last one to be told anything, and always the last one they actually want to solve the case. So to meet that end, they only called him to pick up his box of evidence. He tapped his foot on the marble floor, deep in thought. 

He was always relaxed by the rhythmic clicking made by doing this. Finally, he stopped his foot, and looked at the clock. Midnight. Elwood had been sitting there for almost six hours now. It ceased to amaze him how he managed to get lost in thought for so long, now-a-days.  He figured it was about time get some rest, so he could be ready to question the suspects, even though it never led to anything. Maybe this time he would get lucky. A short, bitter laugh came from him as he rolled his eyes at that thought. "Right."

Mr. Elwood

Alright... So, I realize that it has been... a very long time since I posted anything here, but fret not. I have returned. This time without any kind of schedule. Now, this time I thought I would try something a bit different than the material I posted before. This time, I will be posting several parts to a short story I'm writing. I am undecided on a title at this point, so for now, I'll just name every post according to my own discretion. Now, without further ado, my new murder-mystery short story!

Wind blew from the north, carrying with it all the bitter cold of winter that it could muster. It was late January, and the gray sky showed no signs of breaking. A lone man walked down the street as a single snowflake fell from the sky and was driven to his face by the merciless wind. His ears, nose, and fingers were all numb with the cold. His hard-soled shoes clacked softly on the concrete sidewalk as he made his way to the brightly lit hotel ahead. Its windows sparkled like gems in the distance, making patterns with no particular order as to which windows had their lights on, and which did not. A beautiful chaos, you might have called it, if such a phrase made sense.

Under the man's arm was tucked a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. An even stronger gust of wind blew, causing the man to shiver as he pulled the collar on his trench-coat a bit higher, and pulled his scarf over his ice cold nose and chapped lips. His shoes continued to click gently as the hotel grew closer and closer. As he came within a block of the building, a young boy, with cheeks red from being in the harsh weather, at a newspaper stand asked if he would like a copy. The man paused for a moment, then grabbed the paper and dropped a nickle in the boy's outstretched hand before continuing on his way. Sundays had never been interesting, but he felt bad for the kid sitting in this wind all day. He briefly scanned over the headline: 'Four More Dead in Heart of Chicago,' and he shook his head. This had become commonplace for the Windy City as of late.

Rumors of some blood-hungry psychopath roaming the streets had begun to spread. Although the idea that a single man might be behind all of the recent murders was not an idea that was completely dismissed, it was considered unlikely by the police, and despite the police force's best efforts, many people were buying into the rumors. Shaking his head, the man made the rest of his trip to the hotel, and was instantly welcomed by the warmth and bright lights of the lobby. Two doormen welcomed him as he walked in. "Evening, mister Elwood."

He nodded at both of them in turn as he removed his hat. His disheveled blonde hair, bright red cheeks and nose, and cracked lips gave him the look of a homeless man that had meandered in. He made his way to the elevator, and rode it to the top floor. Once in his room, he poured himself a glass of scotch and started to sip absent-mindedly on it as he noticed the pile of mail on his coffee table. With a sigh, he dropped into the sofa in front of the table. It was then that he remembered the brown package from the police station. He tore the box open and pulled the contents out.

Wedding Day

Okay, so you all may have noticed that the previous two pieces were connected by a wedding. So, this is the last post that will be based off of that idea. The first post I did was actually made to prequel the other two. I just couldn't figure out how to connect it without writing a whole other piece for this little three-piece story. So, enjoy this last part of 'The Wedding'.

    The bride stood there in the brightly lit room as the bridesmaids in dresses of violet, and her mother in a dress of powder blue, helped to slide the white silk dress over her head. With a few deft movements of her fingers, the brides mother tied the drawstrings off, to hold the dress. Her mother made a small, twirling motion with her finger, and in response the bride performed a quick spin. Making a face, her mother fussed over a small piece of the dress that did not sit right. After tugging on the dress a few times, and making the bride turn around once more, her mother finally gave her nod of approval. After a moment, the bride inspected herself. She ran her hands down the front of her dress, the gleaming pearls that embroidered the entire dress providing a slight contrast to the otherwise perfectly smooth silk piece. The mirror shone brightly, showing the bride her reflection surrounded by her close friends and mother. Each wore a beautiful dress, though none could compare to the radiance of the bride's own white gown. They all gathered together and gave each other a hug before they lined up together, with the bride at the back, and the mother at the front. After a brief delay, the line moved out of the open door, slowly making their way to the sanctuary. They paused at the sanctuary doors for a minute, and the mother and bridesmaids made their way down the red carpeted aisle. For one moment, there was utter silence. Then the organ struck up a tune, and the bride's father emerged from a side door, and offered her his arm. With a gentle smile, the bride dropped the veil over her face, and took the proffered arm. With that, they both walked down the aisle. They took the walk that would be the end of her old life, and the beginning of her new. If you walked into this room, you would be captivated by the white, veined marble that made up the pillars that held the ceiling, or the gorgeous mahogany pews that lined the sides of the aisle, or even the vast mural that was composed of stained glass, that depicted the last supper of Jesus Christ. But today, none of that could pull your eyes off of the gleaming white vision that made her way down to her new beginning. Here went the bride, by the side of her husband, dressed all in black, so that the attention was all on her. His wife, his other half, the Bride.