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."
Monday, February 25, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
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.
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.
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