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."