Victim,Culprit and Witness-Chapter 2
I don’t give a damn to what their names are. They can be Judy or Jack or Germain or whatever goddamn person on this earth, they are still the same to me. They have only three names for me: the victim, the culprit and the witness.
The body was lying there, decaying, even as maggots and flies and their larvae were enjoying this unusually large feast of human flesh that had been so generously prepared for them overnight by this unique chef. I was wearing a mask on my face, which was an exercise in futility, for the stench still managed to tickle the sensory organelles within my nose, even as I inspected the lamp with the bloodstains on it, and the mish-mash of her intestines that had been created by the culprit. Only a forensic examination could further evince what was left intact within her; what was stolen from her (if my hunch proves right), and when the murder was committed along with the screenplay of this strange play being enacted in front of me right here today.
There a lot of other policemen, scientists and journalists moving around me; heck, there was an entire army of men and women swarming around, as the sounds of siren mixed in with those coming from the rattling generators and the eye-searing flashlights that kept flashing away to blind everyone along with deafening them. I never like these journalists in particular; they come running like stray dogs from all over as if somebody generous threw out a bone for them. Good for nothing morons! They just help to create panic and also destroy the scene of crime for us. How then does anyone expect us to solve these entangled mysteries, when half of the potential crime scene has been tampered by these Blood-sucking pests?
Anyways, coming back to the original screenplay, the room was a mess; an obvious sign of the struggle that must have occurred between the oppressor and the oppressed. The signs were all over; the splash of bloods that keeps staring away at us from all the walls, the pillow marks, the scratches on the arms and the legs, the broken shards of a glass which might have held some amount of water or wine or whisky or whatever she might have been drinking, which crashed against the wall, for the signs were evident. All of that and much more was to be seen in that room, and all of such signs and clues and symbols, like the dead moths lying on the table with the blood-stained table lamp (apparently singed by the bulb’s heat), who were mute spectators to the horror spectacle that was unleashed by someone last night. The curtains were dry now, for the blood globules stuck onto it could now be scratched off them, leaving behind traces that can be removed only by washing them thoroughly with soap and water. The sun’s rays were streaming in through the curtains that were partially parted, creating a strange scene resembling a haunted house, except that the horror had left its aftermath.
“What do we have here?” I asked in my usual indifferent manner, while pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, and slowly puffing away at it.
“Name’s Sarah Jones; 33 years old. Unmarried. No known relatives. Nobody has any idea around this place that a murder took place last night.”
“Obvious, isn’t it? The place is the low-end scum of this city. They never hear anything, for they are busy saving their own skins most of the times, isn’t it?” I commented tersely. “Any witnesses so far?”
“None whatsoever. No one has even seen the killer’s shadow, forget the culprit,” replied the other officer, while I kept walking around to see if I could get anything of use with the forensics team. “What have you got there, doc?”
“Nothing of consequence so far,” replied she, as she kept sifting through the heaps of intestines that were spilled on the floor, while everyone was simply repulsed by the odour of death that was hanging over all of us. “The killer seems to be psychotic, I tell you. I think it has to be a man.”
“Has to be,” I quipped. “Look at the mess created; has to be really strong hands that could have wrecked such carnage.”
I puffed and after looking around for a while, walked out of the room, and started looking around to see if there was anything that could be of help to me to nail the culprit, but luck does not favour us all the time now, does it? It wants to be appreciated, wishes to stress its importance to common people like you and me, and hence plays hardball very often. The body was being taken away for autopsy by loading it into the ambulance, making sure that nobody could even hint at the devastation that the culprit left behind. Just then, the bloody journalists swooped in on me, hounding me out like a piece of meat.
“What do we know about the incident?”
“What was the victim’s name?”
“What would have been the motive behind this murder?”
“Do we have any suspects?”
“No questions please,” I spoke tersely, as the volley of questions ceased immediately, only to be followed by muted fury at my refusal to yield to their pressure. “The victim’s name is Sarah Jones, age 32. Murder motive is not known, and we have no suspects or witnesses so far. The murder must have been committed around midnight, but that can be confirmed only after the autopsy report comes out. I am the detective in-charge for this case, and my name is Maher. That’s all there is to say. Have a good day folks.”
Saying so, I started to walk away from the scene, while the press resumed it s usual buzz, creating frenzy strong enough to bring people out in this impoverished neighbourhood. They all look like criminals, only that they are not; its their fate you see. But it is no surprise to me, someone working in this area for ten years now, to see such gruesome crimes occur so frequently in this part of the town. The scum of the city, the filth that it has rejected is what this part of the town is; nothing else. What else is to be expected?
Now, I have to confess something to you all. This is not the first murder I have seen folks; it will most probably not be the lat either. But there is something about this case that is not open and shut for me. Something is amiss, and I cannot figure out the missing link in this puzzle. Is this a crime of passion? If so, why did the murderer indulge into it? Such a crime may seem as a surprise to you folks who sit around, reading in their favourite snuggly chairs or bean bags, sipping some nice warm coffee. But tell me something: is lust a privilege of only the rich? Is jealousy and hatred the rich man’s guilty passions? No its not. So it is possible, but who can it be? The thought drives across my mind, as I sit in my car, and slowly drive away.
The body was lying there, decaying, even as maggots and flies and their larvae were enjoying this unusually large feast of human flesh that had been so generously prepared for them overnight by this unique chef. I was wearing a mask on my face, which was an exercise in futility, for the stench still managed to tickle the sensory organelles within my nose, even as I inspected the lamp with the bloodstains on it, and the mish-mash of her intestines that had been created by the culprit. Only a forensic examination could further evince what was left intact within her; what was stolen from her (if my hunch proves right), and when the murder was committed along with the screenplay of this strange play being enacted in front of me right here today.
There a lot of other policemen, scientists and journalists moving around me; heck, there was an entire army of men and women swarming around, as the sounds of siren mixed in with those coming from the rattling generators and the eye-searing flashlights that kept flashing away to blind everyone along with deafening them. I never like these journalists in particular; they come running like stray dogs from all over as if somebody generous threw out a bone for them. Good for nothing morons! They just help to create panic and also destroy the scene of crime for us. How then does anyone expect us to solve these entangled mysteries, when half of the potential crime scene has been tampered by these Blood-sucking pests?
Anyways, coming back to the original screenplay, the room was a mess; an obvious sign of the struggle that must have occurred between the oppressor and the oppressed. The signs were all over; the splash of bloods that keeps staring away at us from all the walls, the pillow marks, the scratches on the arms and the legs, the broken shards of a glass which might have held some amount of water or wine or whisky or whatever she might have been drinking, which crashed against the wall, for the signs were evident. All of that and much more was to be seen in that room, and all of such signs and clues and symbols, like the dead moths lying on the table with the blood-stained table lamp (apparently singed by the bulb’s heat), who were mute spectators to the horror spectacle that was unleashed by someone last night. The curtains were dry now, for the blood globules stuck onto it could now be scratched off them, leaving behind traces that can be removed only by washing them thoroughly with soap and water. The sun’s rays were streaming in through the curtains that were partially parted, creating a strange scene resembling a haunted house, except that the horror had left its aftermath.
“What do we have here?” I asked in my usual indifferent manner, while pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, and slowly puffing away at it.
“Name’s Sarah Jones; 33 years old. Unmarried. No known relatives. Nobody has any idea around this place that a murder took place last night.”
“Obvious, isn’t it? The place is the low-end scum of this city. They never hear anything, for they are busy saving their own skins most of the times, isn’t it?” I commented tersely. “Any witnesses so far?”
“None whatsoever. No one has even seen the killer’s shadow, forget the culprit,” replied the other officer, while I kept walking around to see if I could get anything of use with the forensics team. “What have you got there, doc?”
“Nothing of consequence so far,” replied she, as she kept sifting through the heaps of intestines that were spilled on the floor, while everyone was simply repulsed by the odour of death that was hanging over all of us. “The killer seems to be psychotic, I tell you. I think it has to be a man.”
“Has to be,” I quipped. “Look at the mess created; has to be really strong hands that could have wrecked such carnage.”
I puffed and after looking around for a while, walked out of the room, and started looking around to see if there was anything that could be of help to me to nail the culprit, but luck does not favour us all the time now, does it? It wants to be appreciated, wishes to stress its importance to common people like you and me, and hence plays hardball very often. The body was being taken away for autopsy by loading it into the ambulance, making sure that nobody could even hint at the devastation that the culprit left behind. Just then, the bloody journalists swooped in on me, hounding me out like a piece of meat.
“What do we know about the incident?”
“What was the victim’s name?”
“What would have been the motive behind this murder?”
“Do we have any suspects?”
“No questions please,” I spoke tersely, as the volley of questions ceased immediately, only to be followed by muted fury at my refusal to yield to their pressure. “The victim’s name is Sarah Jones, age 32. Murder motive is not known, and we have no suspects or witnesses so far. The murder must have been committed around midnight, but that can be confirmed only after the autopsy report comes out. I am the detective in-charge for this case, and my name is Maher. That’s all there is to say. Have a good day folks.”
Saying so, I started to walk away from the scene, while the press resumed it s usual buzz, creating frenzy strong enough to bring people out in this impoverished neighbourhood. They all look like criminals, only that they are not; its their fate you see. But it is no surprise to me, someone working in this area for ten years now, to see such gruesome crimes occur so frequently in this part of the town. The scum of the city, the filth that it has rejected is what this part of the town is; nothing else. What else is to be expected?
Now, I have to confess something to you all. This is not the first murder I have seen folks; it will most probably not be the lat either. But there is something about this case that is not open and shut for me. Something is amiss, and I cannot figure out the missing link in this puzzle. Is this a crime of passion? If so, why did the murderer indulge into it? Such a crime may seem as a surprise to you folks who sit around, reading in their favourite snuggly chairs or bean bags, sipping some nice warm coffee. But tell me something: is lust a privilege of only the rich? Is jealousy and hatred the rich man’s guilty passions? No its not. So it is possible, but who can it be? The thought drives across my mind, as I sit in my car, and slowly drive away.
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