Flowers of Malevolence

 It was a fine morning, Mr. Donnelly thought, as he crouched down on the floor to inspect his new lobelia flowers. Of course, save the wind, but even that was diminishing. His mind failed to even touch the notion of the young girl’s death last night. Funny how he’d seriously considered retiring just a month before her murder. There would be time for that later. Now, he was simply happy. Winter had given way to spring, Donnelly’s favorite time of the year. The moist grass, along with the waking flower’s exquisite fragrance brought back warm memories that no other aroma could recall. He would set to work tomorrow, he thought as he balled his hands in frustruation and anger. A detective must have his mind clear. Yet, Arthur Franco’s desolated face kept appearing, weighing him down. Low enough to act out of revenge. But who? The mustache and the boy were probably just conspirators. Some larger force was at work. He remembered vividly the first time he’d heard about Hal the Ripper. It had been five years ago, the year his wife died. He’d been sitting at home, watching TV with his fifteen year old son Henry. March the 13^th, 2007, the body of George Philips, a renown reporter was found after he’d gone missing a week before. April 13^th, 2007, the bodies of Mr. Philip’s team of seven were found. Thus it went on, May 13^th, June 14^th, July 13^th, and so on. Most were reporters. Always on the 13^th day of every month. By December, the culprit had been found. Or so Donnelly had thought. Turned out he was one of many. Three more where with him. They all matched the DNA on the knives found in the murders, from June through December. As soon as they saw the police they jumped. One of them screamed something unintelligible as he hit the ground. A bystander who happened to be a video game store owner had identified the dead men as frequent clients. One of them had threatened to slice the owner’s throat when he refused a ten dollar bill as payment for a Warcraft costume, worth thirty dollars.  However, the murders continued well into March 14^th, 2008. Same day it had started, different year. Nina Franco had been murdered on the eve of March 14^th.

 

“Hey dad” an icy voice mumbled behind him, startling him enough to pull him out from his reverie.“How’s life treating you?”it asked. As soon as Donnelly recognized his son, he shivered involuntarily. Donnelly’s relationship with his son was a rather complicated one, the boy had lived with his hysterical mother until she died unexpectedly five years ago. The house had seemed chilly to Donnelly the moment his son had entered the house. There was something eerie in his son’s cold indiffrence to everything in general that made Donnelly’s blood run cold. “Have you tried to get any help?” he inquired, turning slowly towards his son, eyeing the bottle of wine held so casually, “I don’t want my son to drink himself to death!”. His son merely shrugged as he  took a swig of his wine “I’m gonna die someday dad, everybody dies, but believe me, it won’t be a Bloody Mary that kills me” he laughed hoarsely, “Oh yeah, definitely not a Bloody Mary…”. He suddenly stopped in his tracks and his voice low and curious, he asked, his ghostly eyes scanning Donnelly “Have you found him yet?”. Donnelly looked at his son through squinting eyes, how had he found out? Sure, he’d trained him to become a detective, but how would he know? It was only a day after the young girl’s murder and the police department had decided to seal the records for the meantime until they acquired more information. Besides, he lived about 470 miles away in New York City. Arthur’s shock had given way to rage. He, too had been outraged, but what could he do? Gardening sure had helped ease his rage, but it did not diminish his determination to solve this new case, he found himself growing impatient. He did not agree, that was for sure, but he’d learned quite some time ago that whatever the police department said, was law, and one must not meddle with the law. The police decided to keep this regional, just like they’d done before in Donnelly’s glory days. It simply spelled doom for him. This killer was capricious. He’d taken quite a vacation. Besides, he’d been forbidden to tell anyone, under pain of a month in jail. This was a result of a controlling and paranoid sheriff.

“Have you found him yet? I mean, have you found Perkins yet?” Donnelly sighed in relief, “Sorry Henry, haven’t found your old dog yet” he muttered standing up, “By the way, where’ve you been?”. Henry shifted awkwardly, “I’ve been somewhere” and he was gone. It was creepy how fast his son could disappear, of course, he thought, he’d inherited his mother’s evasiveness, and unfortunately, her habit of leaving whenever the conversation reached a personal point. His conversations with Henry usually lasted only three minutes or less. He was probably in a hurry to scurry back to New York. Or maybe it was the lobelias, Donnelly thought, as his son had avoided going home ever since with the excuse that lobelias symbolized ill will and malevolence. Not that he came often. Not even remotely. Donnelly snorted, like he believed in that crap! He was a man of science, he only believed facts. Still, where Henry stood in all that was hard to tell. He’d always scorned faith, once arguing that faith was for fools in a fit of anger. But fools are needed, they are a man’s steps to greatness’ he’d whispered, low enough to keep Donnelly pondering over these words for days. Science, in his eyes, was supreme. But even that was sketchy. Henry had recently become guarded, quieter than usual. An arrogant smirk had taken the place of his usual sly, scheming smile. So little did Donnelly know about his son, their relationship might just as well be nothing.