Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The clouds had thickened. What seemed like a potentially sunny day, turned into a dark and murky atmosphere. Rain drops from the demonic looking clouds started pecking the skin of the curious by-standers. Gaining momentum, the drizzle had turned into showers that rapidly tapped the tops of the umbrellas that were scattered throughout the crowd.
     Police tape separated the crowd and the crime scene. This German, who had worked in the bakery across the street, exited the family owned business with a newspaper covering his head. The blacks who were in the area glanced, but kept it moving. Due to racial profiling escalating in the past couple of years, they are the ones who are being labeled as the criminals. In addition to that, they have seen all this 100 times before, so a scene like this is second nature.
     “What do we have here,” homicide detective Boris Clyde had asked one of the young officers as he ducked underneath the yellow tape.
     The officer looked at the brief details jotted down on his pad.
     “Two victims. The cause of death, gunshot wounds. Small caliber.”
     Boris entered the establishment, slowing his pace, observing the area. The photographer, an old black woman, was snapping pictures of the crime scene as if she had done this many times before.
     “Identification?” Boris asks, looking down at the cashier.
     The officer flipped a page.
     “The woman. Margaret Keller. 58 yrs old. Widow. Mother of two.”
     A sigh exhaled from the new recruit.
     “I know her personally.”
     “From?” the detective asked crouching down beside the corpse.
     “Went to school with Timmy, her youngest son. Played lacrosse with him.” He gulped at the reality of her death. “Met his mother at a couple of games.”
     Boris raised up, rubbing the dust from the palms that had touched the floor.
     “I think you should leave son,” Boris told the officer patting him on his back, then stepping off.
     The young man slowly took two steps back, staring at Margaret, who’s eyes were staring back at him. He turned on his heels striding towards the door.
     “Hey!” Boris yelled out to the officer, racing towards him, “What about the other victim. Anything on him?”
     The officer didn’t need to look at his pad to answer his question, “Nothing at all.”
     “No wallet, Identification?”
     “Nothing except for some keys that were in the left pocket of his slacks.”
     Boris shoved his hands into his trench coat. At that time, a crime scene investigator entered the premises.
     “Thanks.”
     The officer exited, feeling unimportant. “Look,” Boris said stopping the young tech, “Get a fingerprint from the victim at the other end and process it as soon as possible!”
     “He was just probably a…..”
     The tech was cut off by Boris, “Just do as I ask please!”
     Boris was a man who scene it all throughout his twenty five year career. Hardened by the criminals and distant with dealing with the victims, molded him into a heartless detective. Recently he was the talk of the precinct. He witnessed a murder occur off duty and chased the suspect who had hit his wife in the head with a bat. After a brief chase, Boris caught him and beat him to a pulp.
     “You like hitting on women do you?” A fist crashed down onto the killers face.
     “I didn’t….”, he was cut off.
     Three more blows to his head from Boris’s meaty fists. Blood with the mixture of snot bubbled from the suspects nose. The final blow knocked him out cold, leaving Boris there with nothing else to accomplish. His fellow officers not only applauded him for capturing the killer, but also laughed at the fact that his stubby frame and old age allowed him to run down the young murderer. He didn’t find it too amusing.
     John’s leg was the only thing visible from the shop. When the two shots stuck his chest, he struggled hard to stay alive by scraping his heels onto the floor back and forth. The final motion left one leg back, knee up and the other on stretched out, shoe pointing in the ten o’clock position.
     Boris scanned the area again. He noticed there were not any cameras in the shop. That alone could put a dent into the investigation. The bells jingled, immediately causing him to spin on his heels.
     “Sir,  the owners are outside. What do you want me to tell them?”
     Boris could see individuals necks moving side to side trying to get a glimpse inside as the officer closed the door.
     “Dust this whole place. Everything. Knobs, countertop, and register. Every inch of this place!” he said while he twirled his finger in the air in a whirlwind motion.
     The officer opened the door for the detective and closed it behind him, causing the glass to rattle loosely in the frame.
     A couple in their mid sixties approached Boris quickly. The woman who was unattractively pale, clinched into her purse with both hands that were infested with purple veins. Her husband, hand slightly on his wife’s lower back, looked like he was on the brink of a heart attack.
     “Please tell me Margaret is alright,” the woman said concerned, noticeably shaken.
     Boris dipped his hand into his trench and pulled out a pack of non filtered Pall Malls. The dark cloud had moved Northeast, temporarily ceasing the rain that had pounded the area. A ball of smoke expanded and disbursed after he lit the cigarette and exhaled heavily. He knew this was going to be a long day.

     The killer plopped down onto the bed of his one room shack, that resided in the southeast side of the district. Liquor bottles and crushed beer cans were scattered around on the floor. By the bed, was the nightstand that had an ashtray, pipe, a lighter, half of clothes hanger and an old lamp that was engulfed by it’s dark bellow shade. A shade that looked like it belonged in one of those cheap motels a couple blocks away.
     He shuffled towards the window and peeked out of the blinds to observe the scene. Nobody was out, but a few petty hustlers that were posted up outside a building that was across the street. Glancing to the left he could see a storm cloud coming. As long as there were not any police patrolling the area he was okay. He was definitely paranoid.
     “Damn,” he said wiping the sweat out of his face onto the side of his jeans. He let out a sigh of relief.
     Before he sat back down, he took the gun out of his waistband and placed it aside the ashtray. The bed creaked long and slow as he gently sat down onto the spread. Wiping the sweat from his face again and starting to feel the temperature rise, the killer took off the hoody and placed it beside him.
     “It’s hot in here,” he said to himself. Waving his face with his hand.
     He cocked to the side and extracted a bag that was in the front of his jeans. Wasting no time, he flicked the switch on the lamp, causing it to snap two times before the light illuminated the crusty shade, that now looked brown.
     “Oh yeah, ha-ha-ha-ha,” he laughed loudly plucking the crack that was still in the bag with his middle finger.
     The .25 caliber looked menacing sitting on the stand with the barrel towards him. He seen this and nudged the barrel towards the wall. Sweat continued to pour down his face. The front of his hair was matted into his enormous his forehead.
     “Umm, I can smoke all day,” he said dumping the yellowish rocks onto the table.
     For some reason, the bulkiness of his back pocket agitated him. He slightly lifted up, and slipped the wallet from out of his back pocket.
     “Nice,” he said, acknowledging the quality.
     When he tossed it onto the floor, the wallet flew open, exposing it’s contents. Seeing the various credit cards for the second time,  he knew he had hit the jackpot.
     For a moment he was spooked out. The photo of his victim stared at him as if he were still alive. He bent down and grabbed the wallet, tilting it towards the light so he could get a better view. The killer lowered his eyebrows.
     “I seen him before,” he said staring at his license.
     “Aaahh,” he groaned tossing the wallet back onto the floor. Giving up the mental lineup. He grabbed his pipe and placed a single rock into it’s cup.
     “Damn”
     The lighter wouldn’t flame, so he shook it a couple of times to get the fluid into the small straw. Just as the flame burst from the flint, the ceiling started to creak repetitiously. He hated noise when he wanted to get high. Noise actually made him more paranoid.
     “Son of a b***h!” he worded.
     The creaking had turned into banging. He had to do the usual.
     “Oh f**k me poppy,” he heard the w***e upstairs groan. The killer could hear anything that anyone said through the upstairs apartment through the vent that was positioned in the ceiling. The builders forty years earlier made a big mistake.
     He banged his fists hard onto the ceiling and yelled through the vent, “Ah, you f*****g my wife?”
     Louise Fernandez, was a prostitute who sold herself to various clients in the privacy of her home. She did her thing and he did his, so they respected each other. He let out a light sigh when he heard the footsteps go into another area of the apartment.
     “Now, where was I?” he said to himself as he sat back down onto the bed.
     Within two flicks, the flame appeared. The crack sizzled down as it disappeared from the cup. A moment past before he blew the smoke out. He sat the pipe and lighter down and darted straight towards the window, more paranoid. The crack had hit him within seconds. His lips twisted from the taste of the cheaply produced drug. After pacing the floor a minute or so, he decided to sit down. He kicked the wallet accidentally, causing the wallet to open again. Instantly he thought about the murders, as the license photo stared at him again. Strange. He thought nothing of it as he sat down, but someone else did.
     In the chair that was perfectly positioned in the corner of the room sat the soul of John Woodson. He couldn’t believe his life meant so little.
     
     

 























 

Reviews

[ganymeder]

I can't wait to see where this goes! I sound like a broken record, but Great Job!

Suggestions...

>>Boris was a man who scene it all throughout his twenty five year career.>Strange. He thought nothing of it as he sat down, but someone else did.
In the chair that was perfectly positioned in the corner of the room sat the soul of John Woodson. He couldn't believe his life meant so little.

[JC Fox]

Excellent visuals you are tying the story up very nicely