Case Closed (short story)

    He felt sick. He thought he knew what to expect, after all it was not his first case and not the first dead body he saw although he was one of the youngest detectives at the police station.

   He nodded to the constable who nervously looked in the other direction, avoiding looking at the victim. The poor guy who's dreams after this night shift were probably going to be haunted by images of this night.

The full moon shed a spooky light on the scene and reflected in the wide open eyes of the man that lay on his back, his mouth wide open in a horrifying grimace; a loud scream frozen in the last seconds of his life.

   The still visible part of the blade of the knife in his chest glanced in the moonlight and the fingers that were cramped around the handle were white and ghostly.

The white shirt was stained with large amounts of blood that found it's way to the cinders that paved the path to the coal mines, closed not long ago.

    “What a terrible place to die...” The voice of his chief who laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, spoke the words he just thought. “The team is on it's way John. Constable, can you please keep curious journalists and other riff-raff from the scene? No doubt they are already on their way. You are getting help from your colleagues.”

The constable nodded, glad he didn't have to stay here any longer, he realized it was going to be a long night. 

   John and his superior Roy both stared at the dead man and both had the feeling there was something very strange about this murder but without extra light than that of the moon and without touching the body before the doctor arrived, the knife was the only witness of how the man died.

Murder was not too common in this area in the 60's. 'Love and Peace' was the message and not 'Kill'. Idyllic thoughts in a world of wars, strikes, closing mines and poverty.

   The wind gained in strength and both men tried to hide in the warmth of their coats. A car stopped, it was the pathologist - not a man of many words - who used a torch to walk to the spot where the men gathered. He raised his hat in a greet, put his case down, pulled up his trousers and crouched down near the body. He observed it closely before touching it: “A very unusual knife... the handle suggests it is a knife with a very long blade. I would not be surprised if it went right through the chest to exit it at the back. Not a knife you find a the ordinary kitchen. I can tell you more after he is on my table. I do not want to roll the body over just now. Can you arrange it to be transported in this position?”

John and Roy nodded, it was the knife that gave both men the feeling there was something strange about it.

   Then the doctor stretched his arm and his fingers carefully closed the eyes of the diseased. It was then that John realized he more or less held his breath, he let it go with a feeling of relief. It helped him feeling better not to see the man's eyes any more. Although he was dead it was as if the tremendous fear for the killing was still visible in the eyes. Eyes that saw the murderer; the knife was driven into the chest with great force. John wondered if the man had been in shock, either by the brutal attack or the pain. Did he feel the pain immediately? Did he realize immediately what happened to him? Did he know his killer?

   The photographer arrived with his camera, a Hassleblad with all necessary options. He installed the flash and asked the pathologist if he wanted some special shots. He promised to take close shots from the knife and to come to the mortuary tomorrow afternoon. He took photo's from all possible angles; the light flashed dominantly in the dark. Soon he was ready, packed his camera and left again after promising to deliver the developed photo's around 10 AM at the station, the best he could do, and left together with the pathologist. John smiled at him; the photographer must have seen terrible things, worked ridiculous hours but never complained. He wondered if he had a family and if so, how they coped with his job. John was still single although he had very special feelings for a lovely girl he met at a party not long ago. They went out a few times but he never told her he was a detective; she thought he was a constabable.

   Despite the bustle at the scene, there were still no spectators or journalists which was only good. A murder in this community wasn't something they wanted in the news papers straight away. First they wanted to find out who the man was. Even Roy, who knew almost everybody around here, did not recognize the man.

    The car with the men form the mortuary arrived not long after and the body was carefully packed in a large black bag. The sound of the zip was loud in the silent night. The men placed the body on the stretcher and walked away with it, leaving John and Roy behind.

   They used their torches to examine the soil where the body had laid. The white sheet of paper, clearly visible in the light, moved in the wind. Both men stared at it before John grabbed it, afraid it would blow away.

They examined it carefully; the blood on it was mingled with the ink of the handwritten text. Hopefully the Lab could find out what was written.

    Then the light revealed a sharp cut in the middle of the paper. A cut obviously made by the knife.

The two detectives stared at the cut, then at each other. The wind felt suddenly very chilly when they realized the letter was pinned to the point of the knife after the victim was stabbed and before the body was placed in the position in which they found it. They understood immediately they had to look for a cold and unscrupulous killer...... This case was not going to be easy.

   The years passing by proved the first gut feeling of both detectives to be right; the killer was never found, nor the identity of the victim. The man wasn't a local and a photo in the newspapers – even nation wide – didn't bring a solution either. The man was not registered at Interpol and did not answer any description of missing persons.

    Also the origin of the strange knife that indeed had a long narrow and extremely sharp blade was never revealed. The conclusion with which the file of 'John Doe' was closed, was 'unknown male in his 40's, probably not British. Buried at the local cemetery June 1968, number 23'.

   But John had never forgotten the case. Every time he thought about it, he felt a little of the sickness during the night he saw the body. And he remembered his promise to himself to find out who it was and what happened.

   
   Due to the closing of the coal mines, people moved away from the small village and John's colleagues either retired or moved to other police stations in the nearby town. John stayed, not aware his drive to solve the case made him ill. He wasn't bad enough to be taken into a mental hospital and he wasn't dangerous. He still had access to the old police station where the files from a long time ago where left behind. A few people who felt sorry for Old John as he was called now, looked after him and made sure nothing happened.

Photo: @be.lost.in.time (Instagram)

    John not aware of this all any more, kept reading the old files over and over again.. The next day he had forgotten what he read and about who; the only thing that was pinned in his mind was to find the murderer of 'John Doe'.
   Until the day that one of the people that looked after John, an old lady, found the office empty. The chaos was enormous, files piled on top of each other, dust and cob webs everywhere. The smell of decay mingled with the fainting smell of John's favourite aftershave; a smell that nestled it self in the room after many decennia of police work. The old lady asked for help and looked everywhere for John but there was no trace of him. She reported it to the police who came, took her statement and sealed the office after moving all the files to a new place in the archive of the police station in town. But not before a note was added. A note that said 'Case Closed'.

Word of thanks: the photo of @be.lost.in.time (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am I am very grateful. Thank you Morrígan!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @be.lost.in.time

Note: the story is pure fiction. A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Trapped (short story)

   'Young and Happy'.... words from another world.

   Followed by 'Old and Sad'? No... I am not old nor sad. I am forgotten, yes, but so is she and I did nothing to accomplish that. Well, nothing... If agreeing to make her happy helped to accomplish it, then that was my little share. But not on purpose.
Knowing what I know now, I definitely wished I had my share in her end but the stupid fool I was, did not recognise the signs.

   Please accept my apologies, I know I sound confusing but that is exactly what it was.
Let me start at the very beginning. When we met, we were young and I felt attracted to her because she was the opposite of what I was. She was beautiful and full of life. She liked partying, dancing and laughing and had many friends. Her energy was almost unbelievable and to me like a glass of sweet bubbly wine.
The bubbles found their way to my heart and brains; I entered a whole new world and I loved it.

   Still I never understood why she liked me enough to live with me. I was astonished when she asked me to dance with her on a party I never wanted to be but dragged to by a few friends who thought I needed to have some fun. I hated the crowd, the cigarette smoke, the make up of all the girls and I hated the Charleston. The latter because I do not have a feeling for any form of rhythm.
I hated her make up too but my heart decided to fall in love with her and the pace of my life changed.

   We married, moved to her house and continued partying. With her money! I gave up my job and did not even feel ashamed. In those days you were a gigolo if you did not earn the income and your wife provided the money. That she clearly insisted was a good excuse but I should have known better...
And when I started to enjoy myself, surrounded by her friends, celebrating her way of life, spending her money on parties and travelling, she announced out of the blue she was sick and tired of this way of living and wanted a change.
   At first I tried to persuade her to skip a few parties and going to bed earlier but she said this was not going to change much. What she needed, she said, was a different life, a total change.
I talked and talked but had to give in to her ideas of changing.
She (not we) sold her house and bought a house in France of all places!

   Did she understand that her friends stayed in Derbyshire? Yes, she did but knowing them they would come over for holidays for sure.
What ever I said, she always had an answer and off we went, driving in front of the removal van packed with our belongings.

   And indeed friends came to visit us but thought it was less fun than at home. They asked me what was wrong with my wife as she was less fun too. I explained she was tired and things were going to change for the better. But it did not.
   She got more and more demanding and bossy, hardly smiled and took a great effort in commanding me. Soon came the day that friends stayed away, local visitors didn't come by any more and going out stopped. We became prisoners in our own house. Pardon, her house.
I longed for a life of my own but with any attempt to go out on my own, she reminded me I was going to spend her money. And she never failed to remind me that I lived in her house.

   Silly me, where the average spectator would have noticed long ago that I was treated as a doormat or almost a slave, I still tried to see the bright side of life and still believed that one day she would become her old self again.
It never occurred to me she successfully took control over my life. She humiliated me until I was nothing more than an insect under her shoe. An insect to play with, to pull it's wings out.
Cruelty enjoyed her, it even made her laugh again but what a horrible laugh.
It started with a smile of which I thought was the beginning of her recovery. It took so long to realise she only smiled when I suffered but at this point I could not reverse our life's, let alone mine.
Her control over me was beyond the point of change.

   Maybe it was a blessing what happened next, when she asked me to bring her suitcases from the attic. She said she hurt her back working in the garden and she suddenly decided we needed a break.
I was relieved and pleased and hurried upstairs while she was preparing a meal.
I hoped we were going to leave soon and took all the suitcases to our bedroom, starting to fill mine with my clothes and carried them to the car in the garage behind the house.

   We had a lovely meal and for the first time in years she behaved normal. She even kissed me for carrying the suitcases and asked me to come to the garden to view all the work she had done so we could leave the garden on its own until we returned.
I kissed her in return and followed her happily, looking forward to our unexpected journey.
We walked through the garden and admired the flowers until we ended up at a large hole, hidden between roses and hedges. She stood still and with a smile explained she wasn't finished yet, the hole was for the pruned branches and old leaves. If I was kind enough to inspect it being large enough?
   Happy to please her I bowed and inspected the hole. Therefore I did not see it coming, the blow on my head that knocked me inconscious. Even worse, the blow that killed me but not before I heard her last loud laugh that scared the crows in the trees. The crows that screamed my death song.

   But there is no rest for the wicked and wicked she was. She filled the hole, replanted it and walked back to the house. She took a shower, put her cloths in a bag in her suitcase with her other cloths.
   She carried the heavy suitcases downstairs, all on her own and to the car.
When she tried to unlock the car, she noticed that she had left the keys upstairs and went to get them.
To her anger, they were not upstairs and she was very certain they were not in her pockets when she undressed. The only thing she could think of was that she accidentally packed the keys in one of her suitcases.
   Annoyed about her own stupidity, she left the bedroom to hurry downstairs; she wanted to leave the house as soon as possible. But this was a mistake. Instead of walking down the stairs, she started to run and already on the second step, slipped. She tried to hold on to the banister but could not reach it any more. Her scream was an echo of that of the crows earlier that evening and ended abrupt when her head hit the tiled floor.

Photo: @urbexsud (Instagram)

    She was silent, for ever. She created an environment where nobody was ever going to look for her. She distanced from all her friends and neighbours. She became her own victim, never to know she lost the keys in the grave in the garden. The grave she filled with her own hands.

   The car and the suitcases still wait to be collected, covered in thick layers of grey dust only disturbed by spiders catching their food in large webs.


  
Word of thanks: the photo of @urbexsud (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Merci beaucoup!!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @urbexsud
Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen