The Word 9/The Word 9 (Disk 2 of 2).adf/Files_2/11-StillLife.txt/11-StillLife.txt

Text File | 1996-01-17 | 9KB | 202 lines

|1-Still Life



                              By Sparhawk


 It  was  the eighth murder in as many weeks.  This one had been hanged,
her  head lolled at an unnatural angle and her tongue protruded from her
mouth  in  a  way  that tongues definitely do not do naturally.  She had
been  washed  up on the lakeshore at 2 am.  and the coroner put her time
of death at 6-8 hours earlier.

 It  was  not yet decided whether the murders were connected, but in his
own  mind  Carl  decided that they were.  It could not be a coincidence.
In  Harley  there  had  not been a murder in over thirty years.  And now
there had been eight of them.  Definitely not a coincidence.

 The  problem  was  that there were no similarities between each victim,
except  they  were  all  young.   The first had been Jason Hill, a young
banker  in  the towns only bank.  He had been discovered with his throat
slit  in  the  ornamental  moat  surrounding  Harvey Shopping Mall.  The
second was Terence Grant, a construction worker at the new Urban Renewal
project on the towns outskirts.  He had been discovered with his head in
a cement mixer and his body in a wheelbarrow.

 The  third  murder  had  been the most famous.  It was Josie 'Florence'
Harcourt.   She was the daughter of the land tycoon Graham Harcourt, who
had  built  most of the newer parts of Harvey.  She had been discovered,
suffocated,  in  a  crate  left  on the main road through the town.  The
plastic  bag  was  still  secured  around her face.  After her death her
father  had  bullied  the  mayor into pushing the entire police force to
investigate.  They had found nothing, but there were no more murders for
six weeks.

 In the last two weeks there had been no less than four murders, five if
you  included todays.  These were Fred Sausy, Sarah Worth, Henry Flowers
and Claire Phillips.  All were people from everyday walks of life.  None
had been over 25 years old.

 Carl  could  not find any evidence at all on the bodies, except on Fred
Sausy,  who  had been found in the boot of his own car.  There was green
paint under his fingernails.  On analysis this had proved to be the kind
of  paint that an artist would use.  Common watercolour paint.  This was
the only clue he had.  Carl had detailed files on all the artists living
in  Harvey  but none seemed to be the murderer.  Fred himself, according
to friends and relatives, definitely did not paint.

 A  woman  walked  over  to him.  It was Francis Greenberg of the Harvey
Herald.  Shit, groaned Carl to himself.  Anything but her!  She was sure
to ask unnecessary questions and draw her own conclusions.

 "Sheriff  Meister?   Would  you  like to comment?" she said.  She had a
slight  smile playing across her lips as she stood to attention with her
tape recorder and microphone.  She thrust the latter towards his mouth.

 "Could you wait for the statement, Miss Greenberg?" said Carl.

 "I  see  this  interview  is going to be difficult again, Carl.  Let me
help you.  Have you identified the body yet?"

 "No comment."

 "Is this murder related to any of the others?"

 "Like I said, No Comment."

 "Have you any idea to who the murderer may be?  Have you discovered any
leads?"

 "Miss  Greenberg,  if  you don't leave now I will have you removed.  An
official  statement  will  be  issued at the station in the morning.  Be
there then and all your questions will be answered."

 Francis  Greenberg seemed to be on the verge of asking another question
but  she  realised  she was pushing her luck and stopped.  She glared at
Carl  playfully and turned and walked back to her car.  She was going to
be a handful, again.



 "At  approximately  8  pm.  yesterday a young lady by the name of Petra
Andropov  was murdered.  The cause of death seems to be massive coronary
caused  by  poison, as yet unidentified.  She was Caucasian and 22 years
old.  She was a Russian exchange student here at Harvey Medical school.

 "I  have no reason to suspect this murder was connected with any of the
others over the past few weeks.  That is all."

 Suddenly  there  was  a  clamour of voices as Carl turned back into the
police  station.   Flashes of white light indicated the photographers at
work,  raised  hands waved frantically as reporters hoped for answers to
their  questions.   Carls  spokesman, a young deputy by the name of Vic,
answered the reporters questions with no firm answers.

 "Hi,  Susan."  said Carl to his secretary as he walked into his office.
"Any calls?"

 "Only  one  from  the  medical  school.   They  say  they've discovered
something you'd better look at."

 "Give them a call and tell them I'm on my way."

 "I've already done so."

 Susan  was  getting to know Carl well.  She always seemed to anticipate
his  actions.   Carl  left  through  the  fire escape in his office.  He
climbed  down  this  to  back  parking  lot and jumped into his car.  He
usually  walked to the medical school, after all it was only ten minutes
down  the  road,  but he didn't want to get caught by the reporters.  He
screeched  round  the  corner and down the road, taking great delight in
covering notepad-waving reporters in exhaust fumes.

 The  medical school was a tall, grey building.  It was built right next
to  the  general  hospital.   The  head tutor there doubled as the towns
coroner.  He was waiting at the door.  Frederick David Peterson, once in
the  running for nobel prize with his ground-breaking genetics research.
Now a small town coroner.  Carl had gotten drunk with him many times but
still hadn't discovered what had changed his fortunes.

 "Ah,  Carl." began Fred.  "I heard you were coming.  Follow me." He led
Carl  through  dark  twisting  corridors and down two flights of stairs.
They entered the morgue.

 "Look  Carl,  "  began  Fred, "See this knife wound?" he had pulled out
Jason Hill's body, and indicated the throat wound.  "This was not caused
by  another person.  He did it himself.  Suicide.  I suspected it when I
first saw it and the other bodies have confirmed the evidence.  They all
committed suicide, Carl."

 Carl  took  a  minute  to  digest this information.  "You mean they all
killed themselves?  Even that godammned man who had his fucking head cut
off?  How can someone do that to themselves?"

 "It  seems  he did himself by falling onto something.  The force of the
blow  came  from  beneath  and  in a position that meant he had to place
himself carefully to do so."

 "Even Sarah?  Henry?  Clare?  Fred?  Josie?  Petra?"

 "I haven't seen Petra closely yet, but the others, yes."

 "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

 "Because  I  wanted  to  be  sure.   You  must admit, Carl.  It is very
strange."

 "Yeah,  too  damned  right  it  is.  I guess I can close this case now.
Suicide!   no wonder I wasn't getting anywhere...  Thanks Fred.  See you
later, How about a drink sometime?"

 "After  what  happened  the  last  time?  I'm never going to drink with
Sheriff Meister again!" Fred chuckled.  "Well, I'll think about it.  See
you Carl."

 Five minutes later, as Carl was climbing back into his car, he vowed to
himself  "No  way  am I going to close this case.  I'm going to find the
bastard that made them do what they did!".

 Carl sat with Susan, Vic and some of the other officers at the stations
single  TV set at their lunch break.  There was nothing on TV, just some
interview  with  a  famous  artist  on the local channel.  Carl was busy
eating, he always felt ravenous after visiting the morgue.

 Susan  and Vic were arguing, as usual, about nothing in particular.  It
was  just that neither wanted to give in.  Todays 'discussion' was about
the environment.  Carl just sat quietly and ate.

 Suddenly,  something  caught  his  eye.   It  was  the presenter on TV,
showing  a  painting.   The painting was of an old woman, immensely old,
and  it  seemed somewhat eerie.  Carl didn't know what it was about that
old diseased woman that disturbed him, but then suddenly it struck him.

 Carl  leapt  of  his chair, dropping his plate and dinner to the floor.
He  ran down the corridor to his office, and rummaged through his filing
cabinet  rapidly.   He  found  the file he was looking for, and threw it
onto his desk.

 He  ripped  open  the  file, scattering its contents over his desk.  He
grabbed at the photograph he wanted, and ran back to the TV room.  As he
burst in Susan, Vic and the other officers were staring at him.

 Carl looked at the TV.  Shit!, it's finished, he thought.

 "Did  anyone see that TV programme with the Artist in it?" he said.  At
first it seemed that no-one had, but then a young officer spoke.

 "I  did!   It  was  an  interview  with  Leopold  Verescrue, the famous
painter.  He moved here about eight weeks ago and he's opening a special
gallery  of his work on the old museum site.  The gallery isn't open yet
though."

 "Did you catch when it's opening?"

 "No sir.  But it will be soon."

 "Carl?  What's the matter?" said Susan.

 "It's nothing.  I've just got a sudden interest in art."

Continued in part 2...