And thirdly, here's my short story: The Poem.
The Poem Short Story The Poem Poem.bmp
I looked at the poem once more and reread the first line:
“Glorious gloom is what the globule glaze
brought to this place of perfect paradise”.
I whispered the words as I read them. What did it mean? I read it again:
“Glorious gloom is what the globule glaze
brought to this place of perfect paradise”.
It was obvious he had been troubled by something, but what was this gloom he wrote about? His last thoughts, written on this piece of paper, covered with dried blood?
I decided to read on in the hope of finding some reason as to why he did what he did.
“Nor did this alert the absentee nor did this accentuate
the relentless renegade’s ridiculed demise”.
The absentee? I was unsure what he meant, was this the police lieutenant that had gone missing, the one that said the death of the, now presumed murdered, Russian turncoat was just suicide?
It didn’t make any sense, the commissioner said there was no link between the two cases.
The next sentence was even stranger:
“His dogmatic drama has continued for too long
allowing for this everlasting escalation.”
Who’s drama? What everlasting escalation? I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
Then came the sentence I had been puzzled by most:
“The place he did destroy where we were raised,
one path, yet to be taken, can open our eyes.
He must have known he would die, this was obvious. But then, I could see he did not commit suicide. There was nothing he could have slit his own throat with near his body. In the last four days, two people had been found dead and the lieutenant went missing; this could not be a coincidence.
“My sacrifice of self is nothing compared
to whatever I had otherwise for cried.”
Sacrifice? He was murdered. I was sure he was murdered, there was nothing there to indicate otherwise. It couldn’t have meant something else, he was definitely talking about the end of his life there. Perhaps he staged his own death, perhaps he made someone kill him. I knew that that was a ridiculous thought and I discarded it immediately, if only I hadn’t…
I instead went on to the next two lines:
“Do what is right and be, please, prepared
to extinguish this beastly and brutal blight.”
This was when I got to the conclusion that he thought the Russian turncoat had been murdered, the same would go for the police lieutenant. Why exactly, I still don’t know, but I had a feeling this was indeed the case.
Next, before he could write any more, I believe he was murdered, right after he had finished writing the first two words of the next sentence. It is a shame, because I believe he was just about to give an indication to who his murderer is. It was odd, though. This victim apparently had come further with solving this case than we did. He must have known the killer, there was no doubt about it.
I went back to the station to put the information on the latest victim on the whiteboard. I must have stared at it for over an hour, ‘cause another agent came to me and asked whether or not we were going to make this an all-nighter. I told him that I would, but he could go home.
I stared at the board for a long time; it was not until the phone rang that I snapped out of my trance. They had found another body in the forest.
I got into my car and drove to the forest. I walked to the crime scene and saw that the body had been dumped right next to the road. This time, the victim had been undressed and his clothes were discarded about ten feet further down the road.
The victim’s mouth was full of blood, I saw that his tongue had been cut out. I asked for a cause of death, but as I did, I noticed the sliced neck. It obviously was the same MO as the last two murders. His kills were getting more and more bold, though the nudity of the body puzzled me. I took the last victim’s poem out of my pocket; I noticed I forgot to hang it onto the whiteboard. “Everlasting escalation”, I read. He was right, it would only get worse and worse.
We looked for fingerprints, but found nothing. We looked for the murder weapon, but as with the other murders, there was nothing to be found, just the dead body, sliced neck and the MO. But the fact that his tongue was cut out and he had been undressed told us the murderer was escalating. It was not until we started to bag him up that I noticed that the body was the body of the police lieutenant that had gone missing.
The Russian turncoat, the police lieutenant and the man with the poem, all had been killed by the same man, I was now certain.
I then understood why the murderer had cut the lieutenant’s tongue out. He was making a point. He was telling us that the lieutenant was wrong. The lieutenant dismissed the Russian turncoat’s death as suicide, but it was the murderer who killed him. Now the murderer is telling us that the lieutenant should have kept his mouth shut.
I was told that the lieutenant died no more than three hours before we found him; he must have been taken captive for all this time.
I went back to the station and thought that the whiteboard still did not make too much sense. He killed the turncoat, then he kidnapped the lieutenant because he wanted to be recognised, and then he killed the person who had found out who he was. And then he killed the lieutenant. Why did he kill the turncoat? Why?
I revisited the place where they had found the turncoat. It was in his house, in his bedroom, it all seemed like he killed himself. But it was now obvious he had been killed by that murderer. I then noticed a small red spot on the wall near the window. It was almost too small to be noticed, but it seemed to be a fingerprint. Well, a partial fingerprint.
Back at the station I ran the print through the database and found several matches, it was, after all, only a partial fingerprint.
But one name did stand out: Smith, Henry. In his file it said that he was known to have cut himself in the past. He was abused by his father, who was found dead one day; his throat was cut. The police dismissed it as suicide, that was twenty-three years ago. He was a boy of only thirteen back then, probably deemed too young to have been the killer. I looked at the mentioned address. He lived only two blocks away.
That is when I realised that Henry Smith worked here, at the station; he got dishonourably discharged several months ago for disruptive behaviour.
I told the chef I was going to pay Henry a visit. He told me to wait for reinforcements, but I told him I’d go and that the reinforcements would have to meet me there. So I went.
When I arrived, the reinforcements was not there yet. I rang the doorbell, but no one opened. I decided to force the door open and let myself in. I could not find him, the house was empty. But when I exited the house to see if the backup had come, I must have been hit unconscious.
Now, I am in a small room, writing down my story, in the hope that it will be found. I realised that this must have been the room where the lieutenant had been held captive some time after I woke up. There is a door, but it is locked and I am chained to a metal ring on the wall opposite to the door.
If someone finds this note, please tell my daughter, Alison, I love her. And, please, make sure she will be taken care of by my ex-husband, you can find my testament on my computer in the folder called personal documents, the password is nosilA.
I now hear someone approach, I fear these may be my last moments.
My god! I made it.
After I stopped writing and hid this note, Smith opened the door, it was then when I figured out why he had killed the Russian Turncoat. I remembered that Henry’s file said he had to make sure the turncoat would fit into our community.
After I got back to the station, I found out that Henry had to burn documents that proved the turncoat had done some horrible things, I guess he read them and it that it gnarled at him.
When Henry opened the cell’s door, he held a knife in his hand. I knew he had come to kill me and he said the words “You should’ve stayed away, let me go on, my work was just and now you forced me to kill another innocent”.
That was when I realised. That was when I figured it out.
The police lieutenant was the one who ordered Henry to help the turncoat, it was him that ordered him to burn the documents, it was him that interrogated the turncoat.
But right before Henry could slash my throat, a police officer forced a door and shot Henry, he was dead before he hit the ground.
As I went back to the station, I looked once more at the poem that was still in my pocket and read:
“His dogmatic drama has continued for too long”.