Cottage Number 13 at Cherry Grove was quiet. The entire living room was empty, cleared out of any officers or forensics unit. Only foot prints left by the investigators, drops of cheap paint, and the stains of blood remained where they were, leeching into the wall and in the gaps of the uneven tiles.

It had been some time since the incident early in the morning. The pool of blood where Sarah Tucker was found started to crust and flies began to gather like vultures. Police cordon still web around the house, over the main doors, entrances, and the entire yard. The neighbours have moved on, no one stayed behind to mourn a stranger they’ve never seen until today. They went back to their normal lives, avoiding that one house locked down.

The area should be void of people. Should be.

Ding Dong. Ding Dong

The front door bell of Cottage Number 13 rang. It started as a gentle press. The living room responded in silence. Not even the crusting pool of blood leapt up to scratch at the door like a curious dog.

Ding Dong. Ding Dong.

Knock Knock Knock.

More ringing, followed by a sturdy pounding on the door. Once more, the living room remained where it was. Nothing coming for the door.

DingDongDingDongDingDongDingDongDingDongDingDongDingDong

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

“JACKSON!!”

“YO, YO! ON THE WAY!”

Constable Jackson fumbled down the stairs, rushing straight from the second floor. He gripped onto a pink bed robe that was three times too small for him and had his foot shoved in a pair of pink furry slippers, just as tiny. By the time he reached the last step, the slipper lost their grip across the newspaper covering the stairs from falling paint. Although Jackson was able to grip onto the railing, the one slipper made a RIP noise as the top part burst from the sudden movement and the size of his foot. He cursed, but the ringing and banging at the door didn’t give him a break.

Kicking the one dead slipper aside he shuffled to the front door. He made very sure to walk AROUND the puddle of blood lying in the hallway. As he approached the front, he started to unlock the door.

“Jackson, what were you doing?” A voice on the other side barked. “We’re tight on time!”

“Bro! I’m playing the role of a sick and anemic wife! Rushing me isn’t realistic, darling!” Jackson hands fumbled. He turned the main lock, pushed aside the bolt lock, flip back the bar door hook guard, even jingled off the chain lock. Once he got the last one off he opened the door, smiling in a falsetto voice. “Ahem. Hiiii Honey! You’re back oddly early—OH SH—”

The constable screeched and tried to slam the door. A foot on the other side gave the front a good drop kick, driving the door into the Constable’s collar bone. He staggered and stumbled, but veered his fall far away from the pool of blood with a big and hard thud, “OW! YO! McLAMB! We’re Re-ENACTing the crime scene – NOT KILL ME!”

“Oh s-sorry!” Constable McLamb poked his head through the door, pulling back his foot. Just as he was about to step into the house to help Jackson, Sergeant Leo grabbed McLamb by the spine of his jacket to yank him back. All Leo did was give McLamb a small look, and the latter went “A-ah right. Simulation. Uuuuh...Please bear with it a little longer Jackson.”

The constable on the floor rolled his eyes with a groan. Reluctant, he turned onto his stomach and started to crawl. As pitifully as possible. “Heeeelp meeee. Heeeelp meeeeee.”

McLamb took in a deep breath – and put on his best killer face. He marched right in and brought out ‘the weapon’.

“Heeeelp meeee. Help—GAAAAAAAAH!” Jackson screamed for real when his ankles were grabbed and dragged backwards like a scene from a horror movie. He even clawed at the tiles out of pure instinct, leaving nail marks. Before he could react, McLamb the ‘killer’ pinned him down and started to stab him in the back to make the ‘victim’ scream! “AAAH! AAAAH! OW! IT HURTS! GAAAH! MY BACK! UEEEEE! YOU GOT ME HUBBYYYYYY..... guweeeeeh.”

It didn’t take 10 strikes, and ‘wife’ Jackson flopped on the tiles. Motionless, eyes rolled back in their sockets, tongue hanging out.

“...Oh god, my arm.” McLamb gripped on his ‘slasher arm’ as it started to cramp. He tried to wear out the stings by rotating his shoulder, but the muscles keep locking up. “Leo, are we done?”

“No.” Leo shook his head and walked in himself. He held onto a police tablet with some scanned documents opened on the screen. “Continue.”

“...All...35 times?”

“Exactly what the coroner said. And he doubled checked. Go on.”

“...” McLamb gulped, feeling the tendons in his arm twitching. He gave Jackson a quiet stare, his fellow constable looking back up from his ‘dead position’. A small tear drop and constable Jackson resigned himself to fate. McLamb could only close his eyes, and slash – with his basking whisk. “18! 19! 20! 21! 22! 23! Ooh god, cramp! Cramp. 24! 25! Ooooof! 26! 26! Wait. 28! 29! Aaaaah. Hiiiiiissss. Craaaamp. 30!...Done!--Oh right, up to 35.”

Leo covered his mouth with a hand for multiple reasons. One, to ignore how McLamb and Jackson were suffering. Two, to clearly re-imagine the scene of the crime as if real time, using the two Constable’s positions to mimic the victim and the killer. Three, he didn’t want to say anything when McLamb started to count in the 40s.

“46!...47!...Forty—Oh wait.” McLamb stopped himself. All he could do was grip his sore slasher arm, his numb and white-knuckled fingers dropping the whisk across the floor. The wires were completely destroyed, some of them snapped off and impaled into a wall from the recoil.

Jackson...didn’t have to pretend he was dead. “...Medic.”

Leo started to type some notes. McLamb stood back up and helped Jackson to his feet. The first tug was like yanking up a sack of potatoes, but the constable was able to bring himself back to his feet with a pained wheeze.

“So...” Jackson gripped his chest, trying not to vomit. “What did we learn today?”

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“Jenny, what do you think?” Leo turned to the door behind him.

Constable Jenny walked in, clutching onto an evidence bag. Inside it was a full length kitchen knife, blood painted over the blade and smearing against the bag. She passed it onto Leo, who held it up for everyone to see as she explained. “The officers on site found this, buried within the wall of hedges around the house. Forensics checked the blood – for sure – it belongs to Sarah Tucker. No one else. They also confirmed, it has Frank Tucker’s finger prints on the handle. However--”

“The blade is still intact.” Leo inspected the weapon dangling in his hand. The knife was pristine, very little scratches. The sharp edges was still in one piece, even the tip was still pointed sharp. “35 stab wounds, through bone, muscle, and tissue. The blade would surely have dented up, maybe even snapped in half given how violent the stabs were. Dr. Kampfer mentioned all of the ribs and spinal bones in Sarah Tucker were destroyed. I mean look at the whisk we brought, it’s completely demolished.”

“Not to mention I could barely continue after 18 strikes.” McLamb clutched onto his arm, tapping the muscles in his shoulder with his other fist. “How much can one man really hate his wife?”

“I want to agree with you on this, McLamb, but...” Leo handed the evidence bag back to Jenny. “Yes, Frank Tucker has been involved in all of this. Staging the death of his wife, dismembering a corpse, and the manslaughter of the unidentified Jane Doe that lead to all this. He is not at all innocent – however this murder just doesn’t add up.”

Jenny exchanged looks with everyone. “What do you think is missing, Leo?”

The sergeant tapped a fist to his chin, thinking. “Frank Tucker swore up and down, he wasn’t driving through the dash cam in his car. He instead stole a co-worker’s jeep knowing the owner never locks their doors and is asleep late at the hour. Obviously the owner can’t attest to it, he never even knew his vehicle was taken. Whenever he saw his jeep still in the drive way the next morning, he wouldn’t have thought someone used it. Furthermore, Frank always refills the gas as to how much he used up driving around, so gives the illusion it never left the drive way over night.”

McLamb rubbed he back of his neck. “We don’t have any evidence to back up Frank’s claim. He could have just said it to throw us off. And even if it was true, we still lack evidence he DID take another vehicle and not his own car. At most, forensic is checking the co-workers car to see if Frank is telling the truth but it’s gonna take a while.”

“There might be a chance.” Leo walked over and tapped a knuckle across the door edge. “What’s wrong with this simulation?”

“Realism.” Jackson shot a glance at McLamb, the latter cleared his throat awkwardly, and he stretched his back. He pointed at the door, circling a hand. “Husband knocks on door, wife answers. On the account she wasn’t feeling well, had medication, and just woke up right after her husband left, she would have taken some time to stumble down the stairs and—Hold up.” Jackson walked over, one hand on his back, and he pushed the door back and forth, eyeing the dark smear of a foot print. “...Doesn’t Frank Tucker have the key?”

Leo snapped his fingers, “Exactly. Frank Tucker virtually visits his wife in hiding every day. Like he mentioned, he was helping his friend to renovate the place.”

Jenny followed along with a nod. “Meaning he should have a key to the house. Since his wife can’t travel about freely she wouldn’t need one, or else she would risk revealing her identity. And I already checked earlier this morning, she has no copy of the house keys on her person and neither was there a spare key in the house. Only Frank Tucker had a copy on him.”

McLamb rubbed the back of his neck. “Then why kick the door down?”

“McLamb, Jackson, come here.” Leo dragged the two constables to the door. This time he had Jackson on the outside and McLamb on the inside. Getting the hint, McLamb pretend to be the wife and open the door with a peek, with Jackson grinning and KICK THE DOOR...or gave it a light boot to make it tap against his team mate’s cheek.

Leo pointed to each of them. “Let’s say Frank Tucker did forgot his keys. If he kicked the door down, we would have seen the entire frame blown open but no, it’s still intact. Meaning the door was opened, by Sarah the only person who lived here, then kicked in.” The sergeant patted the door. “Why was there a need to kick the door in Sarah’s face?”

A thought struck Jenny’s mind. It took her a moment to form words, her fingers ‘typing’ in the air as if writing a full phrase in her mind before she read it out loud. “Leo, are you suggesting on the night Sarah died – someone else was at the door?”

“That’s what’s bugging me.” Leo slapped the side of the door in agreement. “Frank Tucker could have made any excuse about coming back so soon. He could easily kill her when she was most vulnerable! Forget wasting time kicking in the door on her face and stabbing her 35 times, just smother Sarah in her sleep with a pillow. Clean, very little effort. And no one would know about it – because we all thought she was dead to begin with.” Leo folded his arms with a groan. “As much as I want Frank Tucker to take the hit for all this mess, this sudden murder doesn’t make sense. Remember how and who found the body?”

Jackson pulled at the brim of his fedora, trying to remember. “Was a garbage collector. Came about doing his rounds. Saw the door ajar and he came over. Then found Sarah Tucker, called the cops.”

Leo clapped his hands together, making everyone jolt. “If Frank Tucker truly wanted to follow through the original idea and make his wife disappear to get insurance money, wouldn’t this defeat the purpose? Having someone find her corpse? In a cottage only he had access to? Why didn’t he dispose of her body like he did with the first Jane Doe? Is Frank Tucker really that stupid to kill her for real, before getting the insurance payment, and leaving a mess in the hallway?”

“...Did he lack time?” McLamb rubbed a finger across his lips. “We did arrest him at 3:45 AM.”

“Wait, wait wait.” Jackson shook his head at the rookie. “I doubt this guy is an esper. As if he conveniently has precog abilities to foresee us storming his house. Even then, wouldn’t you wanna, you know, get out of town? As if this guy would protect some sacred timeline and fulfill his destiny. There was no way he could’ve known we would pay him a visit. Meaning he would have plenty of time to clean up here – whilst we knocked on his apartment door on the other end of town. Even we never knew about this place until the emergency call came in.”

Everyone fell silent from this point.

“Still.” Jenny hefted the evidence bag. “This weapon has Frank Tucker’s finger prints and Sarah Tucker’s blood. Even if wasn’t used, once this is taken to court and the jury hears the whole story about the insurance fraud, they are more than likely to find Frank Tucker guilty of murdering his own wife.”

The sergeant handed his police tablet to McLamb and used his free hands to comb his hair in frustration. He paced around the living room, eyes closed, trying to think. The others let him wander in silence, all of them trying to come up with alternatives of their own.

Jackson mulled his lips before he forced himself to break the silence. “Sarge. Inspector is gonna call it in five hours. Truth or not, we’re gonna charge Frank Tucker for mishandling the Jane Doe, aiding abetting a crime, not to mention the insurance scam. Even if the husband really had no part in the cottage murder, he’s still gonna sit in a cell for a very long time. Is the truth really worth it?”

Leo kept circling in the living room, head down in thought. He glanced at the cheap paint on the wall, drip marks rolling down and leaving uneven indentations. The cloth covering the furniture smeared with various hand prints, paint stains, and caked with years of saw dust.

Jenny couldn’t resist asking. “Sergeant. If our hypothesis is right, and there is a second killer that murdered Sarah Tucker...who could it be?”

Sergeant Leo perked his head up at a revelation. “There’s two other people in the world who could hate Sarah Tucker’s guts this much. So, let’s ask them. We got five hours right?”