Someone was dead.
Quite obviously dead.
Sometimes, death wasn’t obvious at all. Sometimes it looked as if someone was in a deep, peaceful slumber. But this was artificial, neon-bordered, death. It jumped out at you, screamed, and sprayed blood everywhere. It made you think of freezing cold, hospital white, and ninety-degree angles. It was unnatural. That was the word. Unnatural.
Fairfield was supposed to be peaceful, dammit!
The sergeant on duty wiped his arm against his sweating forehead, which only accomplished smearing the stickiness across his forehead. He hoped this gesture didn’t give away his nervousness, and pretended his sweat was from the stifling temperature in the underground cavern. Then, upon further thought, Sergeant Cranford realized that it didn’t take buckets of sweat to prove he was nervous.
Why had he become a policeman? Cranford’s thought wandered once more, finding that repeating familiar trains of thought kept him reasonably calm and conscious. His original childhood dreams of delivering justice seemed stupid and naïve. As if it were as easy as running down a bank robber. The cases in Fairfield were all so easy. There was occasional thieving, which was just fine for Sergeant Cranford. It allowed his face to be on the local news, boosting his pride and ego, without having to deal with too many unpleasantries. Mind you, the thieves where usually only juvenile delinquents causing a bit of trouble, thinking that committing stupid petty crimes was all great fun until they were caught. They never stayed behind bars long enough anyway, and half of them had rich families who paid them out of trouble. Cranford had expected Sergeant duty to be much of the same, only that he could relish in watching little officer minions running around doing the dirty work.
Yet here he was, first day of the job, staring at a body. He hated the sight of it. It was all fine and good back when he was at the academy. He had learnt all the procedures, and didn’t flinch at photos of the dead. Cranford had remembered lying in bed reviewing what would happen if a homicide would have occurred.
He’d call in the doctor and radio 5-KK (or was it 55-k? It had been such a long time ago, and homicide was such an unlikely case). Then he’d talk to the witness, breaking their alibi, and heroically finding the culprit within twenty-four hours. What a name he’d make for himself! And what an adventure. Cranford remembered feeling guilty for wishing something of the sort would happen one day.
What a joke that turned out to be. The worst he had gotten was the damned suicide case, and even then, he had been badly shaken. Already, his superiors had taken to calling him SC, which stood for Sergeant Cranford, or so he was told. It was no coincidence SC also stood for Spring Chicken.
“Dr. Melvis,” Officer Ronald reported, bringing a thin, bony doctor in. Ronald was a good man.
Sergeant Cranford stared at Dr. Melvis, who had rushed to the body. Cranford decided he didn’t like the doctor much. Melvis had a habit of looking at anyone for only half a second at most, as if he had the power to instantly judge anyone without giving the person in question a chance to voice their opinion.
“Dead.” Melvis reported.
“I can see that!” Cranford shot back, slightly surprised at the harshness of his own words. Stress, he decided. What he needed was some brandy.
Dr. Melvis looked sour from the sudden outburst, but he continued his job dutifully. “I’d give it five hours ago, with a margin of two hours either way. The heat has made the determination a little tricky. The autopsy can make it a bit clearer.”
Sergeant Cranford groaned. What was wrong with these medical men? Couldn’t they give a straightforward time correctly? Cranford was convinced Melvis did it intentionally, forcing Cranford to look stupid, calculating out the times. Cranford, with no choice, begrudging did so. So time of death was approximately six to ten o’clock.
“Cause of death?” Cranford demanded.
“Hard to say, but likely suffocation. May I suggest—"
“Thank you, doctor, I’ll take it from here.” Cranford said coldly, wondering where Inspector Kapp was. Dr. Melvis looked even more sour, giving a long stare at the Sergeant, as if confirming his original judgement true.
No, Cranford decided, he did not like the doctor.
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“I’d prescribe a nice glass of brandy,” the doctor muttered to the officer who had shown him in, “or something strong, at least.”
Officer Ronald nodded politely, silently agreeing with the doctor. It would be best to pour Sergeant Cranford a nice glass of brandy, though he was sure his Sergeant would not accept it. Anything could be taken as an insult, from Sergeant Cranford’s point of view, no matter how good the original intention may be. There was no need to insult his Sergeant, especially when a dead body was involved.
In Fairfield no less. It still seemed incredulous. Fairfield, just a tiny town, the closest to a “village” you could get these days. Fairfield, which produced the most fabulous peaches. Fairfield, the town chosen for the location of a dead body. It must have been the worst of shocks to Sergeant Cranford, who had just been promoted to Sergeant after three years as an Officer.
It was not Officer Ronald’s first dead body, and it wasn’t Sergeant Cranford’s either. But the one Ronald had saw was the body of an elderly man who had quietly died in his bed, and Sergeant Cranford’s was that of a traumatized widow committing suicide alongside her deceased husband. Even then, Cranford had been extremely squeamish, to say the least. Officer Ronald hadn’t been at the scene—he had still been in police academy—but several officers had confirmed the story.
Officer Ronald suspected that the rumors had been slightly exaggerated, as most rumors were, for Sergeant Cranford was handling the situation remarkably considering how much he had paled. Officer Ronald was feeling the gradual pressure as well. But it wasn’t the body bothering him, it was the blatantly obvious fact that the dead had been murdered.
It did not help that the victim, a twenty-something female, was brutally suffocated, stabbed, and branded on the revealed midriff, a sort of Chinese-looking symbol.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
A crime of passion. That’s what the mystery novels would say. Blinded by love, a crime of passion was committed.
Blinded by love…now why did he think of that?
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Inspector Kapp arrived a few moments later, relieving Sergeant Cranford of his duties. He refrained from mentioning the color—or, to be precise, the lack of it—in Cranford’s face, instead wordlessly squatting down to inspect the body. Inspector Kapp took a moment to notice the obvious—the number of stab wounds (three particularly deep ones), the line around the neck to indicate strangling, the bruising the indicate a struggle, and the branding.
Sergeant Cranford breathed a sigh of relief when Kapp motioned for a body bag, leaving behind only the bloodstains and the silhouette of a woman made with white tape.
“Anything wrong, Sergeant?” Kapp asked, instantly feeling slightly guilty for making a joke at this time.
Sergeant Cranford showed a hint of a glare. “No, Inspector,” he said flatly.
If there was any part of Sergeant Cranford’s bulky muscular body that could be hurt, it would be his pride.
Inspector Kapp when around the scene briefly, noting the lack of fingerprints and the knife which had been laid next to the body. It was most likely one the weapons used for the crime. A unique marking ran down the blade, painted in red. “Well, isn’t that convenient,” Kapp said, “I want someone checking up the shops around here, see if anyone bought this knife. And it wouldn’t be too difficult, I should imagine, to find a rope that fits the mark around the victim’s neck.
“Also, has anyone been able to identify the victim?”
“No sir,” Officer Ronald, or more correctly, Officer Engle, replied with cold professionalism, “though we have men checking the missing list.”
“Good, good,” Kapp muttered.
Inspector Kapp never imagined he’d need to be mixed up with another of these murder cases before his retirement, even though it was still a good seven years away. He had done many cases of the sort in his lifetime (though admittingly, without the branding), but had been quite certain, when he moved to Fairfield, that he wouldn’t need to do any more. Yes, he’d assisted one or two unpleasant cases after that in a nearby town (he didn’t trust the judgement of the young idiots), and nothing more serious than a break-in or a hysterical wife in Fairfield.
But murders do not happen in Fairfield.
Kapp wiped his brow. Damn, it was hot in here. “Who found the body?” he asked, eager for an excuse to go out in the open air.
“The janitor, sir,” Officer Ronald said promptly. Kapp guessed Ronald, too, wanted to get out of the stifling air.
“What’s his story then?” Kapp asked, playing along. He winced as he stood up from a squatting position, another painful reminder of his age, and with that, the ailments that would undoubtfully increase.
“Well, sir, he says he won’t speak unless to the man in charge.”
“Let’s have it then,” Kapp said, ascending the many stairs out of the concealed cavern.
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“Mr. Dillonov,” Ronald introduced.
“You the man in charge?” Mr. Dillonov asked gruffly, as if implying that someone younger ought to be. Kapp cringed inwardly. He certainly wasn’t young, but the premature whitening of his hair and inherited receding hairline made sure of it.
“Yes,” Kapp answered smoothly, “My name is Inspector Kapp.” Kapp lifted his hand for a handshake
The janitor, a hunchbacked, cantankerous old man, snorted, giving Kapp an unnecessary whiff of alcoholic breath. “What about him?” Mr. Dillonov said, jutting his chin at Ronald, ignoring Kapp’s outstretched hand. Kapp had expected this to happen, and withdrew his hand without a hint of embarrassment.
“Officer Engle. You can speak freely in front of him.”
The janitor snorted again. “Not as freely has you may want me to,” he said nastily.
Inspector Kapp thought a moment, and reluctantly signaled for Ronald to leave, briefly wondering where Sergeant Cranford was. Probably with a nice glass of brandy.
“Well, Mr. Dillonov?”
After the routine, that is, unnecessary and easily discoverable questions like those of name, address, and whatnot, the janitor began his account.
“I was cleaning the school, come every Tuesday. Was wiping down the floor with this new stuff, when I figured I smelt this odd smell coming from this floor. Odd stuff, it was. I fancy that was why I had been scrubbing the floor so thoroughly in the first place. But it ain’t the floor, not the surface at least (figured that out after scrubbing for half an hour; got a terrible back pain now), so it must ‘ave been under the floor. Figured something died in the basement.
“Awful load of dust in the basement, made me sneeze a bit. Big piles of books and chairs. Figure the dead thing was in there. Then I found the bit o’ loose floor, and pulled that aside. Lo and behold, stairs leading to the body.”
“Do you know the woman?” Kapp asked.
Dillonov looked at the Inspector with contempt. “Would’ve told ya if I did.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Inspector Kapp muttered soothingly. “Is there anyone who can confirm you were here?”
“’cusing me of something, Inspector?”
“No, no, only matter of routine.”
To Kapp’s surprise, the janitor laughed. “Routine my foot. Should’ve known being the one who found the body was no good. Makes you wish it was one of ‘em snoopy cooks.”
Kapp look at the man oddly.
“No, no one is in the school when I clean.” Dillonov said this with a misplaced hint of pride, “Got the keys here. Lock up after I’m done.” Dillonov jingled a massive ring of keys close to Kapp’s nose.
Kapp moved his head subtly, as to avoid getting hit. “May I ask what you were doing yesterday?”
“Yesterday, eh?” the janitor said, clipping the ring to his belt, “Nothing much. Seen that doctor chap, Henri? One of the older ones. Don’t like the younger ones. Snotty and spoiled, that’s what I say. They’ve got pieces of fancy paper declaring they’re a ‘real’ doctor framed and nailed to the wall, imagine that! Frames go around people and pictures. Things you like. Though I s’pose those young ones are madly in love with their fancy degrees and stuff. In my opinion, degrees belong to temperatures, nothing else!”
“Yes, yes,” Kapp said absentmindedly. He decided that asking the doctor for the reason of Dillonov’s visit would be much more efficient than asking the janitor himself.
“That’s it.” Dillonov said shortly.
That’s it? Kapp was slightly irritated, though years of practice had taught him not to show it. That’s what the janitor wanted to tell me, with all that secrecy?
“I…I see,” Kapp said at last, intentionally adding a little stammer in hopes it would prompt the janitor to say more. However, Dillonov seemed quite content with the silence.
Kapp bid Dillonov a good night, asking casually if the janitor was planning to leave the village anytime soon. Dillonov replied with bitterness that he was only an old janitor and had no money to go anywhere.
As soon as Dillonov exited the room, Officer Ronald entered. “Is his story any good?”
Kapp snorted. “Half of it was cock and bull.”
“And the other half, sir?”
“We shall see,” Kapp replied thoughtfully, “we shall see.”