The cigarettes and the coffee mix, vividly in incandescent ways. He relaxes, eyes staring blankly at the weathered wall. Yet, weather couldn’t have done this. Blood and gore, like Van Gogh’s bastard children play out across the cement; “Starry Night” could barely compete with the profundity of this masterpiece. And whose masterpiece was it? Blue light sprayed across the wall drips to the floor, filling the room with a sickening aura.
Footprints. That’s what we need, right now. Footprints. Like echoes of a time long past reverberating through the blue light, they appear. He can almost see the man now, walking, after finishing his fourth piece in the last month, slamming the door on his way out, an artsy smile upon his blank, generic face.
‘Detective Instpector Stewarts, daydreaming, are we?’ queries the snake of the UPF (United Police Force, that is). Sergeant James McClarance, the man’s real skin was no comparison to the inky scales that befitted his icy character.
‘No sir, just musing upon this fourth murder. How do you think it was done?’ I ask, tentatively. Honestly, I wanted to break the man’s jaw. But he was a whole three ranks above me. Getting in his good books was imperative.
His hoarse, gravelly voice falls upon my muted ears. The white noise takes over, and I look at the painting of blood upon the wall. Organs hang, stuck to the wall, and the fractured, dried red coating flakes off in heaps.
I need another cigarette. I need this one badly.
‘I’m sorry sir. May I be excused? I need to go to the toilet.’ I say, right in the middle of his sentence. A grimace is moulded in his face by hands unseen, and he lets me by. As I walk to the toilet, I feel it in my pocket. The knife.
I walk into the piss-saturated cubicle. The door screams as it opens, and closes behind me. Locking it, surely as I can, I take out the knife. Dried blood cakes it, and a thin sliver of sinew extends from the blade. I drop the knife in the toilet. Flushing I take out a cigarette, and stick it between my lips.
Lighting it, thin hairs of smoke fly up from the paper covering. I inhale, the poison filling my lungs, and calming my body. I walk back, slowly to the murder scene, and stand by the dark corner, leaning against the wall, and looking at the viscera upon the wall, I smile.
The coffee and cigarettes mix in incandescent ways, yet to the idiots of the UPF, they light no paths to the killer. Sergeant McClarance stares, stoicism the one quality his character lacks. As the inadequacy of his circumstances falls upon him, he struggles, screaming at his subordinates.
And as he does, I watch, and smile. He’ll be next.