The cigarettes and the coffee mix, vividly, in incandescent ways. He relaxes, as the army of tremors in his hands cease – his cocktail of drugs ignited something in him. Nicotine and caffeine – the only two friends that’d stayed with him since beyond the horizon of his memory.
The weathered wall stares at him, and he stares back. Weather couldn’t have done this. Blood and gore, like Van Gogh’s bastard children play out across the dispassionate cement; “Starry Night” could barely compete with this crimson masterpiece.
And whose masterpiece was it?, he thinks.
Blue light sprayed across the wall drips to the floor, filling the room with a sickening aura, the very antithesis of the sun as it trudges past the horizon, tossing javelins of penetrating light upon the remote building in which the murder took place.
Footprints. That’s what they needed. Footprints. Like echoes of a time long past reverberating through the blue light, they appeared. And as the blue cello strings were strummed, their music flowed to his eyes, plummeting tumultuously through into his cavernous mind.
He could almost see the man, 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. He could almost touch the generic-man’s companion, a thin, shining knife dressed in ruby syrup, protected in the bony hand of its master.
‘Daydreaming are we, Detective Inspector Stewarts?’ queries Sergeant James McClarance. His greedy ink-blot eyes stare out from a veritable mountain range of age upon his face. A skin-crawling odour erupted from his mouth.
Cigars, that’s what it is, he thought.
‘No sir, just musing upon this fourth murder. How do you think it was done?’ Stewarts asks, tentatively. Rage flared upon his cheek, and he wanted to break the man’s jaw. But attacking your superior’s isn’t what the police force seems to like, or even accept. Getting in McClarence’s good books was imperative.
His hoarse, gravelly voice falls upon Stewarts’s muted ears. The white noise takes over, and he 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.
He need another cigarette. He need this one badly.
‘I’m sorry sir. May I be excused? I need to go to the toilet.’ He says, right in the middle of McClarence’s sentence. A grimace is moulded in his face by hands unseen, and he lets Stewarts by. As he walks to the toilet, he feel it in his pocket. The knife.
Stewarts saunters into the piss-saturated cubicle. The door screams as it opens, and closes behind him. Locking it, surely as he could, he takes out the knife.
The blade grins at its master.
He drops the knife in the toilet. Flushing he takes out a cigarette, and sticks it between his lips. Lighting it, thin hairs of smoke fly up from the paper covering. He inhales, the poison filling his lungs, and calming his body.
He walks strolls back to the murder scene, and stands by the dark corner, leaning against the wall, and looking at the viscera upon the wall, he smiles.
The coffee and cigarettes mix in incandescent ways, yet to the mindless subordinates in the police force, they light no paths to the killer. Sergeant McClarance stares, stoicism the one quality his character lacks.
Slowly as the sun falls, McClarence walks, out of the building, trudging to his car. A thin, taut thread is laid, meticulously by thin hands. A spider sits, waiting, in gleeful agony for its prey.
McClarence doesn’t notice the shadow that lies in the back seat of his car, nor the glistening razor that is held in its hand. An artsy smile echoes through the night, as the shadow lies upon the curdled-milk cushions. An engine hums, blissfully through the night.
And the artist with his brush, flowing as an extension of his hand, begins his strenuous, but enjoyable work, grinning through the night.
Finally a fly is caught, and as it struggles, the spider’s body tingles. The fly, whose last thought is as fragile and instantaneous as its end, smells something.
Cigarettes and coffee.