Chapter 1 The silence on the cold night of 23rd August almost blanketed the surroundings, occasionally accompanied with the soft rustle of the countless leafless branches being manipulated by the gentle but biting wind. The Springsteen mansion lay as still as the woods around, until the crash cut through the ubiquitous silence. It echoed off the marble walls partly muffled by the innumerous paintings that hung on the otherwise bare walls. For a moment the black silhouette standing at the foot of the stairway went rigid, straining his ears to know if the slip had caused any disturbance upstairs. That familiar silence returned and he happily began to climb up the stairs of the 3-storey mansion. Though he had come prepared with the thickest gloves he could find, they failed to hold back the chill of the metal railings. But there was no other problem; he had even dressed himself with such care that nothing on him let out the slightest sound. This was going to be his first time and he was filled with an odd concoction of emotions. There was obviously the child-like excitement, which dominated but not to the extent that it clouded his reason and concentration, then there were the pangs of doubt on his conscience that bit him, poisoning him with weakness that coursed through his blood. But after many failed attempts, he had learnt to counter it with his own will power. He stopped on the stairs and cleared his mind of all unnecessary thoughts and took a calm breath that brought in the cold instinct of a murderer that he needed. He had to stick to the plan that he had carefully laid out or else this venture too would turn out to be a disaster. By the time he reached the second floor he was slightly out of breath and unsure of which room his victim lay in. Deciding that his best bet was tracing out the slight snoring, he landed up at the far end of the wing which was fortunately dimly lit. He began fiddling with the knob almost willing it open like a magician. The click came and he swung open the door, softly creeping up to the Victorian style bed. She was sprawled on it, in peaceful slumber, like a prey unaware that the predator was hovering above it waiting to move in for the kill, innocent in her sleep. But only he knew the truth, only he knew it was an illusion hiding evil that lay bare underneath and he could never let that immorality spread. In his own way, he felt he was definitely doing the world a favor by ‘cutting the evil off at the throat’. He pulled out everything he needed; put on the impeccably clean latex gloves and got to work. His time was too precious to be wasted. …….. The cleaning lady Mrs. Goldstein unlocked the massive front door of the Springsteen mansion, expensively carved with intricate design, and slowly walked to the supplies closet. It was 7 a.m. and she knew that there would be no one at home so she always worked at her own pace enjoying the luxuries that the house had in abundance. She noticed the broken vase and wondered how expensive it must have been, but it was not her job to interfere and those were the orders she had got on her first day, so she swept it up. It was not until 9:15 a.m. that Mrs. Goldstein decided to clean the mistress’ bedroom. She walked into the room at the far end of the second floor. The blood curdling scream that followed fell on deaf ears. …….. The commotion on Number 28, Killra Avenue had dragged the sparse few neighboring Springsteen Mansion out of their beds to the cold, damp streets. The wide assortment of unusual visitors to the neighbourhood had attracted the crowd, as was true for any crime scene. The FBI and forensics team were bustling in and out of the mansion, dusting off for fingerprints and discussing motives of murder which had turned out to be a short and uninformed list. In one corner, a somehow smaller and paler Mrs. Goldstein was being questioned by 36 year old Chief Officer Andrews, who was clearly losing hair but gaining weight. He was frustrated with the lack of evidence they had gathered and knowing that the FBI was being called in because the police force was considered incompetent didn’t help his self esteem. He adjusted his cap to cover the scalp that was beginning to show. “Hello, I’m Agent Daniel Webster” an unfamiliar authoritative voice said from behind Officer Andrews. “And how may I help you?” he said, without turning, in his own rough voice which was the result of almost ten years of screaming orders. “I’m from the FBI; this case has been reassigned to me. So if you could brief me on the progress that would be helpful.” Though he was expecting this, he could barely hide the shock on his face. He said to Mrs. Goldstein “Thank you, ma’am. We will get back to you if we need anything.” With a meek nod Mrs. Goldstein scuttled away. Officer Andrews put on a somber face before greeting Daniel and exchanging pleasantries. He looked at the FBI agent standing alert in front of him and with difficulty had to admit that this Mr. Webster seemed capable. He was young maybe 25, well built and had that confident air around him. They briefly discussed the few details of the case and Officer Andrews found out that Miss Springsteen death was high profile and hence the FBI involvement in this investigation. He knew she was an influential and successful lawyer but had never pondered to what extent. From behind Daniel Webster, Officer Andrews noticed a junior officer hurrying towards them with an excited grin, “Sir, we just cracked Miss Springsteen’s code and accessed her email”. A small ray of hope shone on Officer Andrews after an exhausting morning of no leads or clues so he jogged along with the junior hoping this would lead somewhere. They entered what was definitely the office with all her well organized files and the cabinets lined with books and stacks of paperwork. The floor was dark brown olive wood and the table was mahogany with the tech team hovering over the laptop that sat on it. He moved to the desk and saw her Gmail account open on the screen. Though the sent messages had been deleted and the conversation did not make full sense, the few mails that had been received over the past few days were enough to leave a smile on Officer Andrews’ dull face. At last they had their first lead, Arthur Guirdy, who seemed to have emailed Miss Springsteen regularly over the past few weeks. Another officer came in with a phone and he saw the name again, Guirdy, as one of the last dialled numbers. He decided to visit Miss Springsteen’s bedroom, the scene of the crime, which he had avoided until now because the forensics had not painted a very pretty picture and though he had been an officer in the police force for seventeen years now he still could not stomach a bloody crime scene. Well he was in for a shocker. The moment he entered the room, the bile rose to his throat and he nearly threw up on a subordinate officer who was leaving. But he managed to hold it down and approach the bed where the body lay and found that Daniel had beaten him to it. He was at the other end of the room, going through her possessions, and had hardly noticed Andrews come in. The woman lay in her bed like she had been crucified onto it, still looking like she was peacefully sleeping, in only her petite, almost see-through negligee. She was a beautiful woman with an equally stunning body for her age except for the two slashes across her abdomen that formed an awkward cross which, to Andrews, resembled a rejection stamp. He mentioned this to Daniel who felt the same and thought it might be some sort of signature of the murderer. On the bedside table lay a thick paintbrush soaked in red. Forensics had tested it to be the victim’s blood. Questioning what exactly had been done with the paintbrush, he looked up at the ceiling and that was when he got his answer.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Mar 2014 10:35:10 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015