The Crime Scene
The Crime Scene
The city streets are dark and murky just like the coffee at Old Lil’s Diner and near as cold. A light rain cries from ashen skies causing an annoying steady drip from the brim of his fedora. He hates nights like these but then he hates most nights. But here he was; another crime scene, another body in a crumpled heap amongst the garbage of a desolate alleyway. Lighting a cigarette he gazes on the lifeless mass now sprawled on the ground at his feet; blonde, slender, just like the others. Fancy dress, expensive jewelry, must be nice, but not this time, he thinks as moisture seeps through holes in his shoes, saturating his socks. It is an awful feeling, but not one he is unfamiliar with.
It is nights like this that cause him to question why he does this. Others would have been home from the office long ago, kissing the wife, having a home-cooked meal, maybe a few beers, then off to sleep in their broken in recliners. But not him, the streets at these ungodly hours were his office and he hated it, but it’s what he does. He takes one last long draw from his smoke then twists the end until the orange ember falls to the wet ground, hissing as turns black.
His slate grey eyes dart back and forth, observing the grisly scene in more detail than most. He searches for clues left behind, anything that might lead them to the killer. A chilled gust of wind finds the alley; he pulls his trench coat a little tighter around his body. Her purse, one of those designer names which he can barely pronounce lies on the pavement near the corpse. He shakes his head in disgust. Why do they have to flaunt their money? Don’t they know some don’t appreciate them rubbing it in their faces all of time? He recalls having similar thoughts at the last crime scene. Will they never learn?
No, robbery wasn’t the motive; that would be evident to anyone with half a brain. Then why kill? That was always the question that battered his thoughts. Why was murder always the solution, when he figured that one out then maybe it would all make sense?
The swish of tires against the damp pavement averts his eyes to the street. He makes a mental note; gray Ford, white walls, dent in the left fender. He checks his watch, 11:59 pm; it is almost tomorrow. Another day in this miserable city was about to arrive and for what, another dead body found in this crime ridden metropolis. One of these days he was going to give all of this up, yeah sure, one of these days.
Returning his gaze back to the body of the young woman, he sees the fear still showing in the expression on her face and he likes it. “Wrong place, wrong time my love,” he mumbles then exits the alley in search of his next victim.
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