A Fringe Suburban Murder
The unidentified body lay hacked in chicken mcnugget pieces on the cold, steel factory floor.
“Count it,” ordered Detective Graff in a cigarette stained voice.
“Pardon me, sir,” asked Officer Blake hesitantly. “But count what, exactly?”
“Her,” he pointed at the shattered pieces of female flesh. “Count how many pieces the bastard left us. It’s a clue.”
Detective Graff turned away and headed toward the open delivery gate, toward the delusive air of sleeping contentment. He stood in midnight solitude and fumbled in his pocket for a black bic lighter.
“Panzy fascist bastard,” he mumbled.
He stood at the edge of suburban reason and lit a filterless cigarette.
“Panzy fascist bastards!” he screamed, suddenly aware of plurality.
Mocking glow of letters obscured the star studded sky. A FEDEx warehouse on the other side of the street from this beaten down old manufacturing plant. Or was it a processing plant? Shipping? Storage? The oversized FEDEx symbol stared down at him.
"You saw it all didn't you?"
He could of sworn the neon letters winked at him.
"Yeah, you saw it all."
Detective Graff spat the tunisian tobacco that stuck to his lips.
“Find out what kind of plant this is," he ordered. "Then find out about that FEDEx warehouse across the street. Maybe someone saw something. And when you’re done counting get some yellow tape up around the scene. We want to keep everything exactly as it is."
Officer Blake knelt down beside the victim and thought of jigsaw puzzles scattered across his apartment floor.
“You have to play with the pieces,” he thought. “If you hope to see the whole.”
Blake was a rookie, first week on the job. Retired poet at the age of twenty-five, gave up and became a cop.
He began counting but stopped suddenly at sixteen – a thumb – to open a thin, yellow notepad tucked in his breast pocket.
Reconciliations with space, he jotted.
Seventeen, nipple. Eighteen, earlobe. Nineteen, index finger. The rookie paused again; he picked up her index finger, dipped it in blood and left its print on the page.
But it’s time that tears us, he added."
“Count it,” ordered Detective Graff in a cigarette stained voice.
“Pardon me, sir,” asked Officer Blake hesitantly. “But count what, exactly?”
“Her,” he pointed at the shattered pieces of female flesh. “Count how many pieces the bastard left us. It’s a clue.”
Detective Graff turned away and headed toward the open delivery gate, toward the delusive air of sleeping contentment. He stood in midnight solitude and fumbled in his pocket for a black bic lighter.
“Panzy fascist bastard,” he mumbled.
He stood at the edge of suburban reason and lit a filterless cigarette.
“Panzy fascist bastards!” he screamed, suddenly aware of plurality.
Mocking glow of letters obscured the star studded sky. A FEDEx warehouse on the other side of the street from this beaten down old manufacturing plant. Or was it a processing plant? Shipping? Storage? The oversized FEDEx symbol stared down at him.
"You saw it all didn't you?"
He could of sworn the neon letters winked at him.
"Yeah, you saw it all."
Detective Graff spat the tunisian tobacco that stuck to his lips.
“Find out what kind of plant this is," he ordered. "Then find out about that FEDEx warehouse across the street. Maybe someone saw something. And when you’re done counting get some yellow tape up around the scene. We want to keep everything exactly as it is."
Officer Blake knelt down beside the victim and thought of jigsaw puzzles scattered across his apartment floor.
“You have to play with the pieces,” he thought. “If you hope to see the whole.”
Blake was a rookie, first week on the job. Retired poet at the age of twenty-five, gave up and became a cop.
He began counting but stopped suddenly at sixteen – a thumb – to open a thin, yellow notepad tucked in his breast pocket.
Reconciliations with space, he jotted.
Seventeen, nipple. Eighteen, earlobe. Nineteen, index finger. The rookie paused again; he picked up her index finger, dipped it in blood and left its print on the page.
But it’s time that tears us, he added."
posted by Spcmnspff at 7:29 PM
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