Jean Pierre was standing hands in his expensive French coat. He was staring down at the latest murder victim in in a string of prolific killings in the ghettoes of LA. A grim faced inspector walked into the small dark room at an abandoned eatery just out of town. The inspector whose name was Clive Daily and who was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, said in a deep voice â€śthis is the
fifth killing weâ€™ve had in the space of two weeksâ€ť Jean Pierre didnâ€™t answer he just stood staring at the body of a young woman who had been identified as Margaret Oâ€™ Dells.
Her once beautiful dress was ripped and dirty with own blood, he moved his stone blue eyes from her dress to her hands. He noted that no jewellery was stolen. This wasnâ€™t about money. He then looked at her neck there were a series of neat stabs wounds situated around her jugular. Finally he raised his eyes to her face to see a look of surprise and horror on her once pretty face. There was a small cut on her left eye lid, consequently her eye was obliterated white fluid from the burst eyed had trickled down her cheek it look as if she was shedding a very peculiar tear. The fluid had then congealed on her chin.
Upon further study he noticed a scrap of rolled up paper stuck up Margaretâ€™s nose. Pierre carefully removed the scrap of paper and rolled it open. He raised the small paper to his face and read the small neat script that was there â€ś117 Hemingford way LAâ€ť below this it read: â€śHive up Pierre Iâ€™m like a black cat in the dark invisible to all, dapple in further in my affairs and I WILL come after YOU. Oh by the way once you have picked up this note from dear old Margaretâ€™s nose. I shall no doubt have killed again. Better get on the phone to the cops and get some officers over to the address. Happy hunting and boun voyageâ€ť
Jean read and re read the note. He came to a quick conclusion that he wasnâ€™t getting anywhere by reading the note. Only a headache.
â€śget on the phone to the police department immediatelyâ€ť Pierre screamed â€ś Tell emâ€™ to get to 117 Hemingford way, there may be another murder victim thereâ€ť Pierre added. The portly yet well mannered inspector agreed and was on the phone as quick as a bolt of lightning. â€świll you be okay here by yourself?â€ť Clive inquired. â€śIâ€™ll be fineâ€ť Pierre said shortly and to the fact. â€śthere may be more evidence here I may have overlookedâ€ť
â€śOkâ€ť Clive said. And he walked out the front door not before having a precognition of Pierre being stabbed to death. He shook the idea away and continued to his car. Pierre watched Clive into he was swallowed by the darkness where know doubt the killer known as â€śthe Scribeâ€ť because of the notes he leaves at all of the crime scenes. Would be waiting for his next victim to mutilate.
Pierre trudged around the body his eyes trained well in the art of detection spied bloody footprints leading into the kitchen of the eatery. He followed the prints to a cupboard. He concluded the killer wanted him and only him to find this and it wasnâ€™t carelessness. The Scribe was a neat freak for sure. He hadnâ€™t found any substantial evidence except what the killer wanted him to find that is .Pierre stole himself a few moments to draw in his composure . He opened the door to reveal a message written in blood Pierre had made the sudden assumption that the message had been spayed on using a spray painter but it was definitely not red paint. The message read â€śRespecter lâ€™ honneur du courageâ€ť Pierreâ€™s eyes widened to the size of billiard balls as he read the message on the wall. Blood had dripped down and made the words that more sinister,
For the first time in maybe ten years he thought about his police academy years and the schoolâ€™s motto â€śrespecter lâ€™honneur du courageâ€ť
Just then his phone sprang into life playing â€śoh what a wonderful worldâ€ť he quickly pressed the call button and he pressed the phone to his ear â€śhelloâ€ť Pierre whispered. The shadows seemed to creep in closer as if to eavesdrop on the conversation. â€ślisten Jean weâ€™ve got a double homicide here at 117 Hemingford wayâ€ť a now flustered Clive said. â€śthereâ€™s blood everywhere, man I donâ€™t know what to doâ€¦.Oh crap Jean get out the hell out of there right now thereâ€™s a messageâ€¦.â€ť Clive was cut off by a beep. Pierre noticed that his battery had gone flat.
A hint of terror had crept into Pierreâ€™s mindset and his heart and doubled its rate per minute. It was if he had ran a country mile. He suddenly had the urge to run out of the eatery into the night screaming like a mad man. The urge passed but the terror did not. It pounded into his head like a wooden stake. He made to leave quickly but trying to remain composed. Pierre then heard a eerily familiar chuckle coming from the front door. The boots on wooden floor coming closer ever so closer. â€śs-s-stop right thereâ€ť Pierre stammered. But he couldnâ€™t conceal the tremor or desperation which was in his voice. He had his weapon drawn but it was like a dead weight in his hand. he terrible trouble just keeping it up. Never mind keeping steady.
A dark shape was now at the door to the kitchen, the shadows concealed his face. But Pierre could see raggedy clothes. This man has been living rough for some time he concluded. Pierre stood on legs that could hardly support him. The silence was broken by even more familiar voice to go with the chuckle. A memory flashed over his mind. The memory was of him and his best mate Marcel leâ€™ Flores, playing a game of pool back at the police academy in France. He was brought back to reality by the man speaking in a French accent. â€śJean Pierre my it has been a long time, too long indeed, Jeez the last time I saw you-you were cheating with my own wife!!â€ť spittle flew from his mouth and landed on the floor. â€śYou took the credit for my hard work on â€śThe Poetâ€ť I brought him to justice not you! We were friends Jean but now thatâ€™s all changedâ€ť Marcel shouted and a solitary finger shot out of the darkness and pointed at Jean in the accusing gesture. â€śHey listen Marcel we can talk, we can talk, we can forget about our differences mateâ€ť Pierre said in his persuasive tone. â€śNo, no and no its too far gone now Jeanâ€ť Marcel now stepped out of the shadows to reveal his pallid pale face. His eyes were the worst. Bloodshot and full of crazed anger and hatred. Pierre tried to gulp. When he did there was a dry click in his throat. Pierre now staring into his former friends eyes deduced that he wasnâ€™t getting out here alive. In a body bag most definitely.
Marcel leâ€™ Flores brought a knife out of his pocket. He noticed with some dread that the transcript: Respecter lâ€™ Honnuer du courageâ€ť â€śNo pleaseâ€ť Jean said and those were last words he ever uttered. â€śI will have my revenge finallyâ€ť Marcel screeched and charged with the knife firmly gripped in his left hand. In a matter of seconds the distance between the two foes had been closed. Marcel drove the knife deep and hard into Jeanâ€™s fragile eye. Blood spurted over Marcelâ€™s face. It looked like some kind of exotic war paint. Marcel now fully enraged stabbed Jean in the other eye and finally the heart. That one killed him but Marcel was not finished yet. He gracefully cut off Jeanâ€™s nose as if it was a soft butter. It landed with a dull thud on the kitchen floor.
Jean Pierre lay dead on the grubby kitchen floor. His murderer Marcel sat slumped over Jean. A few tears slid down Marcelâ€™s cheek and landed Pierreâ€™s chest. The rage now had disappeared into nothingness and now Marcel was just another man going into his fifties. Contemplating suicide Marcel got the knife had with much effort etched â€śHonourâ€ť into Jeanâ€™s forehead. Marcel now got up dusted him self off. He spied the gun the death giver as he said back at the academy in better and easier times.
He now lifted the muzzle to his eye and stared into another eye. The eye of death. Now we leave this small dark eatery. As we walk out the front door we hear a loud gunshot then a splat sound, as no doubt Marcelâ€™s brains collide with the kitchen walls.
We hear police sirens in the distance. We sigh, a we know what they shall find in the kitchen.
The next day Clive Daily quit police work. He couldnâ€™t get the word â€śHonourâ€ť out of his head. Poor old ex detective Jean Pierre couldnâ€™t get the word out of his forehead.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Andy Brown.
Published on e-Stories.org on 09.07.2009.