I scrutinize the scene. It\u2019s\nmessy, but impressively clean. Interesting how such a scenario can form, but,\noh, how it can. My fingers roll my 1.0mm ball point Bic pen between their\nprints. Squatting before the carcass in the rear left corner of the office, I\nput the woman\u2019s features to memory. Despite the red hand print right in the middle\nof her face\u2014her own print, by the way\u2014her eyes are sharply blue. She has a low\nbridge, her nostrils more of an upturned teardrop\u2014 thin septum. Her eye lids\nseem like they never were really open, always drooped slightly in something I\u2019m\ngoing to claim as all around wear; long lives we can live in shorter times than\nwe figure. Her lashes are coated thickly in mascara, paired with a charcoal\nblue pencil eyeliner. Her liquid foundation has parted ways with her skin in\nplaces, splotching into odd patches while looking flawless in others. She\u2019s\nbeen dead for about 17 hours now. I would be suspicious if she looked any\nbetter. Her lips are mostly stained red with lipstick, except for two tracks on\nher bottom lip where her teeth ran. My bet is she bit down in pain. Other than\nthat, her cheekbones aren\u2019t protruding and her jaw is slight with a slender\nchin. Pretty, but frankly not enough to be a crime for those bizarre goddess hunters.\nA stalker, perhaps. Usually, though, stalkers don\u2019t murder their prey. At least\nnot right away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo sign of struggle, her office\ndoor was open, and we haven\u2019t gotten blood tests back yet. Swept the room for\nprints: nothing. Foraged for any DNA sample: nothing. No foot prints, hand\nprints, snot drips or skin flakes.\u201d My assistant, Bread, repeats her notes from\nher 4 by 5 college ruled note pad. I can hear her thumb and index fingers\nrubbing the corner of a sheet between them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHm,\u201d I huff, rolling my pen even\nfaster. I glance around at the surrounding industrial grade carpet. Spotless,\nsave the woman\u2019s body and one of her shoes thrown a couple feet to the right.\nThe only blood is the print on her face and a small puddle in the middle of her\nright palm. \u201cDrugs,\u201d is my conclusion as I stand, making Bread take a step\nback.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDrugs?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d And to think, this morning\nI was reading a well written article of a man who died a week ago. Poison, they\nconcluded. Suicide. \u2018Tragic\u2019 claimed his therapist Silver Spoon. I sigh,\nregaining my mind for this mission.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe\u2019s squeaky clean, Sir,\u201d a\nno-name detective intern from the building across the street claims from the\nother side of the room. He had been staring dubiously at a filing cabinet as if\nit had the answers to space and time within it. \u201cWe\u2019ve done several different\nchecks. No history of drugs.\u201d He blinks frantically, only now realizing he had\nopened his mouth. \u201cOr anything, really,\u201d his attempt at redemption is flawless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stare at him for a second,\nletting him feel the awkward slime he just infested the air with. \u201cNot self\nuse, kid.\u201d His lips form an egg shape, but I\u2019m not ready to listen to him question\nmy theory I\u2019m about to explain. \u201cSomeone gave her the drugs, whether in her\ncoffee, in her ice cream, or,\u201d I glance at her lipstick, \u201csome other way. She\ndidn\u2019t willingly and or knowingly consume it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo enemies reported,\u201d Bread\nrefers her note pad just to be sure. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe all have enemies, Corn Bread,\nbut that doesn\u2019t mean they kill us.\u201d I pace away from the fallen woman and to\nher desk. Her wheel footed chair is scooted out a few feet, and I weave around\nit. Stopping with my soles on the plastic matt that ensures better wheelage, I\nbend and study the pictures on her desk. A young boy and a younger girl take up\ntwo 5 by 8 metallic silver frames. The woman herself and a black haired man\ntake up another. There\u2019s a few old people in a fourth, and lastly, are the\nchildren again with a golden retriever. I move my observations to her computer.\nBy poking the mouse, the monitor awakens. On the screen, an email addressed to:\nPorcelain Bowl. The subject: It\u2019s your boss. \u201cBut, perhaps, another person, a\nmore powerful person, has an enemy. Possibly an enemy that would kill.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou mean Porcelain Bowl?\u201d Bread\nasks, nodding at the deceased near her feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I nod, retrieving a cotton glove\ninside a plastic bag from my pocket, \u201cBowl had now power, however.\u201d While I put\nthe glove on, I say further, \u201cThough, she could have been collateral. You\u2019re\nboth familiar with the tactic of divide and conquer?\u201d The intern answers with\na: yup, while Bread hums: mhmm. \u201cWell perhaps that\u2019s what Mrs. Bowl fell victim\nto.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou think so?\u201d Bread asks. I nod.\n\u201cThat leaves a potentially long list of suspects, then.\u201d She knows it to be\nfact. \u201cI assume the person in power here you\u2019re referencing is Mrs. Bowl\u2019s\nboss? And by divide and conquer you mean the company?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA long list?\u201d Intern sounds a bit\nshaken, and apparently oblivious to Bread\u2019s last sentence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My eyes give the desk a once over,\nfinding a spilled mesh pen cup, a crooked stapler, and a calendar book. I flip\nthe page of the book to today and say, \u201cA list maybe not as long as we think.\nBread nor I would be on it. Probably not you, either,\u201d I glance at the timid\nintern standing rigidly near the file cabinet. He doesn\u2019t exactly have the ease\nof the guilty. \u201cBread?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYessir?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow old are this woman\u2019s\nchildren?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c14 and 11. Her husband is three\nyears older than her at 41.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I acknowledge her answers with a\nslight grunt. Upon flipping back another page of the journal, I pause. Mrs.\nBowl\u2019s tilted and cautious handwriting is scribbled in two days ago: \u2018Make over\nwith Silver\u2019 it says. \u20186 o\u2019clock\u2019. I continue on through the pages. \u201cWhat sort\nof vehicle did she drive?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cVehicle?\u201d Coughs the intern in\nthe corner. I\u2019m not entirely sure why he\u2019s just standing, now. He\u2019s not even\nbothering to look busy shuffling through the files. \u201cWhat does that matter,\nSir?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Between pointless scribbles, I\ndart my eyes through the calendar. \u201cEverything means something, intern. Learn\nthat now, before you\u2019re in the field.\u201d He says \u2018alright\u2019 and continues to\nstand. I presume there\u2019s some theories in his mind he\u2019s juggling. Part of me\nwonders, but the rest of me doesn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cKia Soul, 2015.\u201d I\u2019m not sure\nwhere Bread gets her info, or if it comes from the cleanest of sources, but\nshe\u2019s never been wrong, and I won\u2019t claim I\u2019m squeaky either. \u201cOil change two\nweeks ago. Maybe there\u2019s something there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I shake my head. \u201cNo. Too long\nago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow do you know?\u201d Can you guess\nwho asked?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIntern, I know because she died\n17 hours ago from some sort of drug, a poison. Had the mechanic given it to her,\nthis case would have been in the papers 17 hours after the oil change.\u201d Neither\nperson replies to me, only goes on staring and looking over notes. I look over\nmy shoulder at Porcelain Bowl. Her blue eyes are watching my heels like I\u2019m\nready to wheel on them. In fact, I do just that. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Once again, I squat in front of\nthe body. Her eyes, behind the red hand print, are very intent. Admittedly,\nmost stares of the dead are, but they never seem so\u2026 specific. So I play along.\nI follow the trail of her gaze, and it leads me underneath her desk. The area\nis shadowed, but I do see something. \u201cHm,\u201d I sound aloud, \u201cBread?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYessir?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you know if the photographer\ncaught this pen?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPen?\u201d The intern finally breaks\nhis form and takes two quick steps toward the desk. He\u2019s on the opposite side,\nbut he looks down as if he\u2019ll be able to see. He meets my eyes instead. He\ndrops back flatly on his feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bread takes a moment, thinking, \u201cI\ndon\u2019t remember seeing one of a pen, Sir, no.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pull aside the flap of my suit\njacket and dig out a small flashlight. I point the beam on the Pilot G-2 0.38\nclick pen. The tip of it is red. With blood. \u201cWell, I would suggest you call\nand get them in.\u201d Nearly before I\u2019m done speaking, Bread pulls out her phone.\nShe steps out of the room while I turn to look at the woman again. I study the\ntwo absent marks in her lipstick. I scan the pool of blood in her hand. The\nshoe a few feet away. Then I stand again, spinning to watch her desk. When I\nflip the calendar back to two days ago, I notice I feel the intern\u2019s eyes on\nme. \u201cTell me,\u201d I say to him, \u201cwhy do you think the pen is on the ground?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The intern takes a moment to\nthink. There\u2019s a bit of me that\u2019s wondering if he\u2019s even thinking about the\nobjective, or if he\u2019s just trying to think of what I think he should think.\nI\u2019ll chose the latter. \u201cWell, I see the pen cup is knocked over. Maybe it just\nrolled off?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I shrug, \u201cThat\u2019s alright. A good\nstart, I guess.\u201d Not really, but got to give the rookies some confidence.\nBefore you burn it down, that is. \u201cBut you know what really happened?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou Do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
—<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The light in the room is a little\nblaring. All to set the scene, I suppose. Off the metal table, the light\nreflects into my eyes. It makes me squint; all the more intimidating. \u201cPorcelain\nBowl,\u201d I start, latching my hands behind my back, \u201cwas found dead in her office\n19 hours ago on the 11th<\/sup> day of May 2016.\u201d My eyes dart to the woman\nsitting at the metal table. She put up a surprisingly small amount of fight for\nbeing dragged into the police department. Unlike the intern, I\u2019d say she has\nthe ease of the guilty. \u201cThere was no sign of struggle, no physical evidence\nleft behind. Only a few little clues to follow.\u201d The woman cocks her head,\ncockily awaiting for me to continue. \u201cApproximately 19 hours and 5 minutes ago,\nPorcelain Bowl was at her desk doing her job. It was time for her to check her\nemail. One, she found, was from her boss. You see, Mrs. Bowl wasn\u2019t doing so\nhot at work. She drove a Kia Soul, a car that\u2019s starting price is in the\nmid-teens. So, when she saw the subject \u2018It\u2019s your boss\u2019, she got flustered,\nstartled. Bowl reached quickly for a pen to take notes, assuming it may be the\ntime for a meeting. In her panic, her palm came down too fast on her pen cup,\nthe fine point of a Pilot G-2 0.32 click pen jabbing through her skin.\u201d The\nwoman blinks slowly at me. If her hands were not cuffed, she would wave me\nalong, I presume. \u201cFrom the pain, Mrs. Bowl jerked back, knocking over the cup\nand also,\u201d I point at the woman, pausing for dramatic effect, \u201cbiting her\nbottom lip.\u201d The woman doesn\u2019t squirm, but her eyes refrain from rolling. \u201cNow,\nMrs. Bowl was wearing her new lipstick she got from a makeover she went to two\ndays ago with someone named Silver. And,\u201d I pull my finger back and put it on\nmy lips, \u201cit wasn\u2019t until my partner, Corn Bread, brought up the fact Bowl had\ngotten her oil changed two weeks ago, and a certain, stiff intern to assume the\nmechanic slipped in the poison, for me to state if that had been the case, Porcelain\nBowl\u2019s death would have been in the paper two weeks ago. Now, this sparked my\nmemory to an actual <\/em>article I had\njust been reading this morning of a man who had poisoned himself in suicide. \u2018Tragic\u2019\nclaimed his therapist, Silver<\/em> Spoon.\u201d Now the woman lifts up her chin,\nher eyes\u2014instead of rolling\u2014look me up and down. \u201cBack to Mrs. Porcelain Bowl. The\npoison took a moment to take effect as it dissolved into her tongue from the\nlipstick now on the back of her front teeth. This gave the ball point pen wound\nenough time to bleed out on her hand, cover it enough to make a hand print when\nshe grabbed her face as a stabbing pain set into her brain. It hurt enough, she\njolted out of her chair, causing it to wheel away from her desk. She tripped\nout of one of her shoes when she slipped on something, leaving it a couple feet\nright of her final destination. As Porcelain Bowl backed into the corner with the\npoison drug coursing through her meninges, she collapsed. In her final seconds,\nher eyes caught the pen that had stabbed her in the palm. It had fallen on the\nfloor, and her high heel shoe had slipped on it, kicking it under the desk. She\nstared at it, wondering, had it never stabbed her, would she have made it\nthrough?\u201d I take a step toward the table, \u201cWould she have made it through had\nshe never put on the lipstick given to her,\u201d my hands press onto the metal\ntable\u2019s surface as I lean toward the woman, \u201cby none other than Silver Spoon\nherself?\u201d The woman\u2019s lungs deflate in the most satisfying manor. Miss Silver\nSpoon, the therapist, waits a moment as she stares at me. It\u2019d be interesting\nto know all the names she\u2019s calling me inside her head. However, before I know\nthose, I have one more thing to ask, \u201cThen answer me this famous questions,\nMiss Spoon: why did you do it?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPeople tell you a lot of things\nin confidence, Detective. Some of those are convincing enough to make you do\nsome rather\u2026 intense, things.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLike murder?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She nods, in a way that tells me\nI\u2019m only partially right, \u201cor defense.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHm,\u201d I lean away from the table,\nwatching this\u2026 Silver Spoon. \u201cWill you tell me the difference?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A small laugh makes her shoulders\njump. There\u2019s a metallic click as she puts her hands on the table, fingers\ninterlaced, \u201cI believe you know the answer to that one, Detective.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlease,\u201d we watch each other for\nquite some time, silently trying to glean the others thoughts, \u201ccall me Soup.\nHam, Soup.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I scrutinize the scene. It\u2019s messy, but impressively clean. Interesting how such a scenario can form, but, oh, how it can. My fingers roll my 1.0mm ball point Bic pen between their prints. Squatting before the carcass in the rear left corner of the office, I put the woman\u2019s features to memory. Despite the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-186","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/literaturebylinderud.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/186","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/literaturebylinderud.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/literaturebylinderud.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/literaturebylinderud.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/literaturebylinderud.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=186"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/literaturebylinderud.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/186\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":187,"href":"https:\/\/literaturebylinderud.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/186\/revisions\/187"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/literaturebylinderud.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=186"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}