Alphabet Murder
© 2000, Herb Hasler
A
single drop of blood was all that remained.
Broken
furniture and smashed dishes hinted at a violent event, but the only real
evidence found was that single drop of blood.
Constable
Hardy watched on as a forensics agent lifted the spot from the tiled kitchen
floor. Defying
standard procedure, Hardy snacked on a donut as he watched. Each
bite bringing harsher stares from the other officers.
From
the basement came a shrill scream; everyone froze.
Graphic images
of torture and dismemberment ran through Hardy’s mind.
He shook them
free and headed for the stairs. “I’ll
check this out,” he said, waving off the
converging detectives. Just
as he opened the basement door, a shot rang out.
Keeping
his back to the wall and with his weapon drawn, he crept down the creaky wooden
stairs.
Light spilled
from under the door of a back room. Movement
within, made the light flicker and dance.
Navigating
the cluttered basement, Hardy reached the door quickly, his heart racing.
Once
his pulse eased, he wrapped his hand tightly around the door handle.
Putting his
gun-laden hand against the door, he listened, but heard nothing. Quietly, he
turned the handle, gently easing the door open.
Rummaging
through the corpse of Dr. Franklin was his wife, Marie.
“Stop
where you are,” Hardy called to her. “Turn
around slowly and don’t make and sudden moves.
Unresponsive,
she continued her search of the body, patting, and prodding.
“Vindicated!”
she shouted, pulling a lipstick stained handkerchief for his inner coat pocket.
“Wait until I get up
there with you, you bastard, I’ll make your after-life an eternal hell!” she
shouted, picking up a gun and putting it to her head.
“Xanthippe my
ass, you pompous jerk.”