Death Reports
Matthew's Curse, part 6
The sun disappeared as I was trying to leave the church behind. Walking across the empty playground, I felt like being watched; spied on. I turned around just to calm down my conscience. He was still there. Still smoking. I shivered. I clutched a little bottle of pills in my pocket. I clutched it so strong; restraining a little devil inside me from punching something.
I couldn't resist it. I pulled the pills out of my pocket and tossed them violently in a garbage can. The orange bottle fell apart; the white pills scattered; being covered in rubbish. The kids disappeared from the playground. A black spotted ball was the only proof of their perky activities.
I didn't know what to do. Where to turn. I didn't feel like marching down the same old streets I march down every day. I didn't feel like facing the people; feeling their breaths all over me. I didn't feel like going back home; holding back a nervous breakdown caused by dozens of eyes staring at me. There was nothing in there I needed. I didn't feel like living anymore. Not at all.
But I marched down the same old streets. I kicked the same old rubbish I stumble on each day. But I didn't go home. I passed by "The Glitter". The yellow line was still there; attached to the door. But its surroundings looked abandoned. A blue car with a broken window and a flat tire, and disposed rubbish spoiled a glamorous face of the discotheque.
It was hard to revive an inquiry of a 7 year old murder. I had no witnesses, only a wisp of material evidence. Matthew's slippers and pajamas couldn't tell me what I wanted them to. They have pledged to keep silent. forever. Once again, the past was haunting me. No fingerprints, no anything. But just to keep my conscience clean and calm, I asked the forensics to analyze Matthew's clothes. Again. I was aware of the fact that the murder happened 7 years ago. It'd be hard to find any significant traces after that long period of time.
I came back to the precinct. I can't say I enjoyed wasting my time there. But nobody paid attention to me. Which I liked. I'd just lock the door to my office, my nook and viola. I'm gone. Wrapped in silence of my own thoughts; silence of slow decaying.
I was sick of seeing the same old faces every day. Bearing their phoney smiles; their phoney concern. It was like facing the puppets; actually the narrow minded people who pull their strings; being captured by only one, discouraging thought: "Oh, no, here he comes. Put a bogus smile on". Just like that. And I was sick of it. Completely sick and tired.
With half shut eyes, not paying attention to anyone, I repeat, ANYONE, I strided across the precinct. Determined to find the forensics lab. At 7:00 AM, the lab was full of people running around, carefully carrying and examining the evidence. I didn't feel like breaking the harmony inside the glass doors. I waited for Carmine, a forensic scientist to spot me. And he did. He smiled at me. He took off his white latex gloves and whisked off to me.
He was wearing a white uniform with a square piece of cloth patched to it. CSI SF. It said. Black converse sneakers with a red star on each side made me smile. I had the same, only with white stars, smudged with dirt. Mud.
"I found traces of an oily substance which turned out to be nicotine. That's it. The rest you know, you read the report".
"If I got you a cigarette stub, could you play the almighty and see if it matched the nicotine stain on the pajamas"?
I asked chipping a pill in my other pocket with my cold fingers.
"Everything's possible", Carmine talked back, smiling at me.
He put the white gloves on and closed the door as he got back in.
I turned around still crashing the white pills. I could feel a powder all over my hand. And my pocket. I found my way out of the precinct, put a hoodie on and started marching down the same old streets. Once again.
I couldn't resist it. I pulled the pills out of my pocket and tossed them violently in a garbage can. The orange bottle fell apart; the white pills scattered; being covered in rubbish. The kids disappeared from the playground. A black spotted ball was the only proof of their perky activities.
I didn't know what to do. Where to turn. I didn't feel like marching down the same old streets I march down every day. I didn't feel like facing the people; feeling their breaths all over me. I didn't feel like going back home; holding back a nervous breakdown caused by dozens of eyes staring at me. There was nothing in there I needed. I didn't feel like living anymore. Not at all.
But I marched down the same old streets. I kicked the same old rubbish I stumble on each day. But I didn't go home. I passed by "The Glitter". The yellow line was still there; attached to the door. But its surroundings looked abandoned. A blue car with a broken window and a flat tire, and disposed rubbish spoiled a glamorous face of the discotheque.
It was hard to revive an inquiry of a 7 year old murder. I had no witnesses, only a wisp of material evidence. Matthew's slippers and pajamas couldn't tell me what I wanted them to. They have pledged to keep silent. forever. Once again, the past was haunting me. No fingerprints, no anything. But just to keep my conscience clean and calm, I asked the forensics to analyze Matthew's clothes. Again. I was aware of the fact that the murder happened 7 years ago. It'd be hard to find any significant traces after that long period of time.
I came back to the precinct. I can't say I enjoyed wasting my time there. But nobody paid attention to me. Which I liked. I'd just lock the door to my office, my nook and viola. I'm gone. Wrapped in silence of my own thoughts; silence of slow decaying.
I was sick of seeing the same old faces every day. Bearing their phoney smiles; their phoney concern. It was like facing the puppets; actually the narrow minded people who pull their strings; being captured by only one, discouraging thought: "Oh, no, here he comes. Put a bogus smile on". Just like that. And I was sick of it. Completely sick and tired.
With half shut eyes, not paying attention to anyone, I repeat, ANYONE, I strided across the precinct. Determined to find the forensics lab. At 7:00 AM, the lab was full of people running around, carefully carrying and examining the evidence. I didn't feel like breaking the harmony inside the glass doors. I waited for Carmine, a forensic scientist to spot me. And he did. He smiled at me. He took off his white latex gloves and whisked off to me.
He was wearing a white uniform with a square piece of cloth patched to it. CSI SF. It said. Black converse sneakers with a red star on each side made me smile. I had the same, only with white stars, smudged with dirt. Mud.
"I found traces of an oily substance which turned out to be nicotine. That's it. The rest you know, you read the report".
"If I got you a cigarette stub, could you play the almighty and see if it matched the nicotine stain on the pajamas"?
I asked chipping a pill in my other pocket with my cold fingers.
"Everything's possible", Carmine talked back, smiling at me.
He put the white gloves on and closed the door as he got back in.
I turned around still crashing the white pills. I could feel a powder all over my hand. And my pocket. I found my way out of the precinct, put a hoodie on and started marching down the same old streets. Once again.