Death Reports

*** On A Dancefloor, part 6

Damn. The only suspect slipped through my hands. Evidently. Those 30, plastic surgery lovers were still waiting for me. To be questioned. I was struggling with my inner self. As usual. I couldn’t talk to a person whose vocabulary only consists of 4 words – Armani, Versace and Calvin Klein. Pardon me, I forgot Dolce&Gabbana. 6 words, altogether. Monosyllabic people. Metaphorically.

Once again, I had nothing, thrown back to square one. Empty facts, empty people, empty case. Nothing. I sighed. I felt nauseous. Probably because I ate 2 days ago. I needed caffeine. Not more of a mental disturbance.

I went back to the crime scene. To the discotheque. Yellow police line was still attached to the office door. The sign of a murder. Everything was the same. That white line in the shape of Sarah’s body was still drawn on the floor. I shivered. And knelt. I needed to clear my thoughts. I needed something to begin with. Anything. Anything at all.

I was kneeling there. I was there physically. But I couldn’t focus my mind on the case. I just couldn’t. Like I wasn’t even in the room. This time, there was no car crash to bring me back to reality. My mind was wandering. Lurking.

Somehow, I was in advance. The precinct has never revealed some facts regarding the murders. The leather belt. Only a few forensic experts, detectives and a couple of other people related to the case knew the real means of killing. The leather belt. I was one of them.

We were either dealing with a serial killer or a copycat. I wanted it to be a serial killer. I wanted to end this. All of this. If there was a copy cat, one of the murders would stay unsolved. Marked red. Marked unsolved. It would mean two different killers. God.

I was trying to stay focused. I succeeded. Somehow. I was shaking, getting nervous. But I was pushing myself forward. It wasn’t easy. Not at all. I tried to think. Beyond the limits. Beyond everything.

Having a copy cat or imitator would mean that someone very close to police work was involved. Only a few forensics, detectives and paramedics had an access to the both crime scenes. The same authority people. A copycat might be one of them. Or. Or there is a mole. Meaning, the information were leaking. Still are. I underlined the word. Jesus. That was too much for me. I started walking back and forth. Thinking. It felt like my brains would explode. It wouldn’t be for the very first time.

We had 3 possible scenarios and not a shred of evidence. Unbelievable. I sighed. It turned out to be my favorite motion. The office was getting smaller and smaller. I felt dizzy. Claustrophobic. I needed some fresh air. I ran out. And forgot my coffee.

I wish someone would disentangle me.

I needed a word or two with Sarah’s parents. Not my Sarah’s parents.

The city that was bursting into life, died today. Alley cats and other creatures of the night were digging food out of trash. Hard, hobo life.

I was finally there. The Peterson's. Old, sad looking people said only the greatest things about their only child. Their Sarah. I didn’t expect anything else. Anything less. Would you? They let me take a peek at her belongings. Her room was up in the attic. Small, pink painted room. It was full of books, framed pictures, high school medals. Amongst hundreds of negligible things, a shred of paper grabbed my attention. It contained a cell phone number. And a familiar name in signature. Bobby. Bobby McNamara.

I was paralyzed. After a minute of gasping, I ran out. That sudden breakthrough hit me like a heat wave. Literally. Like I was exposed to direct sunlight for a very long time. Very long. I was trembling. Like I was about to face something. Someone…