One For Sorrow

Chapter Three

It was late evening when I stood back and admired what I believed to be a job well done. It was just perfect, a little bit too much to be suicide, but that was good, that was the idea, and that was how it was meant to be. The police would be baffled. They will never catch me; they will never figure out who I am. It was perfect, nothing was left behind to tie me to the murder.

I have a lot of experience dealing with forensics – not qualifications – just experience, years of experience, which was why the Scientist was a perfect Alias, why I could conduct a host of perfect crimes that would go down in criminal history. I know how to get away with murder and know what to do to baffle the Crime Scenes officers and pathologists who will appear later this evening. A year of planning and many, many hours of watching led to this perfect moment. I began to rub my hands together in glee.

Most important of all, she would be baffled. That stupid Chief of Pathology won’t get this, not in a million years. I felt an evil grin spread across my face as the thought entered my mind. That woman had made many lives a living misery over the past six months since she had arrived and driven me to distraction in the most tormenting of ways. I bet the stupid woman didn’t even know who anyone was in that place, faces and numbers, but not a single name. I bet she doesn’t even know who I am, does she? She was so self-involved, and she didn’t care about those around her or those she hurt as she crushed them to the dirt beneath her heel, and I am going to get her for it as well. This was personal. I’m doing this for all the people that woman has oppressed and whose lives she has ruined.

Monday had been a good day, when the stupid woman had walked in through the main entrance, I noticed that someone had finally put her in her place. She had walked into the building, and upon seeing her, I had struggled to keep a straight face and hide the look of triumph. One of her wrists was cast and she had a bandage on her neck, her right eye was fully closed and was a multitude of deep purples and blues, her nose appeared to be broken and was very bent out of shape, she walked stiffly and spoke with a lisp around her swollen bottom lip. To me, in that one single moment, it was as though the woman’s attacker had painted the Mona Lisa. I was very happy about this, it was about time someone gave her the beating she deserved and put the silly b1tch back in her place. Thinking about the fine morning made me begin to chuckle out loud with delight. She looked like she had been hit by a truck. Shame she hadn’t, but that would have ruined all of my careful planning I had done, so I quickly put the thought aside as a flight of murderous fancy.

I turned back to my masterpiece. This would show everyone how useless the stupid woman was because she would never solve this case. They would sack her in no time at all. The board must not believe in her as they only had her on probation. I am just helping them make the right decision.

It had all worked according to plan. I had been lying in wait for the boy to come home. When he did, the Glock 17c with a silencer, which I had managed to buy on the black market, was put on the back of the boy’s head, making him freeze on the spot. The sharp, unmistakable tang of urine filled the air as the boy's bladder released at the feel of the merciless gun. It was so easy. The wimp had done everything that I had told him to do, whilst whimpering and begging for his miserable life. He had been a dead man for weeks and hadn’t known a thing about it. A smile spread across my face again at the thought of how it all went down. The feeling of the power I have over life and death was quite an incredible emotion. The chair that the boy had been standing on was now lying on the floor where it had been kicked from under him, blood dripping on it. Each drop a symphony, each splash an Opera to the ears.

The boy had originally passed out from the pain of the injuries that I had inflicted on him. When he came around, I forced him to stand on the chair and made him tie the rope to the ceiling and light himself with trembling hands. He was then, at gunpoint, told to put the noose around his neck and tighten it as I watched on with the gaze of a tutor watching a pupil. The boy’s eyes were filled with both tears and fear, which excited me and drove me to new heights of pleasure at the sudden power.

Then I kicked the chair from under him and watched as he fell to his death as his neck broke, with a bone-crunching snap, and then a deathly hollow and pregnant silence.

His tongue was now purple and was protruding from his mouth, his eyes were set in a permanent look of shock and fear as his lifeless corpse swung back and forth from the light fitting which I hoped wouldn’t break and bring the body crashing to the floor. I finished the deed by removing the rest of the boy’s clothing using a pair of scissors and tossing the urine, blood and sweat-soaked remnants to one side. This is where the fun started. I began digging a knife into the boy’s corpse and took what was needed for the trophies. After all, a serial killer needs a souvenir or two. It excited me, it was a magnificent reminder of the great work that had been done. Finally, I slashed away at the body with the knife, leaving many cuts on every inch of the body, including the soles of the feet and the palms of the hands.

I then finished positioning the body and left a letter addressed to Doctor C J Montage on the table underneath it. After it was all done and perfected, a gloved hand picked up the phone in the kitchen, smearing blood over the white handset and dialing only three nines.

“Hello emergency services, what services?” Came the disembodied reply.

“I would like to report a murder at this number,” I replied in a deep gruff voice before replacing the handset and laughing. It was now time to leave. I shut the door quietly behind me as the sound of my opera immediately stopped playing.