Forgive Me

Well Done, Ms. Begum

And so peaked his interest, the body, that for a moment he was in a morbid trance. How fascinating the scene, how fascinating the crowd, how fascinating the mystery.

-2/5/1920

The shadow of morning's shock draped the corpse in black, however subtle it did so, and left a dread hanging over the yellow tape. Their restriction from the scene could not stop a growing crowd from flocking to the street in search of answers and gossip. But what met the intrigues on-lookers was a crime so hideous, wise eyes turned away.

The corpse had been discovered the previous night by oblivious patrons, still fresh with Death's cold touch. A bleak man in labor trousers and twitching breath, laid with his scalp open wide and the internal red of his skull spilling into the street. He was unrecognizable-- the personalization of his features mauled with too much distortion.

It brings me no pleasure to admit I watched from my magnetic perch, breath soured with remaining shock, and observed the familiar three men approaching the scene.

There was Detective Holly, shoving his way through the crowd with his ratty lackey close behind. His brow was stern, but of an almost childish nature. The situation was recognizably dire but of enough exhilaration to send his narrow eyes down a path of anticipation. The thick air wrapped his frantic lungs in suspense, but the man eagerly drank it up.

The other, unnamed man (who I preferred to examine over the young photographer) bore the wisdom and camera I had seen near the crazed protester. He, too, made his way down the street but in more a passive manner than Mr. Holly. His limbs were fluid, enough to slip through the curious eyes and fearful trembles. Their blatant juxtaposition of the overcoming marred the scene in desperation, rather than a thrill. The urgency, whether or not accompanied by differing methods, was the same nonetheless.

An impressive ID was flashed before the security guard and the tape lifted, but when the reporter attempted to follow, it was shut down so forcefully it knocked from him the wide-eyed expression.

"Detective!" the young man shut from the scene waved, though never succeeding in grabbing Holly's attention. "Detective Holly! Detective Holly!"

"Marcus," he growled, voice just as full of gooey amber as my previous encounter with it, "the day I allow you on such a sacred ground is the day my skull is skewered. Retreat and return to your post; there is use of you anywhere but here."

The young man, Marcus, fell back, his gleam of disappointment bare of any wise hallmark, in unwavering obedience toward his superior. His means of expressing respect and servility toward the Detective was through the actions of the body, generally creating feebleness. The shoulders hunched forward, arching his back behind him, and his chin touched the fragile bones of his ribcage. Feet shuffling behind him, he retired from his persistence and became another spectator.

The other noticeable stranger, who has yet to be assigned a name, drifted about the street as grim as a ghost. He just about reached the tape, when something in his vision kept him from stepping any farther. It was as if the mark of the Beezlebub was inflicted in his soul, and was preventing him from the holy quarters of a monastery. Even as he struggled to move-- to witness what was catching his attention-- there was no ability; the man was stuck behind the invisible wall of guilt.

Detective Holly made his way to the body, stepping around the officers and taking part of his own declarative rules. The enforcement scattered about the scene stood, in perfect alignment to their grimness, with their nightsticks drawn and chins aloft. I recognized the trouble lurking beneath their eyelids, for something was nagging at the tugs of their brain. The dead man had been brutally murdered on regularly patrolled streets, and at a time one such officer was defining his future career opportunities. But, because my timing had been so precise and my knowledge of his route thorough, there was no prevention to be sought. They realized the cleverness of the perpetrator, and feared it. What, if not the criminal injustices, could the patrols solve now?

Their eyes were lit with relief upon sight of the detective; they had been waiting for someone with answers.

I look upon this scene now, years after the experience, and realize myself a fortunate woman to be at the beginning of the 1920's. If simply a few years later had gone by before my heart riled and my throat tightened, surely they would have had no complication unearthing my crime. But, because I was a woman of no procrastination, advanced forms of fingerprinting and crime laboratories were not yet in motion.

The detective, ever so gently, lifted the tarp cloaking the corpse and studied the withered features. The face was not split, as many of the rumors had speculated and I so believed had occurred, but torn. A bullet at the forehead, though traveling a short distance, had taken the clinging rolls of skin and let them loose with sheets of gore. It served the impression of a curling rosebud, with its petals reaching out yet, somehow, below. Even with the underwhelming scene before him, the face was unrecognizable. The bullet peeking out from the bottom of his jaw had taken his lips with him, including much of the neck. Then, with the second bullet, his eyes were gaped but shrouded in dried blood and chunks of flesh. Without being drawn to the face, there was a much upsetting distraction: his brains staining the pavement.

"Identification was found on him?" Holly asked, not to one particular person but to every officer standing nearby.

"Jesse Burnett," declared a man significantly more important than the rest of the officer's pitiful attempts at a consistent answer.

While the others wore rounded caps with little bedazzling effect and one row of buttons, this individual was dressed in a manner of ascendancy. His jacket was laced with many rows of buttons to accommodate the folding pattern of his pockets, while his cap had the largest of upper crowns and the most decorated. His voice was less timid than those of the force, taking pride within the authority it held and, in some deeper meaning, a skepticism.

The man's name, I learned in later events, was Gregory Kingsbury: chief of the task force and sole fortificater of their capabilities.

"It was a hell of a search but we finally found the dead man's family, who immediately identified his clothing and location to be theirs," he continued, stepping toward the detective, much to his dismay.

The detective traced the path of the bullet with his finger, pulling from his chin to the air to the corner of the exterior club. He held an imaginary pistol in his palm, aiming where he might imagine the hand to have driven. What valuable information this would provide was not yet discovered-- not by his companions, not even by himself.

"The bullet in his chin," he gestured, waving his hands toward the corpse and the firearm shape of his fingers, "was from this point by the building. Considering the limited information, we can assume it was aimed at the intended position, but instead of sticking there it traveled upward. What this brings to me is that the shooter was inexperienced and easily jolted by the shock, sending it in a slightly separate direction. The other bullet, in his scalp, could not have been shot in the same position. If we assume the first bullet was shot and he fell, which is overt by the fresh scabs on his elbows, the bullet could not have reached that directness from this distance."

"Can we assume they were shot one after the other?"

"Negative. Because the chin bullet entered first, they would need to have miraculous steadying to manage a perfect temple-shot. Then, because of the position of the second bullet and how far it traveled, it was released closer to the man, perhaps to kill him off for good." He stole one more glance at the corpse, rubbing the stubble of his chin and scratching at the questions in his head. "Did the man have any grudges against him? What did he do for a living?"

"He worked in the textile industry," replied Gregory, now with a hunk of cigar sticking from his lips and lighting with dull flame. "His boss claimed him a hard worker, too. Everyone else described how they barely knew the man, but generally perceived him as kind and wise. They grew grieved when we spoke to them. From as far as our knowledge dictates, he did not know enough to have any grudges, nor was he in such a state to be despised by lower classes."

Ah, Detective Holly mused in his mind, so we have ourselves a man of mystery.

"I want relations to Burnett discovered-- any trace of him must be uncovered. Outward appearance is never the sole integrity of a man, and I intend to discover what lay inside. I require the bullets to be extracted and verified of what firearm source. Too, must you discover means. What could someone in his circle gain from his death? Anything, anything at all."

Gregory nodded his head and flocked to the force, barking orders in his gruff and born-leader tone. Holly took to escape the scene, a smile not clinging to his mouth but excitement brewing in his stomach. He stepped from the street, taking Marcus alongside with him, and ignoring the face of the stranger frantically scanning notebook pages.

Watching it all unfold from my spot on the terrace entertained the sprout of daring growing from my chest and I delighted in watching them run about the scene. I had murdered a man I knew not the name of with a bland face and bland job and bland life. There was no guilt in my heart to watch an insignificant man die, especially under the assumption that Detective Holly would be intrigued by the case. Perhaps this is what I desired: the interest of the mysterious man placed in my affairs.

Smiling, I folded the paper poppy against my heart, reading the recent words once more with a tingle in my youth:

Well done, Ms. Begum