Murder Mystery of Arck

Investigating Homicide

“Maybe we should try finding the police officer before we do anything,” I suggested as I sat down next to Sebastian, setting down the cup and the book in my hands.

We spent a few hours last night, thinking about our next step. I told him to talk to his ‘connections’ to find out more information, to which he said that the ‘connections’ were actually of his father and not him, but he said that he would contact them anyway.

The more information we get, the faster we will be able to catch the culprit.

“What do you think she will say when we tell her that we are trying to catch a culprit without a solid lead or evidence?” he says, glancing at the book. “But still-” I say, “Never mind. So, I was reading about homicide last night. And I found some cases that occurred over the years in universities.”

I disagree with him on this and we have had this conversation a thousand times since I brought up the suggestion last night. He is right to some extent, but we would still need the help of an officer, who will be ready to help us when we require it.

And I am not sure that Sebastian’s father’s ‘connections’ would be able to grant us the kind of help that could get them in trouble. Sebastian argued about the fact that our request will go unacknowledged and it would be a waste of time to even try, if we find her.

“Did you get any sleep?” He asks, resting his chin on his palm as he looks at me. I blink a couple of times before I open the book, looking away from Sebastian.

“Did you know that you are putting your health at risk just the same as I put mine by smoking?”

“There are three types of homicide; justifiable, excusable, and criminal,” I continue, ignoring his chiding, “Mark’s murder is either excusable or criminal. Excusable homicide is when a person acts in self-defense, resulting in the death of an individual. Criminal homicide is killing someone with an intention.”

“You’re insufferable,” he mumbles under his breath before snatching the book from my hands. His eyes skim over the lines I underlined and the notes I wrote here and there.

I take a sip of the tea in my cup and look around the dining hall. There aren’t many students or teachers as it’s a Sunday. Most of the students go out in the city to roam around or shop.

Some of them stay in the university, either outside in the garden or inside in their rooms or library.

I stay in the university. There are several reasons for it; one: I don’t have a mode of transport that can take me to the city, two: I just like staying in because I can’t feel the stress outside in the city and it brings me great disappointment when I come back. It may be the very reason why many students do go out; to feel stress-free.

Staying inside the university has its perks. There are no crowded corridors and there are empty classrooms you can have to yourself if you wish to study alone.

I hate crowded corridors, crowded places in general. They are suffocating, and I’m getting pushed to the place I want to be instead of walking on my own.

“What are you drinking? Coffee?” Sebastian asks, putting the book down. “Why? You want some?” I inquire, holding my cup away from him. “No. I want to keep a record of you drinking caffeine,” he says, pulling out a small book out of his pocket.

I give him a look and murmur, “What are you? Health police?” “You’re mine. It’s only fair that I am yours,” he says. “I’m drinking tea,” I declare, taking another sip from the cup.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on lips before he clears his throat and compliments, “Why do you take notes from me? Yours are as useful.”

“I know, right?” I scoff, flipping my hair, “But I don’t have the time. I’m either completing my assignments or revising for a test. Plus, I don’t like making notes.”

“But you like reading mine?”

“They’re useful for revising, as I’ve told you before.”

He nods in approval before snatching the cup from my hands and taking a sip. “That’s really good,” he comments before placing the cup down and grabbing my book.

“So, we need to first find out why he was killed,” he says, repeating the lines from the book, “How do you suggest we do that?” He looks at me, demanding a reasonable plan.

“They haven’t moved the things from Mark’s dorm room, have they?” I ask, cracking my knuckles as I vocalize the plans I made the night before. “No, not yet,” he answers, looking at me suspiciously.

“We can search for some evidence there,” I continued, feeling relieved to hear his answer, “There were two recurring motives to recklessly commit homicide for someone as young as us. Hatred and Fear. Self-defense was a rare occurrence.”

“Fear of what?” He asks as thinks of an answer himself. “There are several answers for that,” I answer, “There were several cases where the accused committed other minor or major crimes that the victim somehow found out. The fear of disclosure of their crimes made them kill the victim.”

“What if it was pre-planned?” he questions. I pause for a moment, before I think of the answer out loud, “If it was premeditated, there definitely was an intent to kill. The reasons could still be the same. It may be because of hatred or fear or even a grudge.”

“If it’s hatred, then it has to be one of the students who bullied him,” I continue, looking at him. “That’s not necessary,” Sebastian says, “I hate a lot of people but I don’t bully them.”

“But would you kill them?” I ask, raising my eyebrows, “Think about it. Mark didn’t talk to anyone and no one talked to him. There can’t be anyone who would kill him because of love or lust. Envy is out the window. He scored good marks but also got in a lot of trouble which just made all of his good attributes invisible.”

“Why can’t it be love or lust?” he counters, scratching his eyebrow, “He couldn’t have just stayed quiet all that time. Someone loved him or lusted over him, but he gave the person no attention. The rejections got frustrating over time and led them to kill him.”

“Or,” he snaps his finger as his eyes widen, “The culprit loves someone who loved Mark. Frustrated over lack of attention and ended up killing his or her rival.”

“But if the person did love him or lust over him, up until the moment he or she killed him,” I say, hopefully clearing his suspicion, “He or she wouldn’t be able to live with themselves. He or she would have turned in, or harmed, him or herself.”

“As for the ‘rival’ thing, there have been some cases where the accused had killed the victim for ‘lack of attention’, as you put it,” I continue before taking a sip from my cup of tea.

“There still may be some time for them to be consumed by their guilt completely and turn themselves in,” he says, exhaling sharply, “It’s only been a day since he passed away.”

“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands on the table, “Let’s just take things one step at a time. We can go to his dorm room and search for anything he might have to hide.”

“-Or we can find one of the bullies,” Sebastian interrupts me, suggesting another thing we could possibly do, “And ask them what happened.”

“Interrogate them, you mean,” I scoff, surprised at the confidence he has about confronting Mark’s bullies. It honestly scared me, now that I think about it. Yes, we can confront them and ‘ask’ them what had actually happened between them and Mark.

What if we unknowingly inform the culprit? What if he or she isn't guilty about what happened, about what he or she did? What if we put ourselves in danger because of that?

I don’t mind putting myself in danger over this, but I was the one who asked for Sebastian’s help and I don’t know if I’d want him to be in danger because of me.

“You’re scared,” he says, like it is the most normal thing in the world. I narrow my eyes at him and exclaim, “Of course, I’m scared. You thought I’d be thrilled?”

“Honestly speaking, yeah, I did,” He says, a small smile appearing on his face. I am not amused, to say the least. And I think my expression conveyed the message. Sebastian sighs before grabbing my arm as he offers a plan.

“How about this?” he says, “You go check his room and I’ll talk to the bullies. I’m confident enough to face them and you wouldn’t have to show yourself.”

I thought he was supposed to be smart. I guess I was wrong to think so. Nevertheless, the plan he proposed could actually work. I give it another thought before nodding my head in agreement.

“Just-” I say, “-be careful.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, his hands reaching for the cup of tea and taking a sip from it. He’ll be okay. There’s nothing to worry about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where were you when you saw the body fall?” the officer with a beard and bored face asks me. There was a notepad in his hands as he wrote down everything I said.

His name is Jeffery Hill. Agent Hill or Mr. Hill is what he wanted me to address him. His beard made him look older, but he would look quite young if he shaved it.

He looks like one of the people who don’t like their job. I could tell the moment I walked in the dean’s office and saw his face, after the clerk informed Sebastian and me this cloudy Sunday morning.

I kept a straight face throughout the introductions and as I sat here in an empty classroom, being interrogated. I don’t know if I am a witness or a suspect. I’ll have to assume after Mr. Hill finished with all the questions.

“I was in the middle of a history lecture,” I answered without any difficulty or hesitation. He frowns and looks at me as if I’ve said something wrong.

“How did you see the body fall if you were in the middle of a lecture? Even when you did, why didn’t anyone else?” he questions, pressing his elbows on the table between us and staring at me with doubt on his face. My face remains unchanged as I stare back at him.

“I wasn’t paying attention during the lecture,” I replied calmly, “And I can’t speak on anyone’s behalf.” He raises his eyebrows as soon as the words leave my mouth.

I understand what he is trying to do. But I think it is a waste of time. They still have to be strict about the procedure, I suppose. I don’t mind, as I’m telling the truth.

I wonder if they were viewing this incident in every way possible. If they too are trying to figure out if Mark was killed, and who killed him.

“Did you have any type of relationship with the victim?” Mr. Hill continues with his questions when he is sure that I am indeed telling the truth.

And I continue to answer politely because I don't provoke unimportant suspicion. But I am honestly starting to get tired. I suppose it was the lack of sleep catching up with me and the absence of adrenaline, which kept me awake till.

“We were acquaintances. We talked a few times but weren’t close enough to be labeled as friends,” I responded, trying not to show the tiredness in my voice.

“He used to get in a lot of fights. Do you know about that?” Mr. Hill inquires, as he looks down at his notepad, his hands moving as fast as the words coming out of my mouth.

“Yes, I’m aware. I encountered him in the infirmary once,” I answered before taking a deep breath and exhaling. I want to sleep. I clench my jaw to stop a yawn and rub my eyes to get rid of the sleepiness.

“Why were you at the infirmary?”

“I was experiencing stomachaches. It’s recorded in the register book, if you want to fact-check.”

“Do you know the reasons he got in those fights?” He asks, looking back at me again. I blink a few times as I feel my eyes burn. “I do not. As I said, we were not close enough to talk about hardships,” I replied, repeating my statement.

“Are you close with anyone?” He asks. His voice is slightly softer as he asks me this question. It seems a bit personal and completely unrelated. My eyebrows rise a little as I answer, “Yes, I’m close with a lot of people. My parents, my brother-”

He interrupts me, acknowledging the mistake in his question, “-Let me rephrase the question. Are you close with anyone in this university?” he pauses hesitantly before continuing, “Close enough to call friends. You must be having a really hard time after witnessing a person die. I’m sure you need someone to rely on.”

I shrug, not minding his words, and respond, “I am close with a few people. I wouldn’t say close enough to call friends. We interact with each other when we have something to discuss that is study related.”

“What is your relation with the other witness?” He questions, his serious tone returning. “We study together. Nothing more or significant,” I replied in a tranquil voice, trying not to show my nervousness towards his questions.

“Are you sure there is nothing more or significant?” he questions, pressing the question, “Nothing I should be aware of?” I answer without uncertainty, “Yes, I’m sure.”

“So you have no friends,” he says, nodding his head as if understanding what I said just a few moments ago. That is probably one of things he said to me, till now, that wasn’t a question.

He seems like a good person at this exact moment. He shouldn’t be, if he’s going to continue interrogating me.

“That is…..correct, I suppose,” I say, nodding my head in agreement. I don’t feel anything saying that. I’m sure having friends would be one of the best things ever, but every friend I’ve ever made has proven to be a toe-rag.

So, I try not to waste my time in making relationships that won’t last and spend it on those that are useful.

“Well, that’s awful, I have to say. You must be having a hard time,” Mr. Hill says, looking at me with something resembling pity in his eyes. “I’m managing just fine. But I appreciate your concern,” I responded, offering him a small smile.

“Anything else you want to tell me before I get out of here?” He asks, wrapping up the conversation. I take a moment to decide if I should tell him what I know.

I want to, I really do. But, for some reason, I feel like I shouldn’t. I’m not sure if I fully trust the officials working on this case. And just because this person in front of me is being empathetic, doesn’t mean he will take significant actions if I tell him.

“No, Mr. Hill. There’s nothing else. I’m sorry if I couldn’t be of any help,” I replied at last, looking down at my hands that rested on my lap.

He waves his hand, and says, “Don’t worry about it, kid. It’s just for record, you know.” “I understand, Mr. Hill,” I mumble in a low voice.

“I’ll be taking my leave then. Be safe, Ms. May.”

“Have a….productive day, Mr. Hill.”

He walks towards the door as I get up from my seat. The burn in my eyes is still there when I blink multiple times. Mr. Hill stops at the door before turning around.

“We may visit again,” he says, hand clutching the door knob, “If we find anything.” I nod in response, refraining myself from saying anything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~