A Game of Shadows

It’s a dark and terrifying world we live in, we must accept that even if we believe otherwise. And under every beautiful façade there is truth, but should you choose to believe it?

Every single word in this story I believe to be true, and trust me, I don’t want to. But it is what I accept.

. . .

Three walls, blank as paper, and old, iron bars imprison Law Dale. He’s an aging, tall man with fair skin and fair hair and has got great, blooming rust-coloured stains all over his crisp white shirt.

He sits ramrod straight, hands on knees, on a bench in the black cell, as even breathing disturbs the dried stains that adhere shirt to skin and is quite uncomfortable.

Law Dale’s expression is as blank as the cell walls as he starts through half-lidded, deep blue eyes past the iron bars. A mask that covers quiet outrage and disagreement to what he’s been charged with.

A red bearded, portly man in a sharp, yet plain, black suit steps into Law’s view. “You doing well for yourself, doctor?” He asks in a soft, gruff, accented voice.

Law Dale knows what he, and his situation, looks like so he doesn’t answer.

“Though I may call you that respectively, doctor, I have to wonder why it is that Mercy General hasn’t so much as heard of you until three months ago.” The man at the bars continues. “Despite you claiming to have been born in London yourself.”

Then his tone turns to hushed disgust. “So not only are you a murderer, but a fraud. Do you even have a medical license? Hm, Dr. Carpenter?”

Now what kind of man delivers MY baby and then murders a disabled woman?” He huffs then turs away for a moment.

In the swelling silence, Law finally speaks up. “Thomas Castellaneta.” The detective sighs before asking, “And who would that be?”

“My lawyer, Detective Davenport,” Law answers, “I’d be rather delighted if you were to call him for me, thank you.”

. . .

The night is engulfing, the light fixture above head is broken, and the darkness covers the truth like a blanket of oblivion.

In an instant the covers are torn away by a white light, revealing the massacre. The flash dies, but the camera remembers the gore strewn wide across the walls, the furniture, and the carpeting. An intricately designed, beautifully printed carpet is now sticky with the remains of a woman. Her blood covers nearly every surface in the hotel room, in the bugger puddles and splotches are strands of her hair.

Bits and pieces of her are smeared all over the room, but a trail of rusty stains and soft tissues leas to the whole of her. And that is covered by a large white sheet that billows as it settles upon her remains.

The room fills with detectives, medical examiners, and police officers. They take pictures, take notes, and murmur amongst themselves while trying not to breathe in too much of the gore, which is starting to smell like a butcher’s dirty cutting board and warm, raw hamburger.

“A doctor did this, can you believe that?” One detective asks another.

The other detective shakes his head and asks, “What kind of doctor did they say he was?”

“I’m not sure,” replies the detective, “surgeon, maybe?”

“You said a doctor did this?” Says an unknown voice, husky with a velvet accent. The detectives turn toward the doorway and sees a young woman, incredibly small for her age maybe, her eyes wide with shock.

“Jesus Christ, who left the door open?” One detective yells at the many other people in the room while the other detective addresses the woman, “Sorry, ma’am, I can’t disclose that information just yet.”

“Please tell me, I know that woman!” She pleads.

“Are you kin?” The detective asks.

“No,” the young woman answers, “but the doctor is my brother. Now tell me where he is.”

. . .

Rami Bradshaw is a fairly sound sleeper, and at this time at night is partaking in a decent slumber in his luxurious hotel room, two floors above the murder. Settled within disheveled sheets and pillows that lay at either side of him rather than under his head, Rami is started out of bed by three sharp, raps at the door.

Fussily, he wraps himself in a robe while he marches to the door and looks through the peephole. But the person on the other side is too short to be seen, so he opens the door and sets his sights eight inches below his own eye level. “Well, ‘Allo, Lucy.” He says to the young woman at his door, trying not to sound as tired as he actually is. “What brings you to my chambers this evening? Or morning, whichever one.”

The young woman, Lucy, take a calming breath before giving him the news. “Rami, something bad happened.”

Rami looks concerned and confused as he asks, “Is it Tim, or --?”

“No, it’s Law. Marceline is dead, and they’re telling me Law killed her.”

Rami’s stomach does a flip and he doesn’t know what to believe or feel, because one: Law can’t kill anyone, and second: Marceline can’t die.

He just stares at this friend that he’s known for as long as he can remember in disbelief, and Lucy reads all of this on his face. “Oh no.” Is what he finally musters, and Lucy determinately states, “I need you to come with me to the police station, we need to clear this up.”

Rami makes himself as brave as Lucy in this situation and replies, “Okay, let me go get my glasses – and maybe some clothes, and we’ll be on our way.”

Lucy Dale and Rami Bradshaw dash out into the brisk early morning air, if he wasn’t awake before Rami sure is now. While he pulses with newfound energy brought on by the chill of autumn he ties a scarf around his neck and asks, “Does the Council know about this yet?”

Lucy looks back at the doorman and brings a finger to her lips, shushing Rami.

The company in which she and Rami are employed to provides to them a town car that is ready for them when they step out of the hotel and then directly into the car owned by the company, owned by the Council.

“I have yet to contact them myself,” says Lucy once they’ve settled into the car, “but I most likely Tim is already on top of it.”

“Have to have faith in the man,” says Rami as he turns to look at Lucy and she stares into his brown eyes behind his glasses, “but do you think that maybe this is out of his bounds.” He honestly asks her.

Lucy already gave the directions to the driver over the phone in Rami’s hotel room while he was dressing, and while they glide through the sparsely populated roads that glisten in the wee hours of the morning, she looks out the window, and thinks for a moment.

She turns back to Rami when she has her answer, “It’s Tim’s job to figure these things out, it’s what he’s paid to do,” She then adds, “and it’s our job to trust him.”

. . .

Here is where I am stuck, so what should happen next? What shouldn’t happen next? Well, we have the first 3 pages of chapter one and I am quite happy with myself.