Vortex of Death

All nights should be so cold, dark and devoid of life - dominate silence negating all else. Worries surfeiting, sorrows surfacing and melancholy ever present. Life has never been worth living anyway.

The shivering hand lifted up the black fountain pen and then, placed it back down again. The paper-carpeted floor only served to antagonize the entire situation. Another sip of the thick black coffee served to rejuvenate and stimulate the frozen mind. Outside, the thick fog thickened. The atmosphere was too perfect. The criminal record files piled up on the inspector’s desk – work, work and more work – never would it cease. The murder of Lucy Fernandez was still a fresh case. Neither any witnesses nor leads were present. It was still in its premature stages of development. A body, neatly rested beneath a cedar tree in Hamilton Park, covered with a thin layer of ice-cold snow with neither blood nor visible injuries present. Out there, the killer lurked, injustice triumphant.

The single soul rose from his comfortable armchair and lethargically dragged himself to the shut window. Looking into the foreboding emptiness before him, Darwood noticed a pale under-nourished figure staring back at him through the glass windowpane.

- to be continued -