Notes on a Murder

[ShadowSpectre]

The rain patters gently against the skylight of the apartment, and a frigid, October breeze caresses your face. You're not really sure why that bothers you. It might just be the fact that you're a little afraid of heights, and you know it isn't nearly this cold at ground level. Being in a flat with one wall broken through on the top floor of a tower block does that, you muse.

You shake yourself a little. You're fairly certain that the weather was the same at the estimated time of the incident. Before you is a trail of blood that leads straight to the hole in the wall, through the bricks and cement insulation. You can see smears over the edges of the hole from where you stand; from this angle, it almost looks as if someone (read: the victim, one Lieutenant Terence Gait (retired), aged 58) was dragged through. The remains were found on the ground nearby; the forensics team have sent someone, by the looks of things, with a report; a man in white overalls, hood down, safety mask removed. He's stood outside the apartment, idling.

You stand in Lt. Gait's flat, in the living room with a rumpled couch to your right, facing the LCD television mounted on the wall to your left. At your feet is the tiny card stand denoting the beginning of the trail of blood that leads to the wall ahead and the hole. Beyond the couch is the door to leave the flat and the man in the white overalls. Behind you is the door to the single bedroom and the en-suite bathroom, and the door to the kitchen.

You are Detective Michael Duke. What do you do?

[Ex-Rumia]

Duke: Follow the trail of blood out the hole.

[ShadowSpectre]

You step a little aside, trying not to contaminate the scene any more than you already have. Forensics have already given the room a once over, but it helps to keep with protocol. The trail does lead straight to the hole, and it goes up the wall to it. There are deep gouges in the wall, spreading outwards and leading from the approximate centre of the hole, each crusted with blood. They look like clothing smears, dragged up and through the hole in the wall. Straight out into the sky besides the 32nd floor.

You feel sick. Stupid acrophobia.

[Ex-Rumia]

Are there any witnesses nearby that have been questioned? If not, shall we check if there are?

[ShadowSpectre]

You stand at the hole in the wall, next to the trail of blood in the living room, with a rumpled couch to your right, facing the LCD television mounted on the wall to your left. Beyond the couch is the door to leave the flat and the man in the white overalls. Ahead of you is the door to the single bedroom and the en-suite bathroom, and the door to the kitchen. Asides from the man in white, who seems to be getting a little restless, there aren't any other people that you can see. You arrived at the scene about half an hour after the first officers got here, and it's likely they're all working with neighbours and nearby businesses to find witnesses.

You wonder why you're asking yourself rhetorical questions. And when you started using “we” as the first person pronoun.

[PureQuestion]

Turn the TV on to see what channel it is set to.

Also, see what the guy in the overalls is getting worked up about.

[ShadowSpectre]

You can’t seem to find a remote control anywhere to work the TV, so you step up to it and turn it on at the main controls. After a slight ticking particular to LCD TVs as they turn on, a picture appears onscreen. A moment later, the sound cuts in: “… since last week. Currently, forty six coalition soldiers have died in the conflict. A car bomb has gone off in the militia held capital of Kenya…” You turn the television off at that. The news is nice, but you prefer to keep investigations in their separate little boxes. It appears that the last thing Mr Gait watched was the news; when that last time was is unclear.

You then turn to the man in overalls, stepping over the blood and making your way to him. The man’s hair is a dark brown, and it’s curled close to his head He’s about your height, and seems fairly young. He notices your approach, straightening up. “Detective, Frank Gileswood, I’m from forensics downstairs, uh, we’ve got a few reports for you to read about the, uh…” He shuffles awkwardly, turning pages on a clipboard he’s holding. “Victim? Casualty sure as hell fits this.”

“Victim?”

“Mmm, you know, standard procedure and whatever. It’s what Dr Robertson’s calling the poor fuck,” he adds, sighing slightly. “I mean, Jesus Christ, there wasn’t much of him left when he hit the floor, we were trying to do sampling of... I mean, God, just broken bones, random body of muscle, mostly shredded on fuckin' impact, just… ugh. I envy your job, Detective, trust me, better'n...” He shudders, waving as he leaves the scene. You hear a slight ping and whirr as the elevator opens to accept him.

[PureQuestion]

Carefully examine the layout of the room. Additionally, check the other rooms for anything out of the ordinary.

[SnipeHeart]

Be sure to also note the surroundings in both of the rooms, out of the ordinary or not.

[ShadowSpectre]

You turn back into the living room, rubbing your chin. The living room itself seems to be a decent one; for what you imagine an old retired Lieutenant to be, he has taste in interior design. The walls are a pleasant brown, reminiscent of chocolate milkshake, and the wall with the television has wallpaper with brown and gold floral designs. It works well. The sofa’s there in front of the television, and to your left is a dresser, on which are house keys, a stack of letters and a digital watch. Next to the dresser is a shoe rack with several pairs of shoes; most are polished black, but there are also a pair of trainers and a pair of hiking boots. Above the dresser is a picture of Gait in his uniform, sat before a bright, proud flag, smiling confidently, unknowing of his grisly end.

The floor is hardwood, so there aren’t carpets or rugs under which things could be hidden. You’re glad; the last rug you overturned smelled of sick.

The next room you enter is the kitchen. There’s a worktop that lines two walls of the room with cupboards overhanging, and a breakfast bar in the middle. To one side is a large fridge-freezer. Rifling the drawers reveals that Gait appeared to be an enthusiastic cook; his drawers are lined with cooking equipment, knives, whisks, rolling pins, meat hammers and the like. There’s a window that looks out over the inner city; it’s a sight that makes you chuckle a little. Somewhere over there is your own flat. You murmur to yourself, “I can see my house from here!”

A scan of the worktops indicates nothing new. A search of the cupboards above the worktops shows that Gait liked his tinned food; there’s an awful lot of it, all of it in date. You know around about when these would have been sold, you’ve a few of these brands at home, and know when they were sold. It wasn’t too long ago, so evidently, Gait’s been getting things from the outside world.

You leave the kitchen and move into the bedroom. It’s fairly compact, with a double bed and a pair of floor-to-ceiling cupboards, in which you find are his clothes. There’s a wardrobe, too; in it are clothes, and on it are a few pens, a small, fat wooden figurine, a photo frame with a faded picture of a younger Gait with several brothers in arms in Afghanistan, a wallet, a few coins and a tissue box. Nothing brilliantly unusual. You return to the living room.