When the Devil Cries by Angel E
March 1st 1989,
Another quiet, dark night- almost too quiet for Letumvale city. The usual rusty, rundown cars sped through the silence of the street, slicing through any reassurances left of this damned city. Midnight, yet there’s no crime, hell on Earth, but there’s no demons. I know this city, and there’s something going on beneath the abyss. Something begging me to uncover. The wet leaves crush under my brown, heavy boots, trash camouflaging under the dark brown hues- it hasn’t rained in days, not since that night. Not since any of those nights, I suppose. It only seems to rain when something so gruesome happens that lucifer has no other choice but to cry. I turn a corner into an alleyway, risky, but anything in this city is risky. Besides, there’s more peril going into your local store. The police station is hidden, I think it’s inane, but the concept of police believing they can fix Letumvale is even more so.
The lights are on, barely, but they’re on. Ms Dyre is at front desk, I look past her, she doesn’t favour me so, and the feeling is mutual, though she seems to think she’s an enemy of mine. I have no enemies other than injustice and myself, what an egoist. The Commissioner’s office is the furthest away, if there was danger, it’d get to him last, even though he’s the most dexterous. He is Letumvale; selfish, dangerous, typical. Finally, I get to his door, not hesitating to open it. There are no secrets here, so no need to knock. Acrid and pungent, a cloud of smoke intrudes my nose.
“Commissioner,” I, growl. He clearly forgot he demanded I be here tonight.
“Detective Vane,” Commissioner Sanders drawls back. He leans back on his chair, belly round, hosting dangerous files that can kill. Dark flakes of ash inhabit his white, grey beard, and his brown glasses sit lazily on his rough moustache. Like the many of us, I’m sure he hasn’t seen a quiet night like this in years yet, maybe even half a decade.
“What did you need from me now?” I reply. Just recently, the LCPD had turned down my help, repudiating any offers to share notes, ideas. I knew the scoundrel would go back on his word.
“You know about the murders, the fake suicides that happen every month,” Commissioner explains, ‘we need your help, desperately. We have no lead, whatsoever, and with the serene nights, we may not even need to continue searching. Maybe the perpetrator is already gone.’
What an airhead.
A deep rage surges through my body; I can’t believe it. “Commissioner, one thing about the job is that you never assume. We’re going to start investigating now.”
If Sanders won’t do the job. I will.
As commissioner packs his bags, I take the opportunity to look around the office, dozens of newspapers litter the floor, adorning the once brown floorboards. How many sleepless nights had he spent here? Didn’t matter. The room is thick with dust, the cleaner was certainly kept out of here, due to the exclusivity of the case.
“Ready to go?” I huff.
“Sure am, Vane,” he replies.
Outside of the office, the police station is dark, lights turned off, not like how it was before. The underfunded station only has one light switch, how useful. Ms Dyre must’ve turned them off when she went home. We stroll cautiously through the station using commissioner’s torch, the smell of grime and death, growing more pungent as we prepare to exit into the hellish city. Like a sixth sense, my hand attracts towards the light switch at the reception, turning the lights on senselessly.
Oh heavens.
Dyre’s body hung limply, oh so lifeless. And right under our noses. The rope hung tightly, and she’s hovering over her beloved notebook, blood staining the neatly written notes and names. Sanders turns pale, like Dyre, like his soul is in another world. Crime is everywhere. But never under our noses however, never shadowing our backs, and never missing us by just a hallway. Hate is just enough to kill someone on accident, or on purpose. It doesn’t matter right now. Dyre…
A small piece of paper- an article sits by her notebook. An article like the ones on Sanders’ floor. In dark red… blood? Wrote the letter ‘S’. Whoever the killer is, thinks this is a fun game. In Letumvale nothing is ever fun.
But its March 1st . The third murder this year