Young Mysteries By Sophie S
Chapter 1, before
7.7.1963, New Addington Police Station, England
Paris’ hand found their gun in its usual pocket, and pulled it out, the cold, cold metal a welcome reassurance on their sweaty, hot palms. This was it. One of the criminals were in the room: they’d set a trap and the bait had been fallen for. The slightly askew door was the golden snitch they’d finally caught after all these years of painstaking investigation. The murders were so random it seemed like were unconnected, uncoordinated. But the attacks were all cast upon the same school class who’d bullied the immigrants. It’d taken months of fortnightly interviews to coax the right information from the only victim to have survived an assault from the murderer, one with severe head trauma who was still in rehab. Paris couldn’t wait to make the culprits rot in prison. Being picked on wasn’t an excuse for murder.
Paris’ hand met the doorframe, and they tried desperately to steady their breathing. The on light from inside the room was a beacon of distorted hope, the yellow tint pouring into the dim corridor. Their fingertips dug into the wooden wallpaper panelling and listened to the heavy breathing coming from within, along with the distinctive sound of footsteps- usually heavy, but trying to be quietened- on floorboards. The desk draw was opened, and documents were scattered. Paris winced at the sound of important files being chucked to the ground. A worthwhile sacrifice to catch the villain, though. The muttering was low and gruff as he went through a stack of paper, presumably set on stealing the evidence of the letters between his accomplice. Paris hadn’t figured whom that was yet- codename klamca, but interrogating once here already would be a great start. The pride of how great this had all gone was a fireplace in their heart compared to the cold which was now nipping at their sweat. There was no other exit out their office, not even a window, as that onlooked the reception area where-
“Masz ładny uśmiech, detective.”
Oh.
And with that, Paris was knocked to the ground with a clean swing by the man behind him.
~
THUD.
Detective Davies crouched below the barred window, his breathing slow, mechanical, as quiet as he could make it without hitching every second inhale. He nearly jumped up from the noise, but that would’ve blown his hiding place. He’d suggested on staying back incase things went sideways, but this didn’t seem like ‘sideways’ yet. He risked a glance through the window, but the criminal was still sifting through the desk. What was the worrying addition was a new person and a blond, muscular, distinctly knocked out- Paris. Paris was on the floor, being tied up by this new second criminal.
“Na zimno?” The original asked, finally turning around.
“Yes. As stupid as the rest. Czy oni naprawdę myślą, że tak łatwo nas złapią?”
It was a European language for certain, one Davies did not understand. The S’s weren’t pronounced as s’s and the st was over pronounced. It was something slavic… he cursed himself for being so limited on language, and for thinking Paris had had this situation under control.
“Where’s the dowód?”
“Pocket.”
“Co?”
“kieszeń.”
“Ah.”
Davies sneaked towards the door slowly, gun slipping out of his jacket pocket, unnervingly as naturally as someone would kick a stone beneath their feet on their walk home. Davies wasn’t a young fool like Paris. He crouched just outside the doorway, probably just as Paris had done, unknowing the accomplice had been right behind them.
He peaked in once more, needing to be sure it was safe to attack the two. They weren’t armed and seemed preoccupied with snickering amongst themselves in their mother tongue. They wouldn’t try any funny business with Paris if he was waving his pistol around.
He took that back. They were armed.
Mr. Newcomer had a nozzle to Paris’s skull faster than Davies thought was possible, and the gunshot echoed through the building.
A second hauntingly echoed it, into the accomplice’s heart.
~
Mr Davies lounged back in his chair, smoking his cigarette with a placid smile on his face. He didn’t look back on that morning with fondness, but couldn’t label it with grief. It was a grey sort of neutrality, watching Paris’s corpse be dragged off the scene and the original murderer be stuffed into a cell once Davies had restrained him. It had perhaps been for the better. They’d been killed before they could come out as non-binary, as transgender. Who’d trust a gay police man? Who’d trust the partner of a gay policeman? Davies took a long huff, trying to muster up sadness for the incident. He couldn’t, only pity. They’d been a good kid when all was said and done.
He sat up and snubbed the butt onto the table and stood up, watching the embers trying to continue burn and failing pathetically.
Alas, the station felt empty without a friend.
Thankfully, a new officer had already been sent to fill their place; Detective Young.