Standing over the body at the scene of the crime; an alley, dimly lit due to the setting of the Sun. We only saw about one or two people leaning out of their windows, it was the type of night that would give even the most curious man second thoughts. The air was cold but moved rarely, as if it preferred to avoid the alley like trembling prey staying clear of its predator. None of these factors deterred me.
The corpse was lying on the ground; arms crossed, legs contorted in an inhumane way, with skin dry to the bone. The victim appeared to be an upper-class gentleman but his pockets were full of blood-soaked tissues. Approaching the corpse sent shivers down my spine, a sensation that was until then unknown to me. My first thought was, "I'm not going to be having any food tonight..."
Harry, one of my most trusted friends, an alcoholic doctor and short in stature, followed by the guilt of an unknown crime, looked at me that night, with a disturbed shocked face giving him the sudden appearance of sickness. After circling the body examining it, getting a good look at the cut marks- one deep short one running beneath both eyes, then around their mouth- it could be concluded that the skin had been cut off in a hurry."It appears our gentlemen was stabbed." I said. I used my finger to get some blood and smelled it. "I estimate the time of death to be three hours before," I stated.
I was ready to take my notes to the station when one thing became understandable, this murder was not like the rest. This was the tenth in a series of murders in which the identity of the perpetrator had been a mystery ever since the first body was found. Given the silence of Harry, a man usually quite talkative, who on any other occasion couldn't form obvious sentences, I knew what he was thinking. A theory he has had for a few months. "Don't you dare mention it!" I exclaimed to Harry.
"My wife is not the killer! I've been married to her for five years now, and there is no way she could commit such a crime." He seemed to be fixated on his assumption. Was it a crazy theory? Yes, was it true? That's a different matter entirely.
At the end of the alley, just visible, stood a man dressed in a top hat, a long jacket with rich crimson lining on the inside. He stood there holding a sturdy polished cane that reflected whatever light entered the alley at such a late time. Approaching the man, so I had a better view of his face, showed me that it was Wilfred, my butler, a man of questionable age with sunken dark eyes. "Did you see what happened here?" I asked finally feeling the effect of the cold.
"Yes," he replied, "But I need to talk to you about something more important. 'The Mrs.' wants to see you," he said handing me a note. there was an awkward silence as I read the letter. It said, "Did you see what I did..? Somebody owes me five pounds."
I approached the house at the end of the street and immediately opened the brown wooden door. I neatly placed my coat and hat on the coat rack, and quickly approached the living room and stood in the doorway just in reach of the warmth radiating from it. There, I saw facing backwards to me, my chair, a single vermilion leather seat. Sitting in it was my wife, the lovely Mrs Turner in a long flowing deep red and black dress with her hair tied back, her skin was a golden-brown.
She walked up to me with a wide grin on her face and asked me, "Are you expecting any company?"
I responded with the longevity of the day taking hold, "Only yours, my love. It is, after all, our five-year anniversary, and it would be rude to have anyone else around." This seemed to make her happy as she was positively glowing when she said, "I'll get the good stuff then." She came back about five minutes later, holding a bottle of rum from the cupboard and carried it to the living room.
After she had poured both of us a glass, she sat down and asked, "So what did you think of my work?" She smiled as she already knew the answer. She gestured towards my wallet for the five pounds in the letter. "So what was his reaction?!" she inquired excitedly. I described what Harry did upon seeing the body, the way it made him visibly, and on a few occasions, audibly sick. She then erupted in a psychotic laughter to the point where breathing became near impossible.
When she stopped about twenty-five seconds later there was more important news. I explained, "A few days ago, Harry found your lipstick at the scene of the crime; he now thinks the killer might be you, every time he asks to investigate I say he can't, but that won't work for much longer." I said this passing her the lipstick noting the blood stains on the grip and her name on the lid, "If you're going to commit a crime don't bring anything with your name on." She was ignoring me as she had previously stated she wanted to keep work and home separate.
"Would you like me to get one of the bags?" However, before I could respond, she had rushed off to the basement and grabbed a bag label with the name Damon Wells. The bag was clear, made of plastic and full of a thick red substance, I would rather not think about.
Leaning back in my chair just enjoying the heat from the fire made it almost impossible to stay awake, but I had a pleasant conversation with my wife about her next victim. She had planned for it to be my boss Percival Montgomery, but the honesty of that was a bit questionable. Even if it was true, I hated the guy so his death would be a blessing.
I made my way to the bedroom with Mary and lay in bed. Mary looked at me and asked, "do you think we should have children?"
"Why rush? We're still young."
"We're not getting any younger and your already thirty-five."
"If we are still a couple by the end of the year I will consider it." She had brought the lipstick upstairs and was looking it reflecting in the candlelight. "I hope you have some kind of plan." She opened the drawer next to the bed and put it in. "I recommend you stop killing. Just for a few days, two weeks at most." She laughed "good night."
"Good night." And then she fell asleep.