Bloody Valentine’s

Dammit! I should be home with my wife-to-be right now. I was, just a few hours ago. She is drop dead gorgeous, just like the girl I’m staring at right now. The difference is that this girl had dropped dead, literally. And it was not an accident, that’s why I’m here.

            “Frenchy?” my boss had called me in the middle of dinner. Laura and I were in one of those fancy restaurants, and I was just about to propose to her (as soon as I got up my nerve that is)! Of course I had to take the call. I’m the only detective in town qualified for murder cases.

            “What the hell do you want Damien? It’s Valentines Day! And you know I’m in the middle of dinner with my girlfriend! This is the night I was planning to propose to her!”

            “I’m sorry Frenchy, but we’ve got a big case. A young girl, about 20, was murdered.”

            “Alright, I’m on my way.” With a sigh I hung up and went back to my Laura. Her beautiful green eyes were pleading with me not to go, but I had to.

            Now I regret it so much it’s not funny. I should be staring into loving, warm, living green eyes. The eyes I love to fall into; smelling the delicious lilac perfume that Laura loved so much.

            Instead, I’m here, starring into the cold, lifeless brown eyes of Rosalie Dangerfield, smelling the hideous odor of dried blood, mixed with the sweet scent of roses. What madman would do this? And on Valentine’s Day no less!

            Almost in echo of my thoughts, Damien Porterfield, the police chief (as well as one of my best friends), walked up behind me. “I know, it’s shocking. She was so young, turned 20 a few days ago. And now she’s dead; the rest of her life…gone…” he snaps his finger “just like that. It makes me hate my job.”

            “I know what you mean.” I replied, giving him a withering look. “I was supposed to propose tonight; instead I get to snoop around a dead girl’s apartment!”

            “I’m sorry about that, but there’s nothing I can do. My hands are tied.” As if to verify this fact he takes out his handcuffs and places them loosely over his wrists, and slides his hands back out.

            “Too bad you can’t do that for this case.” I say jokingly.

            The crime scene is so peculiar. It seems that this was almost a loving murder! The murderer had been so careful. Rosalie was lying perfectly, as if ready for burial.  Her soft white hands folded over her small chest. She would have been a lovely girl; medium height, petite, with soft dove-like skin. There were even roses scattered around her, forming a peculiar shape; 32 long stem red roses, dipped in the girl’s blood, and in the shape of a heart. Why would the attacker do something as odd as that?

            I listened as Damien filled me in. The girl was supposed to be meeting her boyfriend tonight, but when he came to pick her up he found her like this and called 911. The boyfriend was being interrogated over in the corner. Her mother was dead, and her father was at home. There were only three things that were strange about the apartment (other than the obvious fact that there was a dead girl lying in the middle of the grey-blue shag carpet); the roses, a teddy bear without a head (found in the girl’s hands), and a 3x5 photograph that was torn and spattered with blood.

            Everything else seemed normal. The room wasn’t very big. There were no signs of forced entry (so whoever did this was someone she knew), nor were there any signs of a struggle. The girl had been murdered relatively cleanly. Shot at pointblank range.

            “The boy checks out.” Said a new cop I had not met before. “He was out with friends doing some last minute shopping for Valentine’s when the girl was murdered.”

            Great, now I’ll be away from my Laura for even longer! Although I suppose I shouldn’t complain. After all, at least Laura is alive. Time to get moving I suppose.

            First I have to talk to the boy. He may have checked out with the cops, but I’m a trained detective. I’ll double check his story, then work my way from there.

            “Hello. John Quincy isn’t it?” I say as kindly as I can.

            “Hi,” comes the devastated reply. His voice is hollow and empty. Like a pit of despair in which echo the screams of a thousand lost souls.

            “My name is Frenchy Logan. I’m a detective, and I want to ask you some questions to help in the investigation.” I tell him, not being cold, but not being too warm either. It’s important to maintain a bit of distance.

            “Sure,” he says. He’s still so devastated. He doesn’t know up from down, or a donkey from a duck. His hazel eyes are bloodshot, looking almost like a severe case of pink eye. I can smell the salty tears that roll delicately off his gaunt face. He looks haunted, as if some poltergeist had been terrorizing him throughout the night.

            And so I began my relentless questioning.

            “You didn’t see Rosalie today?”

            “No.”

            “Do you know who did?”

            “No.”

            “Have you and Rosalie been fighting?”

            “No. We were happy. I asked her to marry me a few days ago, and she said yes. We were going to tell her father tonight.”

            “Does her father like you?”

            “Not particularly, but he doesn’t like very many people. He doesn’t think anyone is good enough for his daughter.”

            “Do you think she would have told him about this before you two went to him together?” I’ve seen cases like this before. The boyfriend is devastated (or at least pretends to be) and tries to throw it off on someone else.

            “I don’t know. Possibly. But what does that have to do with her murder?”

            “Plenty, plenty” I assure him. Now it’s time to lure him into a trap. If he is guilty he’s likely to put it off on the father. After all, the father doesn’t like him.

            “Do you think the father could do something like this to his daughter?”

            “NO!!!! He loves his daughter. He may be an ass, but he’s not a murderer!”

            “Alright, thank you for your time. You’ve been a big help.” Well that was not helpful. I thought for sure this boy would have done it. Time to go over the clues now.

            “Alright Logan, what have you got for me?” Damien asks a few hours later.

            “A large bag of nothing,” I reply. “The boy checks out, and I can’t make heads nor tales of these clues yet.”

            “Well, keep at it. The mayor wants this case solved as soon as possible. Apparently, his niece was close friends with this girl. Spent a lot of time together, and he doesn’t like the fact that someone so close to his family got hurt.”

            Great! Just what I need, some big shot politician breathing down my neck… “I’ll do my best chief, that’s all I can do for now.”

            “You’re a good man,’’ Damien says slapping me on the back, “and an even better detective. I’m sure you’ll have this case rapped up in no time.”

            So I go back to examining the clues. Thirty-two long stem red roses; not of major significance, except for their shape. So whoever did this had to have been close to her; for one thing they laid her out so lovingly, even placing her in the midst of a heart. But also because of the roses and number themselves. The cop who had first interrogated the boy discovered that 32 was her favorite number (she was superstitious and believed that 32 was her lucky number) and that long stem red roses were her favorite flower (also interesting was that those are considered to be a symbol of love along with the heart they formed). There was no struggle either, so that ruled out the possibility of a random murder, or psycho killer being on the loose.

            No, this sick bastard didn’t do this randomly. This was planned, and it definitely has some meaning behind it.

            Next, the teddy bear. The boy had bought it for Rosalie a few days ago (after being unable to win it at the county fair). The head was torn off, this pointed to the boyfriend and Rosalie having been fighting. But the boy said they had not been. Of course you can’t trust what people say. Particularly in a murder case…someone’s always lying…trying to cover their tracks…but who?

            The final clue, a blood stained picture. It’s torn, and it’s hard to make out the picture. The boyfriend is in it. That’s for sure. His face is very clear, and there’s someone with him. But it’s hard to make out who it is. Judging from what little I can see from the picture it’s a girl. Maybe the boy is smarter than I gave him credit for? All signs point to the boyfriend as the murderer. With the exception of the interrogation. But then that can always be faked… Rosalie probably caught him cheating on her, and when he found out he killed her. But he then regretted it, and the placement of her was simply his sick and twisted mind at play.

            It was that simple, case closed. I was about to tell Damien to book the boy, but then I noticed something peculiar. The boy was smiling and laughing, but the picture was blurry. Not like it had been taken on purpose, more like it was done by a spy or private eye. It was out of focus, almost like it was taken without the subject’s knowledge.  That’s it! I turned the picture over. There was some writing on the back, I couldn’t quite make out. But one of the words I was sure said “hate”.

            “So it may not have been the boy?” asks Damien.

            “No, the picture is more like that of someone who was spying on them…”

            “Hmmmm….So have you gotten anymore leads?”

            “No, but I know where to go next.”

            I may be the only detective working with the police force, but there was one other private-eye… Darien Shertfield. Shertfield and I had gone to school together, and later went our separate ways. This picture had him written all over it! Literally, on the back (after some careful cleaning) the forensics team discovered a special insignia that private-eyes imprinted on their photos (just for the credit of having taken them). I felt sure that he could give me what I needed.

            “Well, well, well…isn’t this a delightful surprise.” Shertfield never was one of my favorite people. He always had an eerie drawl to his voice that sent shivers down my spine. But all in all he was a good enough person.

            “I need you to tell me who you took this picture for.” I say to him. I’m always quick and to the point when it comes to Shertfield. If I’m not, I’ll be stuck playing some of his cat and mouse games for hours. But I didn’t have much time. The crime trail was growing cold, and the mayor wanted answers.

            His eyes went wide, almost flinging off his pale eyebrows. “You know I can’t just do that! I have confidentiality laws that…’

            “The girl in the picture has been murdered.” I cut him off. If it were possible for his brows to go any higher they did then. His face contorted and twisted, in both furry and apprehension. One of his clients was a murderer, and he could be held accountable.

            “Let me see the picture.” He says quickly, snapping his jaw shut from where it hung loosely at the floor. I hand it to him and he makes a quick study of it. “Yes, I remember this man. I was asked to trail him some months ago. Let me see…”

            He dug quickly into one of his filing cabinets (Shertfield always was very organized). Soon he emerges with a manila folder. A quick shuffle through, and he has the name of the man who asked him to follow the boy.

            “Dan Dangerfield. He asked me to tail the boy for a few days. Said he suspected he stole something from him. The girl in the picture turned out to be his daughter (I found that out because she was always with him, and I thought that would be of importance).”

            After a bit more questioning and getting his statement I take my leave of Shertfield. “Thanks Darien. You’ve been a big help.” I tell him as I leave.

            I flip out my cell as I leave Shertfield’s office and dial Damien. “I’ve got him. It’s the father. He hired Shertfield to follow Quincy. Bring him into the station, and I’ll be there in less than an hour to question him.”

            When I get there Mr. Dangerfield is sitting at a small desk in a purely white room. No posters, pictures, black or white boards, nothing. Just four blank walls, a desk, two chairs, and a light.

            “What’s going on here? My daughter is dead! And you drag me down here like I’m a suspect when I should be at home grieving!” His eyes looked dry, perfectly brown, no tear trails or bloodshot eyes. Yes, this is the murderer.

            “We know that, and we’re sorry for the disturbance. But the murderer has yet to be caught. No one fits the evidence, and we want to make the streets safe again. So we have to ask you to cooperate for a short period of time. Then you’ll be free to go mourn your loss.” Like that’ll happen. He’ll be easy enough to crack, he’s already given himself away.

            “What do you mean? I’m sure John did it. He’s always with her. And he’s not a good person (my gut tells me so). I bet he’s been cheating on her or something!” his gruff manner was definitely not right somehow.

            “He checks out. He has a fool-proof alibi, and the evidence doesn’t point to him.” My voice was cool and calm. Matter of fact. But my eyes held the accusation I felt. I never have been able to conceal anything in my eyes. That’s when he broke.

            “That’s not true! He’s lying, and he’s got some of his buddies in on it!” his eyes held the panic his voice didn’t show.

            “We’ve checked them, they aren’t lying.” My voice was sympathetic, but detached. I couldn’t let him know that I was onto him; not yet.

            “You’re wrong! I…I…I saw him on the way to her apartment!” his voice was rising beginning to shake.

            “How would you know? You were at home all night, remember? You told us so yourself. I have it right here in my notes.” My voice was steady, with a hint of accusation. Now he was in my trap, and I wasn’t about to let this murderer escape.

            “No!” the look on his face told me all I needed to know; one of shock, disappointment, and understanding. He had been caught, and now he was cornered. “I…I… I didn’t! How could I be so stupid? I was so careful!” his voice cracking, and tears spilling over. “He would have hurt her!” his last ditch effort. His plea of innocence, a concerned father doing what he thought was right. After all, it was only the little murder of his only daughter. “He was a horrible guy, I had to do it! To make him pay! To protect her…” His sobbing cut off his wailing.

            Turning around I open the door, “Book him.” Now I can go home to my Laura. My lovely Laura, the woman I will marry.