Murder Suicide
Darkness. The light flickers in the dank corridor, marred with organic brown stains of dilapidated dry wall. The faded and frayed carpet beneath his feet stained by the alcohol spilling from the bottle. Muted sobs. Broken glass. A picture, happy people, torn in two by fate. Harsh music plays on, percussive heartbeats of despair itself. Rain splatters against the glass, creating shadows in an already dark room. He staggers toward the glass in a final testament of his resolve, hurling himself out, a final crescendo, and is heard from no longer...
The rain poured down, mingling with the dirt on the pavement, and the blood seeping onto the street as an apartment building loomed over the scene like a watchful guardian. Detective Franklin Lenox didn't have to work on Christmas, and he damned well knew it, but since his wife had left him and taken the kids, he had nowhere else to go, except back to the bottle. The brown, red mixture seeped toward him and stained his leather boots. He shook off the haze of half a bottle of Jack Daniels and glanced down at the scene. Not pretty, as usual. A young lieutenant sidled up to him, and Frank could tell, by the look on his face, it was his first field job. The queasy, nervous look on his face; "Figures, Christmas eve and they send me a boy" The scene had been taped up by uniforms already, and the curious, pressing faces of the crowd told him that there were no witnesses. He looked down at the body. It was curiously peaceful, for a guy who had a hole in his chest. Limbs were twisted beyond recognition, and his skeleton was pulp. Christmas was a common season for jumpers and Frank had seen another two today. The only problem was the hole in his chest. It was a through and through, the ribcage jutting outward like petals of a flower. This was no suicide, it was murder. He looked up at the building and spotted a broken window. He turned and the lieutenant hurried after him...
The apartment manager sweated profusely as he followed the detective up the dilapidated stairs to the deceased's apartment. "Didn't know 'im that well, I swear it..." He mumbled, "Quiet fellow, kept to himself y'know? There was this girl that followed 'im around, I ah, forget her name. 'Cept, she don't come around no more, y'know?" The young lieutenant was taking notes, and Frank was happy to let him deal with the red tape. Frank Lenox didn't get to be a top detective by taking notes. He felt the surroundings. Became one with them. That way he knew what was out of place straightaway. The dark, dank corridors, rotten walls and flickering lights spelled suicide nice and clear. This place was depression personified. "'ere we are, room 401." The manager took out the keys and opened the door with a creek. The one room apartment was dark. Musty wallpaper hung off the walls, and the streetlights outside gave the room an eerie glow. Rats scurried around the kitchen counter and a light flickered in the bathroom. Frank walked over to the window. Shards of glass hung off it, and looking down, was the body it had failed to restrain. The only table was crowded with liquor bottles and nothing else. Ripped pictures of a girl and the victim littered the floor. "Textbook suicide" Frank called out. "No guns anywhere though." Added the lieutenant. "Strange" thought Frank. But other cases needed his attention. As he left the apartment, a single scrap of paper caught his eye. He picked it up and eyed it over, but had no clue what it meant. It simply said:"1/6"...
Frank settled in the office for what seemed to be a rather bleak evening. Two drunken teens had just been brought in for drunken partying and he had to do the usual red tape.
"So, what are you teens in for then?" He asked.
"We didn't do no nothing" The larger of the two exclaimed. "We were just drinking and playing russian roulette and blasting music and stuff."
Frank sighed "They called the police because of that music, and russian roulette? Are you guys frickin nuts?"
"Yea, that kid upstairs hated our music, screamed at us a few times too. Then he showed up at our door today with our revolver and said we should play again."
"Again?"
The smaller one piped up, "Yea, we play russian roulette all the time, but with no bullets, to get ourselves buzzed. Its an ancient revolver see? Can't get bullets nowhere. 'Cept tonight." He sniggered.
"Tonight?"
"He showed up with our gun, we hadn't seen it for days. He screamed at us a good bit too, but we were buzzed as hell. He gave us our gun and left with a bottle o rum. So we tried the gun out the window and it actually fired! We were so stoned that we laughed." And with that the smaller one fell off his chair and lay still. "Hang on, where did you live again?" Frank asked, suddenly sharp.
"Room 301 at the Carter building, at Queens. Why?"
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