Home > Uncategorized > Day One Hundred and Twenty-two: Unheard Help

Day One Hundred and Twenty-two: Unheard Help

Abraham Barcroft sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands and yelled as loud as he could. “It was my brother, you morons!”

None of the police officers noticed. They were all busy taping off the scene, taking photographs of the body, and swabbing for DNA wherever they could find it. The room was a mess – broken glass everywhere, a horrible olive green carpet that was now stiff with dried blood, along with the bloodstains on the wall and ceiling. A small army of people were making the room a lot more crowded than it had ever been, and that was part of what was getting on Abraham’s nerves.

The other part, of course, was that it was his body that was lying on the floor.

It lay face-down, stuck to the carpet, still in his pajamas and a tattered brown bathrobe. His gray hair was flying out in all directions, and the side of his head that was visible was a broken, bloody mess. One eye stared out, a watery brown.

Abraham stood up, barely glancing down, and positioned himself in front of the lead detective, a fat man in a suit that probably fit him much better several years ago. “I don’t know what you’re all doing wasting your time here. I told you: it was my brother, plain and simple.”

The detective didn’t blink. Rather, he walked around Abraham to look at the body from another angle.

“Hey, Benes,” he called. A younger man came over, with dark skin and hair and wearing street clothes which just screamed “nondescript undercover cop.” He knelt next to the older detective.

“What’ve you – hey, that’s weird.”

“Yeah. I thought you’d like that.”

The young man slipped off the latex gloves he had been using to take fingerprints and put on a new pair. He gingerly reached out and started poking about in the crumpled mess that was Abraham’s skull.

“Hey, get your hand out of there!” Abraham said, grabbing Benes by the shoulder. The young man didn’t notice. “Hey, that’s not right – you shouldn’t be putting your fingers into a man’s brain like that!” He threw up his hands in disgust and took a few steps away, then peered back over his shoulder.

“Right here,” Benes said. “Looks like metal flakes of some kind? Hand me the tweezers and a bag.” Benes carefully removed tiny flakes of metal from the wound, looking at them in the dim afternoon sunlight that filtered through the window.

“So what do you think?” the older detective asked.

“Not sure,” Benes said, squinting at his fingers. “But I have an idea. Have you guys found a golf club around somewhere?”

The older detective stood up and gestured to two uniformed policemen, who started looking through closets.

Abraham crossed his arms and tapped his foot and sneered. It was so obvious – this was how they needed to find out? A fleck of metal? “You don’t need to show off,” he muttered to Benes. “I could have told you if you’d bothered to ask.”

“Another thing, Kohl,” Benes said. The older detective squatted down, with a little effort and careful balancing. “Look at the blood on the carpet – most of it’s under the torso, right? Great big pool of it.”

“And it’s never coming out,” Abraham muttered, scuffing his foot on the red-brown crust.

“But look at his head.” Benes pointed, and Kohl nodded.

“Not so much,” Kohl said. “So whoever did this to him-”

“Did it after he was already dead,” Abraham finished with him. “Are you people blind? Is it really that hard to figure out?”

The uniformed officers returned, holding a bent and bloody golf club. “It was in the garage,” one of them said. The other carefully avoided looking at the body.

“Good,” Kohl said. “Go take a few minutes outside, guys.” They nodded – one of them forced a weak smile – and left the room.

“So,” Kohl said, circling the body slowly. “Someone kills this poor bastard-”

“HEY!”

“And then takes a few extra minutes to beat him skull in and then hide the weapon?” Kohl shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense.”

Benes stood, his knees popping. “Yeah, well, people rarely do.” He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “I’m calling the M.E.,” he said. “Let them figure out how he died.”

Abraham pointed at his body. “A knife! To the chest! It’s in the garden, for God’s sake!” He stood by the open window and gestured wildly to get their attention. “Haven’t you people even been outside yet?!”

“They can’t hear you, man.”

He spun around and looked out the window. Standing a few feet away was a young man, well younger than he was. He stood in the sunshine in cargo shorts and a faded t-shirt that read “Han Shot First,” and looked up through an unruly mop of blonde hair. “You’re dead, Jim,” he said.

“What?” Abraham stepped forward and grabbed the young man by the front of his shirt. “What are you talking about, dead? You’d better start talking sense, or…”

The young man looked at him, and then very pointedly looked over Abraham’s shoulder. Abraham turned around – it was his house, with the pale green siding he’d had installed a decade ago and the ever-growing forsythia bush that his wife had planted below the window. He turned back to the young man. “I don’t have time for your nonsense, kid,” he said, letting go.

“How’d you get outside, Abe?” the young man asked.

“What?” Abraham gestured vaguely. “I went out the front door and circled around, how the hell else would I do it?”

The young man grinned, and it just made Abraham want to grind his teeth. “You have a lot to learn,” he said. “C’mon. Forget the meat puppet in there and let’s get moving.”

Abraham looked back at the window. “But… but my brother…”

“He’ll be here soon enough,” the young man said. “Sooner or later, they all show up over here.” He held out a hand. “I’m Danny. Welcome to the other side.”

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