EVERY 31 MINUTES – Part 4


This is my NaNoWriMo entry Part 4.

Every 31 minutes someone is murdered . . .

Morning – New Years Day

As dawn dissipated the dark, over at the High Rise, police began taking photos, looking for and collecting evidence, and systematically working their way up the staircases to each level to find where the victim had fallen from.  By the position of the body it was obvious that he hadn’t just leaned over and fallen by himself.  He had landed too far out for that.  He had to have been thrown.

A pallid young Constable stood by the sheet-draped body beside an ornamental garden bed.  The ambulance drivers were impatiently waiting to take it away to the hospital morgue, before the heat of the day really set in.  The Pathologist and photographer arrived and began their work, so he edged away.

The Detective Senior Sergeant and Senior Constable were talking to the tall bearded Bikie who’d approached them on their arrival.  ‘I was working on me bike in me carpark over there, when I heard this horrible scream like someone’s mad about somethin’.  So I looked out n saw him fall the last coupla floors n hit the deck!  I couldn’t’ve reached him if I tried.  It was so quick, mate.’

‘Mad about something.  Angry?  He sounded angry?’

‘Yeah.  Sounded like it.  But it coulda been terror.  I ran over, took a look, tried not to chuck up me guts … sorry, tried not to vomit, then yelled out for someone to call an ambulance, and you blokes.’

‘What about that sheet ?  Was that you?  Or someone else?’

‘Nah.  Yeah.  That was me.  Thought I’d better chuck me ground-sheet over him, coz it wasn’t a pretty sight.  Anyone coulda seen him.  There’s kids live here you know.’

They took his contact details and headed for the stairs.  ‘Only other witness was a woman who was waiting for her husband to come home from night-shift.  She heard the scream, then saw him fall past her kitchen window.’

Looking up they caught the sudden movement of a head drawing back from the top floor railing.  Important?  Or just a nosey parker.

* * *

Mid morning, steamy and bright, the daughter was on the swings, with Dad pushing, while Mum stayed inside sleeping off the party, and the gatecrasher lay still on the front lawn by the gate.  ‘Who’s that man,Daddy?’

‘What?!  Geez.  Go see if Mum’s awake honey.’  Daughter packed off inside, he walked slowly over to investigate the sleeper.  ‘Wake up mate!’

So still.  So pale.  Bloody Hell.  He’s not asleep.  He’s dead!  Lifting the tatty old car rug he saw blood, under the body, around him, and on his back.  Cops.  Gotta call the cops.  He rushed inside to do so.  ‘Don’t panic honey.  Just keep the kids inside.  Put on the TV for them or something.’

Sirens in the street.  The first to arrive was a well-built, tawny-haired Detective Senior Constable, who having checked the body for signs of life, called in the Detectives from CIB in town.  He returned to the body, which he couldn’t search till it had been photographed, and seen to by SOCO.  ‘Have you moved him at all?’  Due to his extremely light, nearly invisible eyebrows and lashes, his gaze seemed unblinking which was disconcerting.

‘Nah I just pulled the rug down and saw the blood.  See there.  Then I ran inside to call you.’  The body looked familiar, but he couldn’t work out why.  He couldn’t see much of him.  His face was in the damp grass.

‘He’s been here since last night, you said.  When last night?  Early?  Late?  When?  And who put the rug on him?’

‘I did, in case he caught his death . . . . We all came out at midnight’ – the weird eyebrows raised – ‘my friends, my wife and I.  We were having a New Year’s Eve party.  We came out for another barbeque, and he was here then.  We all thought he was a gatecrasher from another party.  Too drunk to go home.’

‘I’ll need all your names.’  He supplied them, and their addresses as well.

‘I think I know this man.  I’ve only been here for 3 months, but he might work where I work.  It’s a big company – lotsa blokes go to lotsa different areas.  The others might know.’

‘Do you.  We might get some ID from him when we can search him.  I’ll check with you once we’ve done that.  Go on inside.  I’ll be with you after the DSS and the SOCO team have finished.’  More sirens.  Vans and cars filled the parking bays on the street, except in front of the house.

* * *

No-one went near the third victim.  No-one knew there was a third victim.  Only the neighbour worried, and fretted, afraid to go and knock on the door.  Afraid of her friend’s husband.

(C) Copyright Jud House  21/11/2011

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Poetry – BAOBAB SEED



Bulbous
phallic testicular
mottled brown furred like
kangaroo scrotum dilly-bag
pouch itchy worrying to touch.
Melon gourd nippled nurturing from
bottle-shaped mother tree limbs out-
stretched up-thrust that birthed the
black prisoner released from barred
womb. Carved painted infant rattle
shaken its inner seeds softly
clunk muffled by protective
shell impregnable
vessel.

 Does the mother tree swell with life
with water?

 Does the seed?

(C)  Copyright  Jud House  28/08/2006

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