The Cathedral Hill Cases, The trials and trevails of Monterey Bay

[jeremyconner]

The Cathedral Hill Cases.


November 27th, 1908.

The smell of rotting food and flesh festered from the alleyway behind Grace’s fish market, the grizzly scene of the most recent in a rash of murders to befall the quite fishing town of Monterey Bay; or more specifically Cathedral Hill.

You grow accustomed to the smells of old dead fish, but this was a different, and unmistakable smell that was hard to put into words aside from pungent, and putrid. It is truly a scent best left for the mortician. Sadly I have grown accustomed to its vile lingering. My association with the stench is simple I am a detective, and this is my case.

Before I get into that though, I must introduce myself. My name is Colin Hackney, and I am a detective of 6 years in the small, and usually quiet fishing town of Monterey Bay. You will notice I used the term usually, and that is with great care I use it, because queerly enough our quaint little town has become a festering settlement of murder, and suspect. Something you will surely not see advertised in the local papers as a selling point. It is something the local officials would like to keep hidden, these murders. I, however, feel that public safety is a higher benchmark to strive for, which is why I risk my job, and infinitely more precious, my neck, to document all the events of my cases, as I find them.

That’s where this dirty, worn little book, and much later, you, will come in to play. You see, I will likely suffer great penalty for this, but I feel the truth must be told regardless of the vigilante persona I am labeled with.

I hope you take these reports for their word.

This post has been edited by jeremyconner on Jan 22 2008, 04:05 PM

[jeremyconner]

November 28th, 1908

Though I may be callow in my police exploits, I am fairly certain that a spike in the number of people killed in a small township like ours is a cause for alarm. And yet, somehow I have been decidedly led to believe this is normal, that we have had no such cause for alarming our quaint and peaceful village with such morose details like murder, rape, and other such forms of the grotesque.

As I walked the scene of the crime, with its fish and human blood so thoroughly mixed that now it would be completely useless to try and discern the two, I pondered the misgivings the local magistrates and business owners had with my, as they called it “meddling”. This scene, grizzlier than its predecessors was one of such animosity that I dare not put it in my private journals. The poor fool, his arms are missing, which sadly will fall upon yours truly to locate, and return.

As I poked through the pockets for anything to identify the man I stumbled across a peculiarity that had frequented these scenes. I was, as of yet, able to identify with absolute certainty, but what I caressed between my thumb and forefinger was a soft gray powder. Its oddness lie in the fact that I have never seen such a substance in Monterey Bay, or anywhere I had lived for that matter. The residue that I held in my hand seemed a completely foreign body, but I had the strongest sense that it was, in some way, the crux of these murders.

[jeremyconner]

November 29th

I couldn’t leave well enough alone. After securing more of this mysterious gray material I pressed the chief, Eric Maddigan, to allow me to send it to San Francisco to have it studied further. Naturally his answer was no, what wasn’t so natural was the prompt suspension I received. Of course this would allow me the time I requested, but sadly, and in a perfect manner of a catch-22 I was now without license to secure the powdery substance. But I would not be deterred.

So I did what any self-respecting detective would do. I drafted into service the assistance of my fellow detectives that I trusted. I would allow them to leak me information, and paperwork from the file for future favors of the hushed variety. This would allow me the leniency, and freedom of working the case my way…albeit a completely secret, and monitored way.

Still, that leads me to my current position, hiding, waiting for my “informant” to come to the roof of this building in the Fisherman’s Warf district. Of course he is taking his time tonight, most likely to make me pay for asking him to help at all. This normally wouldn’t be so bad, but it is midnight, and it is snowing. Not light snow either, thick, wet, and heavy snow, all being driven down by strong bitterly cold winds. I can see the scene perfectly, and in the morning, after the snow has fallen all over the scene I will stubbornly come and see what useless evidence I can gather.

There is nothing better than these frigid Pacific winters.

[jeremyconner]

November 30th

Jack Finally met me on the roof last night, after I nearly froze to death. He had a wry smile as he gave me the file. It’s contents were much like the other scenes, with the exception of the powder. When I asked him about it he didn’t need to answer, his countenance explained it all, a stare as frozen as the water in the snow caked streets.

I asked if he had checked the pockets, and he gave me a long story about how the chief was with him, and that rummaging through the man’s pockets would look like something I would do, so he bypassed that part of the evidence recovery. I didn’t have the heart to explain to the young rookie that searching a body was all part of the process, and that he was more likely to get in trouble for not doing searching as opposed to searching. Poor kid.

One thing I found did help though, it was a bit of metal the man had beside him; the color of dirty gunmetal. The print had been pulled, but I still felt a glove would be beneficiary to my cause. As I perused the item with great care I realized that I had seen this type of metal before. It was a broken chunk of a tool, more specifically a crowbar. The piece was likely from its prong, which was the weakest point on it.

My one problem was that these could be found on any corner in Monterey Bay, which benefited me, none.

[jeremyconner]

December 4th

I woke up this morning with a rather unwelcomed, and very loud rapping on my door.

It was Eric. He came to tell me about another murder. Which meant several things to me. First was that I would need to get out in this bitter cold while nursing a hangover. (I didn’t say that these things I felt were altruistic). It also meant that the murders were happening with greater frequency, and purpose. The killer wanted to be recognized as much as I wanted to recognize them.

It also meant I was as trusted by Eric as I trusted him.

As we crunched through the snowy, frozen, grounds of the business district, Eric explained the information they had so far, which wasn’t a whole lot, but it was still helpful.

When we arrived to the scene it had already been combed over pretty well by the other officers with scavenger-like precision. This bothered me little, because most of them, in their police zealous, remained firm in their assumptions that I was “looking for trouble”. This meant all the things I would need from the body would still be attached, like a full pocket of powder, or a broken chip of steel. Only what I found today was infinitely more troubling to my case, and my life, than any of those other things.

As I searched through the pockets while Eric played lookout, I uncovered a more than ominous omen. In the pocket of Magistrate Johansson’s wife’s dress was a small, tightly folded bit of paper addressed to no one, but meant for me.

Its inscription was simply this; “Back off this case or you will end up like her, and the others”, written in smeared ink, and poorly spelled.

[jeremyconner]

December 7th.

As I sat inside Mickey’s, staring out the window at the falling snow, I wondered how long it was going to take Eric to show. If there was one thing about this experience I had learned, it was that Eric wasn’t punctual.

Still, he sent word that he had case breaking evidence, and at this point I was grasping for anything that would help me further my search for the killer, who had sense taken the life of another oligarch, and his wife. Each time they left a small, and indiscreet pile of gray powder, and as expected, no more letters.

I had left Eric to man the cases in person for me, with strict, and explicit instructions as what to look for, and where to look on each person. He hasn’t talked to me in a few days, and I expect now he has several helpful bits of information for my. Still that changed nothing to the fact that he is late, and I am sitting her in this smoke filled tavern, sipping at my usual gut rot.

After a long, eye-burning time, Eric had arrived. He entered the loud room with a slow, trepid pace, the type of pace that begged many questions, and even more stares. It wasn’t until he was right upon my table, and out of the thick, London fog like plumes of cigar smoke, that I saw why he limped. Eric, generally with a youthful face, was sporting a marvelously swollen, and broken nose, that tapered off into two deeply blackened eyes, and swollen lips.

Eric had been beaten, and quite severely.

[jeremyconner]

December 8th


Last night, at Mickey’s, Eric recounted his finds, and bruises. I dare not try to explain it with the reserve he did, but needless to say his dedication is something worthy of merit. A few of the local dock workers had noticed this wet behind the ears, straight from cadet school joke, was searching awfully hard around some of their own, and this naturally bothered them to a great degree. This resulted in Eric’s current state of resembling poorly packaged beef.

He however did not let on to what he was doing, who he was doing it for, or why he felt compelled to do it. He simply, and quietly took the abuse of the well-protected stevedores. A group that was seemingly outside the law when it came to protecting their little municipality, and as tender footed as Eric was, he was still smart enough to recognize this.

This doesn’t mean he didn’t fail in his diligence, in fact he was quite successful, and with him he brought an envelope full of goods. First was more of the powder, which I expected, and he knew this, which is why he passed quickly to the next item, a small bit of hair that did not match that of the victim, who, in this case, was a balding, white haired man. The long, blazing red tuft was a stark contrast to this completely. Next was something I feared. Another note, addressed this time, to me. Eric had one too, both of which gave a warning that was similar to the last.

As I sit here in my dingy room, staring out over the bustling, snow caked, holiday streets, I can’t help but wonder why.

Hopefully this bit of info will bring more to light.

[jeremyconner]

December 9th

There was another murder last night, a murder that changed everything. The killer was no longer searching to prove a political point. Now she was proving a more detestable, and personal point. As I stood in the pink, blood stained snow I stared down, remorsefully, at the lifeless mass before me. The bruises on the face, once a sign of his allegiance were now the markings of a young, promising life lost.

Eric had not been on the force long enough to deserve this, and yet I had lead this lamb to the slaughter. His face was more swollen than the day before, and the marks were new, longer, and much harsher. A blunt trauma was the major factor in his death, and it was also the clue to his death, yet I was, at the time, to blinded by my grief to see it.

I sadly searched the remains of my protégé for the usual evidence, which I found, including a much stronger note than before. I crumpled it up and pocketed the small bit of parchment. I scooped the gray powder into a bag, and I left, not being able to bear the sight any longer.

As I left, the men gave me solemn bowing heads, and hollow pats of comfort on the back. They had already called his mother, so I wouldn’t have to, for which I was half-heartedly grateful.

Right now I just wanted to be alone, at the bottom of a very large bottle of comfort.

[jeremyconner]

December 12th

As I walked back to my tenement from the funeral I could help sense the foreboding. I wondered fitfully about Eric’s parents, who were watching their little boy get placed in the ground. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. Not just because they were burying their baby, but because of banality of it all; hundreds of mourners all giving rehearsed sympathies while they were feeling the only true pain. In a few months they wouldn’t be worried about this anymore, sure they might miss him, but they had no real investment in Eric, not like his parents had, who would feel this loss for the remainder of their lives.

I knew this must be how all of the families felt, and I pondered, did the killer understanding the havoc she was wreaking on this once quiet town, care at all? The case, like never before, had taken on significantly more meaning for me, and maybe that was her directive, to make me understand. It was at that moment I made the connection. I sorrowful break in the case.

I pulled my coat tight to shield me from the wind swept snow as I raced clumsily the rest of the way home to my disheveled room, and stacks and stacks of files. All these murders may have started with a, what I once thought, completely unrelated murder.

[jeremyconner]

December 14th

After days of seclusion, drunkenness and toiling, I had finally found what I sought, so desperately. The events of Eric’s death had vexed me terribly, and I, with the greatest struggle, searched for the answers, not for myself, but for Eric, for his family, and for all the families who lost someone.

The grizzly scene came crashing back to memory like a torrent. It had been well over a year ago, several months before the first, in this long, and languishing journey of murder. A local man, the bank’s governing chairman, was murdered in brutal fashion by a local dock worker, who was set free after the judge deemed the evidence insubstantial. The event was chaotic, with a veritable uprising from the upper class.

As I sit here, numb, at the dirty, frost-covered window of my tiny boarding house room, I remember quite clearly the resulting events. Cries of rejoice came from the local fishers, as the papers were released on a crisp fall morning. The streets were littered with leaves from the park, and papers from the district. To visit our fair town you would have assumed a ticker tape parade was taken place, and for many this was. Regrettably, for others it wasn’t. The murder of one of the more respected members of town was atrocity enough, but the situation and manner in which it happened was a wretched, and despicable act. An act that was swept under the rug by a judge, who a man of less than estimable moral conviction, that fell prey to the pratfall of all men in his position, money.

It seemed that a great many dockworkers came to respect this murderous man, and simply could not see how an act so casual as murder could be a crime determinate of the gallows. It simply was unthinkable, and after many heavy-handed bribe, and threats, our dear judge found himself at the mercy of a city torn in two, a faction out for justice, and one out for blood.

Our dear judge let the man free, feeling his life more important than the infallible idea of justice.

[jeremyconner]

December 15th

I walked through the snowy night silently, hands tucked deep in my coat pockets. My footstep, which is this neighborhood would usually ring out, were muffled by the soft, white snow. It was like fontanel. I was also the reason I didn’t hear my pursuer sneak up behind me….

Before I get to that, let me tell you the events that lead up to this.

After reading the file over and over, wracking my brain, I decided to set out and find the widow of Harold Downs. Harold was the fisherman who murdered the Banker, and was subsequently set free, much to the disenchantment of the masses. Harold was later killed in a fitting, albeit brutal manner. That killer was never found, or searched for, for that matter.

I felt that in order to finally get to the bottom of all these murders, I would need to find Harold’s widow, who may hold the key to everything. So I set out on my endeavor.

I knew the neighborhood she used to live in, but as with most cases of the widowed, they usually move due to lack of money. Of course I spent the better part of this bitterly cold day searching for her, stopping at every grimy whole in the wall business in the district. The response I received was expected, but no less displeasing, as many of the locals looked at me with the greatest disgust, and animosity. It’s amazing I wasn’t in this predicament sooner.

Of course this leads me to where I am now, walking, alone, in the dark, in a very bad part of town, but hey, who would attack a police officer right?

That’s when I felt it, the cracking of my skull under the weight of cold, heavy steel. It didn’t last long, as moments like these never do. You see, the head, it can take a lot, but there is a point at which it just can’t take another jolt. I went to that place with no notice, or warning, and the last thing I remember, aside from the searing pain throughout my skull, was that cold, blanket of snow.

[jeremyconner]

December 16th

As I sat, tied to a chair, in a large, open building I tried in vain to figure out where I was. Nothing was familiar. There was a pungent smell that made it indiscernible, and aside from one small ray of dust filled light that might have been a million miles away, I was in complete blackness. My neck was hot and sticky, most likely from my own blood, but I couldn’t tell. The only sign that it was blood, aside from the neck, was the throbbing headache I had.

Occasionally I heard the hurried flapping of dozens of winged creatures. Their echo was deafening. I dreaded their flight. I feared the noise, I dreaded the dark, and I pitied myself for being so stupid.

Just when I didn’t think it could get any worse I was doused from top to bottom in water so cold that I dare say the Vikings of Norse legend hadn’t felt such iciness before. With the sudden, and rude awakening I was also greeted with the shrillest voice I’d ever heard. To this day I am still unsure whether it was a staged voice, or the shallow, breathless sobs were genuine, either way they haunt me deeper than my own regrets.

Then there was light, blessed, unfathomable light, basking over my body like the day of my birth.

[jeremyconner]

December 19th

I was so hungry, so thirsty, and so scared. It had been days since I had seen anyone. I feared the light now, not because I was so used to the dark, even though that was a factor, but because a form of terrible torture always preceded it.

The first day, it was only a test, a teaser for the masochistic behavior they were willing to indulge me with. I now wish it were simply freezing water.

The second time they unleashed this terror on me, I was burned viciously with god knows what, then drenched in freezing water. The next time I was stabbed, and the wound was cauterized, then I was drenched. This went on over and over, hour after hour (I assume they were hourly intervals, but I couldn’t be sure, I was far to delirious from pain and hunger to know), every time the subsequent punishment was worse than the last. Each time I was bathed in light, so strong that my pupils burned at its sight, my head throbbed from its presence, and my body waned under its foreboding.

Each time I suffered more, wishing I were dead, until finally it stopped. I could no longer register the pain. My body was in shock, mostly from the repetitive punishment, but also because it hadn’t eaten in so long, that it was simply to tired to care anymore. I finally fainted from it all.

I hoped I wouldn’t wake up, but I did, and in the most horrific way possible.

The building that had become my torture chamber would soon become my final resting place, my own crematorium, and my personal hell.

As I sat limply, tied to my death chair, I felt my pyre closing in. There was little I could do to escape this inevitability. I didn’t even fight it, how could I? I hadn’t eaten, or drank anything in days, and my body was far to battered to attempt movement.

Then I heard the most precious sound I had every heard in my life, the caterwauls of fire trucks. I was going to live.

[jeremyconner]

December 24th

Life is never more wonderful than when you’ve just barely escaped with it.

That is the one thing that crowded my blurred mind as I sat in my hospital room. Sure I could have thought about how lucky I was, or how angry I was, or even how vengeful I was, but at this moment none of that seemed to matter. Not while I was sitting in the lap of luxury being tended to like a king come back from war. No, I would never press my luck with such mundane and selfish thoughts.

Of course that is right now, later it will be invariably worse. I will be hounded by the hordes of those who wish to know every detail of my harrowing experience, and to be frank I don’t know them. Aside from blackness, and pain, I remember nothing.

I do however have a new found respect for life, which I can only assume is expected in moments like these. Sadly though, I have no known information to bring to this case. I guess it was a blessing in disguise really, because the relaxation is nice…

[jeremyconner]

December 27th

I spent that day with Eric’s parents. We all knew it was uncomfortable, and the air was palpable, but as it wore on the mood lightened as we, mostly them, shared stories about Eric over a warm, crackling fire they had made in the sitting room of their very cozy home. Everything in the house had such an inviting feel, from the walls to the few portraits that hung around. It all made you feel like you were one of them. In fact I felt as if I had lived here my whole life, the atmosphere was so friendly.

I could see now where Eric had gotten his looks as I stared, enthralled, by his father, who animatedly told a story about his son and a botched fishing trip. The resemblance was eerily uncanny. Despite the weary smile on his face, shrouded in deep wrinkles, you could tell he was a youthful man, who was just in a bad place, and who could blame him, he had lost his son.

His mother, a striking woman for her age, was relaxed in a plush high wingback, smiling cautiously trying to hold back the tears that threatened to streak her ivory face.

The fire danced with shadows across their faces as they regaled me for hours about their boy, and I couldn’t feel guiltier for taking him. Still it did my heart good to be there with them, because like I’ve said, I had no one.

It wasn’t until late that I left. As I opened the heavy wooden front door, I crunched out onto the frozen snow on the front step, quickly drawing my coat tight against the cold bitter ocean wind. The streetlights glowed with an ethereal incandescence as I trudged home, the wind biting at my face, and the memories soothing my brain.

That’s when I heard the screams.

[jeremyconner]

December 27th continued

I chased the valiant voice of apostasy my heart leaped. Here was my long awaited opportunity to find out who this murderous despot was. I rounded the corner clumsily on the frozen cobbles. My errant haste must have alerted the wretch, because when I came upon the garbage cans with great clatter, they were no where to be seen. A fresh set of tracks laid in the rouge blanket of snow gave direction, but I couldn’t chase, not yet. Beneath my excited limbs lay one of the most important victims to date, the mayor’s daughter. Her eyes were wide with pain and terror as she lay gurgling, unable to catch a breath.

I quickly leaned in, and with mouths clasped together, I helped her breathe. Her face was covered in the sticky, ferric smelling blood. Her heavy pulse was a good sign. Pulling away I screamed desperately for help. Her tears were washing the blood onto the cold, wet ground, staining its once unblemished surface. She grasped stupidly, fearfully, for my coat, and pulled me close, crying for help. I looked around, no one was coming, and I was growing anxious. I was starting to panic. My breathing became erratic, and my mind raced. I had to get her to safety, and to help, now.

I carefully scooped her up into my arms, and I shuffled to my feet in the slick, dark alley. Reeling from the extreme cold, and rapid loss of oxygen I stumbled backward into the wall, still managing my grip on this poor adolescent. Her sobs muffled deeply into my breast as I shuffled out into the luminous streetlights. No one was around. No one was ever around this late, not in this part of town.

My eyes darted back and forth, looking, searching for something, anything of help to me. Nothing was there, nothing but the cold, the snow, and the coming of death if I didn’t act fast. She was going into shock; her body quaked violently in my arms.

I darted for the first building I saw, a decrepit old hovel with a small light burning in a dingy cracked window. I tread carefully up its ice-coated steps and kicked the door loudly.

[jeremyconner]

December 28th


This next entry, still continuing from the last, is a bit of a cautionary tale.

I must preface by saying this, when saving a life, in a rough part of town, you tend to through all rationale out the window. In such cases you will make some stupid mistakes, just as I did.

When I kicked that door, I hoped for help, yet none came to me. So I continued my torrid assault on the creaky old wood. In moments my despair and adrenaline caught up with my kicking, and I smashed in that door. As I rushed in the old rickety building I was not met with open arms. I was met, rather, with fear and anger, and as the old woman swung a heavy bit of wood mightily at my face I only just managed to clear the girl out of the way before the timber smashed my head leaving my falling into blackness.

I came to only moments later lying in the snow with a very robust woman silhouetted by the dim light of the entrance where the door used to be. Her face was impossible to make out, but the way she stood gave clear indication of her intent, and that was to maim me beyond all comprehension for disturbing her sanctity. With quick, and unexpected speed the woman brought down her weapon again, this time with the power to kill, and not just immobilize. Luckily I was still had the sense to move.

I slid stupidly sideways, and back so that her pursuit would be chase; which would hopefully leave me well enough to talk her down from the towering temper she was in.

But as I looked back, she hadn’t given pursuit. She just stood protectively in the door, with the girl behind her curled up with fear along the wall.

I stumbled to my feet and tried to speak, but was quickly silenced by the old woman. She barked out orders like a major in the army would to his men, and my mission was to hunt down the person who did this. I would later ask her why she attacked me, and that answer will be told in another tale. Now however I was in pursuit of the degenerate who did this. And with a stroke of terrible luck I had managed to find the trail, but it lead to a part of town I would rather not go, especially this late at night; Tortilla Flat.

[jeremyconner]

December 28th still…

I stared, melancholic, at the frozen muddy way that lead to Tortilla Flat, a district of Monterey. It was a rundown, filthy little refuge to the worst kind of derelicts, and riff raff. I had only been there a hand full of times, and those times were never in the dark.

Still, there was no time for bellyaching. I had a job to do, and the tracks lead this way, and I needed to follow them.

The walk was agonizingly long, like something from a bad dream. The road before me, once slightly winding, and wide, muddy and frozen was now a torrent of ice, a jagged climb straight up into nothing, that seemed to never come. I was on a path to ruin, and I knew it. I marched silently along the side of the road, in the snow-covered grass; my footprints being covered quickly behind me now do to the heavy falling snow, a gift from god if I believed in such beings. Yet I stilled wondered.

As I crept along the house came into better view, small still, but lit up wildly, as was usual in this town. The night is when it came to life, excitedly, loudly, and violently. Shadows jumped all around like witched at a fire. I felt as if I had stepped into some Shakespeare play, witnessing something forbidden, and dangerous. I could see drunks staggering from house to house, falling stupidly into the snow, some got up, others stayed down, undoubtedly unconscious from more drinking than any human should do. I would have to wait, and to watch. It would be foolish to go in now, searching for danger in hell. So I crouched behind the biggest, thickest, most snow-covered bush I could, and I waited.

[jeremyconner]

December 29th

As I sat behind that bush, being buried in snow, every extremity on my body growing numb and blue, I had some time to think. Of course when you are trying not to freeze to death the things that run through your mind are pretty limited, as is the case. At first all I could worry about was the killer, then it soon became all about how cold I was, then about how wet I was, and finally, it was about how frozen I had become.

That’s when I saw her. She was creeping out of a rundown, well-lit house with several men, all sailors. Not a good time to approach her. I knew how drunk these men got when they were at port, and I knew how a sure thing spoiled would be my death. So I watched, and as they moved along the blanketed streets I followed, elusive. Any chance I could I ducked away behind a house, a tree, bush, or even the frozen ditch. By the grace of god the snow was very thick, and very wet, which kept my pursuit concealed quite nicely. There was nothing to be heard at all, save the drunkenness and sin that flowed from the houses like the stark yellow lights.

As we moved, their antics grew more dangerous, and their voices rose to levels of desperation, and aggression. I collapsed over a log and hid in silence, waiting for the eruption. I didn’t have to wait long.

A deafening boom rang out, and I lifted my head the smallest of amount to view the spectacle.

The lady was dead…my murderer was murdered. I stared in shock at the body, its final breath still dissipating in the sky, the body splayed out in the snow, which was turning redder by the second.

Before I could process the scene another boom rang out, and the log that protected me exploded into splinters, some peppering my face, blinding me momentarily as I was knocked back into the ditch. My face was bleeding; I could feel it, the warmth dripping down my forehead and cheeks. It dripped into the snow. I could hear muffled shouting. I was deafened. I sprang from my spot and sprinted for the tamaracks. I hoped to god that they would give me refuge.

[jeremyconner]

December 30th


It was well past midnight, I could barely tell because the sky was graying through the canopy above me. Long spires of light tore through the trees like swords through a sheet. They were welcomed. I was exhausted, frozen to the bone, and the euphoric feeling I thought was attributed to my escape turned out to be frostbite, black, amputating frostbite. Not only did my hands feel like lead, they now resembled it, hard, heavy, and gray. As I leaned back against the trees giant, snow dusted roots, I knew I was going to lose a couple of them. How many I wasn’t exactly sure.

The good news was that I managed to evade my pursuers, who may or may not have given chase at all. Something in me wishes they would have so this wouldn’t have all been in vain, but I fear it was.

The bad news is I didn’t evade my ignorance, and impetuous mistakes, now I’m stupidly suffering for it. If it weren’t for my feet being on the bottom of my legs I would swear they fell off. I can see them though.

As I sat there, to frozen to walk, but not to frozen to chatter until I thought my teeth would break, I thought back on the events of this case. This is to say I tried to think back, but realistically my deep frosted mind made nothing but a crystalline menagerie of incidences. I know a girl was dead…or was it two. Someone else was dead too, or maybe hurt. My partner died, but that was after torture…or was that me. My mind slipped and slid precociously like a great icy ocean. The one thing I could clearly make out were men in white firing canons at me from parapets. Beneath them was the bloodied queen her body stained the earth with a river of crimson that gave away my position. All around me were splintering trees, to small to take refuge in, and to big to run from. The queen was dead; her body lay lifeless in the muddy village she once ruled amorously.

I needed to figure out if they had really killed her.

I needed to get her body.

I needed to get to sleep.

I needed a doctor.