Tracks, tracks needed.
A crime so heinous and violent, and yet so clean.
The room was immaculate, as if the cleaning lady just passed by there and had been extremely careful in their work. Not a chair out of place, or open a drawer or a fold in the carpet ... Nothing.
Well, some do. In the exact center of the room, like a huge question made neon lights, the cadaver is slowly bleeding to death.
Come go. Tracks.
The body was lying neatly, with your legs straight and arms close to the body. Were it not for the pool of blood that crept quietly through the floorboard, it would seem that it was a strange person in sleeping habits. The skin showed no bruises or signs of violence, and face more absolute peace prevailed. The tuxedo she wore seemed freshly ironed, not a wrinkle, the cuffs placed Perfet half centimeter below the sleeve, tie the knot immaculate stripe pants and drawn with Tracer.
clue, just one, something to grab onto.
The door was locked from the inside when they arrived. The windows as well. Not a draft, nor a curtain that moved mysteriously, or a candle flame suspicious blinking. The portraits on the walls had no eye holes, and the wallpaper on the wall did not sound hollow. There was no secret trap door, hidden drawing the picture of the wood and the ceiling looked as smooth as freshly plastered.
And a tiny clue?
The room air could win a clean contest. Not a trace of smell, even perfume or air freshener. According to building plans, any pipe or conduit crossing the room, and the only ventilation was possible the window, which seemed airtight.
- Woño flute to whom? Sono-away, but was mixed between thoughts.
If Quine, could be. Or there was always the possibility of woño flute. Although well regarded, and weighing the pros and cons ...
- Sherlock!
- Hmm?
The fucking Watson.
- What you want pizza, ciborium. These in the clouds.
0 comments:
Post a Comment