A Mourner's Memoir

In the distance, the landscape moved slowly; the rumbling of the train felt like a massage as I leaned on the windowsill. The mountain range slowly passed by. It should’ve been intimidating with its massive size, but it was littered with greenery.

My partner sat opposite me, eyes darting between the scenery and my dreamy look. He broke the silence, “what are you thinking about?”

“Why don’t you let me enjoy the beautiful scenery?”

“It’s been the same for 30 minutes, it gets boring.”

“It doesn’t.”

I leaned back in the cushioned seat, subtly glancing at the edge of the window to catch what was coming into view.

“You’re awfully comfortable for someone travelling to a murder scene.”

I grinned. “It is especially comforting to look at calming sights before we see something horrific, after all I rather see the red of flowers than the red of blood.”

I did my best to ignore his penetrating stares, as if trying to deduce my words and expressions, before he too sighed and looked out the window.

“You’re right.”

Stepping off the train I was greeted by the local policemen, faceless, forgettable. They took turns introducing themselves, shaking my hand each time. The older one had a firm handshake, but he was stuttering and speaking quickly. The young trainees (I assumed) walked on eggshells around me, occasionally sneaking glances at me.

My partner Sol kept jabbing me in the sides.

“They keep looking at you,” he joked.

Considering our massive entourage, we had to split into two groups. I insisted on sitting with the young men.

“What are the senior ones gonna say when they find out you rather sit with the newbies?” Sol quizzically looked at me.

“That’s why you’re sitting with them.”

“…”

I looked around the tiny confines of the car, they all felt like they had something to say but were too scared to. I wondered if it depended on me if I wanted to learn more.

“Sir, I’ve heard great things about you.”

I chuckled, “I haven’t.”

I felt the air go stale. They couldn’t believe I didn’t wholeheartedly say “yeah” and start telling my stories. Instantly my lips cracked into a smile, I hoped it was charming.

“What made you want to be a police officer?” I asked.

The one who spoke first perked up almost immediately, “I’ve always wanted to do something like this.”

How shallow.

“Was it some movie or show you watched?”

“My father is a cop himself, he tells me stories of the times he would talk to people and how they would react when they have different motives, that was interesting to me.”

“Is that why you’re talking to me now?” I joked.

He laughed sheepishly and scratched his neck, “you’re someone I’d like to know better.”

In the car I brought up the upcoming case, “you’ve already sent me a preliminary report, is there anything new?”

“Not really, we haven’t begun questioning people.”

“What do you mean? We have.” Another one spoke up, he hasn’t spoken before.

“Did we?” the former thoughtfully looked up, with a smirk.

“Yes, the teacher and brother.” he sighed, exasperated but light-hearted.

I wondered if my partner and I interacted like that.

“We’re here.”

The car pulled up to an all-girls school, I looked around. The principal and some couples, who wore expensive accessories, were waiting to receive us. Most likely the parents.

I got closer to them, wives clutched onto their husband’s arms, the men looking grim and tired. I’ve always thought rich people would be the happiest. But right now they were a grieving group, as well as hopeful I could find the truth.

The principal introduced himself, although I already knew who he was. He brought us around the school, mentioned its layout, and finally brought me and the big coterie to the long awaited secluded girls washroom at level four.

Hopping over the yellow cordon, I breathed in the scene. Blood trails lead out of the toilet, then back in. Looks like someone tried to run.

I glanced back, the policemen and my partner have also joined me. I appreciated the principal and parents for stopping right outside. Did they control their eagerness or were they too scared? I’m not sure.

The girls toilet, open space near the entrance with sinks and a stretch of cubicles in the back. Blood splattered the walls.

The group moved behind me, Sol kept asking questions. All the pictures were already taken. Lines of chalk outlining the victims’ death positions were already drawn. They still drew them here. I thought most departments had moved past that.

An outline lay at the foot of the sinks, sprawled out. How nice of them to draw her ponytail too. She probably cocked her head on the sink’s ceramic edge. Another was slumped over the walls not too far away.

My partner asked, “Did the sink girl have bruises on her head?”

The outgoing trainee spoke up, most likely because his superior instructed him to “gain experience”.

“Yes she did, at the back of her head. She had cuts all over her body and a massive stab wound in the chest” the trainee breathed, proud he got the memorised brief disclosed verbatim.

The quiet trainee added on, “we suspect the attacker slashed at her as she made distance between them. She then tripped, fell backwards and hit her head on the sink. The attacker then stabbed her in the chest to finish the job.”

Sol gave me a knowing look, “we can’t jump to conclusions yet, some things are different that what they seem to be.”

“Are you talking about me?”

“No, narcissist,” he said before joining me near the next chalk outline.

According to the report, this girl had been stabbed in the gut. A blood trail lead from where she probably stood to her final position, hand clutching her stomach to stop the bleeding. I wouldn’t want that to happen to me.

“Weren’t there tears found on her face, indicating her crying?” my partner inquired.

The vocal trainee pondered, “in the face of death, isn’t it normal to cry?”

I looked over to the quiet officer, he was expressionless. There are many reasons to cry, people are not easy to predict.

We found the third outline in a bathroom stall, head shoved into the toilet bowl.

“Drowned,” the quiet trainee mumbled.

It was sad, kneeling over the bowl, not strong enough to overpower the assailant.

“I expected water to splash everywhere, where’s the resistance?” I wondered out loud.

The outspoken officer grimly reported, “the tendons in her arms and legs have been cut, she couldn’t have fought back…”

“We have to go back to our rooms to look through and discuss the case. Interviews with witnesses and suspects can wait for now” my partner babbled. That was what we always did.