Music, my love

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Chapter 2

Let’s start again from the beginning. The basis, the point zero, the beginning of the world, when everything started, the big bang, the seven days of the lord. Hyacinth kept thinking for a few seconds more until he decided he had ran out of synonyms.

He left the garage and took a stroll in the garden, the fresh morning air reinvigorated him, this would be a long day and the sun was barely coming up. A quick tour of the place brought blood back in circulation. This tour could only be quick due to how small the property was, a kitchen connected to the living room, two bedrooms, a garden and a surprisingly big garage. Which was good, because 15 cadavers wouldn’t have fit anywhere else.

“Nice find, isn’t it?”

Freddy from the scientific police was taking fingerprints and photographing bodies, picking a hair here and there for preliminary analysis. Freddy was a blond, tall, thin and frightening specimen, he didn’t use macabre humor to cope with his job like the rest of the team, he genuinely loved every aspect of it.

He often contemplated murder scenes like a painter his model, berating bad placement of body parts or praising interesting choice of colors, shades of red mostly. His coworkers disliked him, Hyacinth was merely annoyed by him, which may explained why they worked so well together. Today, Hyacinth agreed, it was an interesting find.

“This mess makes no sense,“ he said.

“You already questioned the parents?”

“Not yet, I’m just waiting for them to finish crying.”

“Any idea on how this happened?”

“Absolutely none, and I return the question to you, Freddy. Give me a hint, an info, anything I can start with. Right now I’m lost.”

Hyacinth briefly scanned the notes written down by the policemen who got the call. Four years touring in the streets and exchanging blows with petty thugs, five years investigating white collar crimes and, after way too many death threats, a year as lieutenant in the crime division.

It amounted to nine years of service in the police of Lyon, in which he never saw anything remotely similar. A bunch of teenagers, 15 in total, including the son of the devastated parents, gathered in the garage for an amateur concert. Dad and mom were off for the night, the neighbors walls are thick, no one would bother them for being noisy.

The parents came back home a few hours later, everyone in the garage was dead. Freddy went over his own notes:

“No trace of violence, strangling or dispute, a bit of drug, but overdosing with so little seems improbable.”


“Well, we have to exclude most other possibilities, although I haven’t found a product yet. It’s just an hypothesis so far. There are also swollen shoulders and ankles but it doesn’t explain much either.”

“Well, it’s a start. I’ll leave you with your art, Freddy, I have suspects to interrogate.”

“Interrogate or lend your large chest to reassure them?”

“The second, then the first.”

Hyacinth straightened his necktie and brushed his bald head for good luck. That paper in his hand pushed him further into the shadows, according to the neighborhood, the guests arrived before midnight and no one left. No bystander to say hello, not even a weird noise, a suicide cult? If not, the only suspects were the ones that gave the call.

And as it happened, those suspects were at the moment deeply in shock, mourning their lost son. He took his sweet time, the door frame was lovingly hand-crafted with vine engravings, the hall was neat and cozy and the kitchen adorable. Well, except for the two sitting at the table. Hyacinth took a chair for himself and forwent saying hello.

“I’m going to ask a few questions, do you feel ready?”

They looked at him with eyes that had exhausted all tears, only frigid despair remained.

“Yes,” the mother answered with a trembling voice.

“When did you leave the house?”

“22 p.m. more or less.”

“And you went back at?”


“Where were you?”

“The birthday of a friend.”

Easy to check, the alibi was likely solid.

“How did your son organize this evening?”

The father suddenly left his vegetative state.

“He is dead.”

Nobody listened to him.

“Like always, the moment he knew we’d leave, he phoned his friends to play at home, he had been writing a new track for a few weeks and was eager to show it.”

“The neighbors never complained?”

“They did, once. The garage door stays shut since then.”

“Did your son have enemies, people wishing him harm?”

“You talk of Thomas in the past tense,” the father interjected.

No shit, he’s dead. His wife gave him a kick under the table.

“No! I mean, he was a bit over-excited at times, but it was our son and...”

She broke down sobbing, there was nothing more to learn here. Hyacinth stood up, glad to leave the kitchen behind, and went to Thomas’s room. A punk. Or was it anarchy? He never cared much for the finer points of alternative cultures.

T-shirts without sleeves and bright colors, chains on pants, Rock-band posters. Some of the dead wore Mohawk haircuts and similar clothing, they fancied the same music and lifestyle, had it anything to do with their deaths? Maybe his parents were ashamed of him, it wouldn’t be the first time. He beckoned a nearby sergeant:

“Go and calmly explain to the parents that they have to be put in detention until further notice.”

The sergeant gave him a nasty look, it was a tacit admission that they were the prime suspects so far. He stepped outside.

“A real lieutenant, you already delegate all the boring tasks.”

Freddy again, leaned against a wall, smoking a cigarette and sporting a creepy smile.

“I’m not in the mood for an opera of cries.”

“You really think they are the culprits?”

He left without answering. It seemed the most plausible hypothesis so far. Shaky, but he had seen enough average family man committing the unthinkable before regretting and rewriting reality until their responsibility was erased. A small part of him admired this capability to rethink events to one’s liking, to omit, lie, and recreate a truth.

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