Eri held out her hand and touched the man. She feigned shock and quickly withdrew.
“He did it!” she shouted and her voice echoed through the walls.
“He killed them,” she rectified, the cameras started to flash. She didn’t hear the uproar in that shielded room, however she was sure of the commotion.
“He did it when they were asleep.”
Despite it coming to her so vividly, the touching was never necessary. She knew it from the first time she laid her eyes on him, the first time she saw the tip of his shoe, even from the scent of his sweat. He reeked of murder.
“His heart is tainted.” She described it vaguely, even though that wasn’t how she felt in her heart or saw with her eyes. In her eyes, he looked like death, like hate and jealousy. He was dreadful even in that custom-made suit. His heart was inside-out, and she could see those worms feasting on it. When he spoke to retaliate, his mouth spewed blood and pus, indicating lies. His hands were the worst. The crime he committed had turned them into bony rust, and they smelled of death.
But she saved them all the gore.
The whole courtroom gasped. It couldn’t be true, they were questioning him as a witness. He came in because the crime happened during his shift at the hotel. He was only the concierge, the old and trusted one, barely any connection with the victims, as far as they knew.
They knew nothing.
The judge looked at her with sharp eyes. But she had come forward from a unique corner of the courtroom, a seat somewhere a little behind the prosecutor, nevertheless very special. It was a seat fairly recent in the justice system but a last resort.
“Are you sure, Eri?” he asked, although he wasn’t questioning her. They were on a first name basis after all. “Can you shed more light to it?”
She had been shedding lights for them since she learned how to speak. They would never learn. But it wasn’t their fault. They were just different, and it was normal for her to understand everything they couldn’t comprehend.
“I think I’ve said enough. I’m sure he killed them with his hands. It’s a hate crime; he’s holding grudge.” She swallowed, about to throw up from all the sickness she was witnessing, but her voice didn’t quiver.
Quivering was unacceptable. Not when her words were the only thing backing her up. She had no proof other than her sturdy words.
“You can search his home, search his background. He has had connection with them”
The police were dispatched like dogs based on her accusation. But she was sure this time—like any other— they would call the courtroom in less than an hour and confirm her theory. They would find something that would back her words, a phone call, some witnesses of connection or even the murder weapon they were yet to find.
And so it unfolded the way she hoped. They found the knife inside his freshly-painted kitchen wall, a bloody cloth, and even a picture of the dead man’s wife -- whom he’d stabbed before ripping her eyes out.
After they called and confirmed, she left the courtroom, dignified. Like she always did. The reporters, who just seconds ago were crowding the courtroom, were moving like bees to follow her. The case was closed or soon would be. They would appeal and re-appeal--and even claim insanity, they always did—and the rest was history. She was the gem now, but she had done it too many times; it made her precious. They asked her questions, and she answered a few before politely refusing more questions.
She had school to attend.