The First Crime
Purple moon, unrested hearts forcefully asleep. A ghost peering through the windows thoughtfully attuned to the snoring soon to be bride. Her tabby gently sleeping on her belly. Unaware of the tragedy that will befall her, Julia Smith a professional artist, has a PHD in gender studies.
The suddenness of the moon weeping in her dreams. She couldn't move, the ghost came like a pitchfork carried by angry villagers. The burnt toast lying on the floor. Her soul was taken in a flash. Nothingness entered. No dress, only the images of a clawed, and gnawed body. The cat still unmoved as if the cat was also not aware of the murder which took place. Shrieking trees, immaculate, disturbed wind, nothing was safe on that night, her whole house dilapidated. The ghost leaving no traces no fingerprints just claw scratches on the surface of her skin. A tarnished image, visceral poems jagged, and lying elegantly on the floor. Letters from her estranged family, burnt letters freshly smothered in latex gloves. This trashed to hell beyond conception or recollection you couldn’t have imagined the rooms before. The ceilings plattered with blood, and sweat.
I felt disgraced the very eccentric nature of this case had me in an almost state of severe insomnia. The ghost killer, who seemed perpetually a shadow in this deeply, and infinitely cruel world. How could such a man slip under the radar and not be seen, I am not much of a believer in the divine. I am sure the universe was created by some infinite force, but I am yet to consign my thoughts to that possiblity. There is an everlasting voice in my head who told me, “I say dare to challenge yourself, see what happens in this darkness you face. You live this life only once. What makes you think that you don’t have nothing to lose. Your memories will fade into an eventual nothingness.”
Desirous to the occasion of a disheartened nightmare Frederick rose in the morning. He put on his double breasted gray velvety coat, and had bacon eggs for breakfast on what seemed like a normal earthly morning, unaware of the case that he is going to take that will rivet every bone in his body. He drove an old Mustang to work. He worked for the New York Tribune a promising career ahead of him. Ample opportunities to catch his first break. He walked into work eclectically. Deja Vu, a painted mural of Superman lies on his front door effaced by the morning light comforted by his Chopin on the radio.
Frederick was determined to take on the case of The Cat thief a serial murder. Who took the lives of young female professors who had specialties in gender studies. The killer was somehow focused on women who owned cats for all the more absurd reasons. Frederick calmly, and excruciatingly wondered in astonishment, ''Why these women of whom each owned a cat,'' What is the significance of this? They all were respectable in their fields of study. They never hurt anyone no criminal histories pure in their records of stature. “The claw itself is a mystery. There must be something all these cats have in common. Or something these women all have in common. A sadist doesn't kill for pleasure, he kills for personal retribution.''