Anger'n Danger

ANGER' N DANGER

A NOVEL OF

PIER GIORGIO TOMATIS

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NO TRACES

A common feature of every crime scene is the presence of traces that the killer or killers leave more or less voluntarily and every good laboratory rat tries not to contaminate or, if forced to, do it as little as possible.

Cliff Idle was a serious and quiet trader like so many in Louisville. A wife, Iris, and two children, James and Edith. No dark side, vice or parallel lives that would have made him the perfect candidate for some psychopath's revenge. Yes, because whoever has treated him like this, in this filthy bathroom in the county seat of Jefferson, don't have his head screwed on. What's strange is that while pieces of Cliff's corpse are found all over the place, there don't seem to be any signs of his killer passing. It is impossible that the victim committed suicide if only because the murder weapon is missing.

Ah, dear Dr. Lane... if you were here with me today, you who have been so good and patient as to teach me to collect the traces what advice would you give me? Yeah, who knows. I don't even know if she's still alive. With my work, you risk getting old too quickly. You meet freaks and maniacs of all kinds, all

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days and retirement is so short for anyone. I try to focus back on the crime scene.

A cobweb of blood streaks on the tiled floor of a bathroom infested with flies and oppressive summer heat. The victim had first been strangled with an archaic method that resembled the garrote. A rope tugged at his bare feet and passed behind the pipes of a cast iron radiator. Another gripped his neck and made the same macabre loop around the radiator positioned on the opposite side.

The killer had to have a cylinder of iron or wood with which he shortened the rope that ended up pulling more and more the ends of poor Cliff. I am not content to see him die suffering painfully and with sadistic slowness, the maniac... yes, because no sane person would be able to even think of killing someone in this way... the madman, I was saying, also took the trouble to jab a wooden stick on various parts of his body that I don't even want to try to remember so as not to ruin my dinner.

I will not write any of this in my report because my presence here is not determined by the stunt of a sadistic homicidal piece of shit. No, I won't. This is the kind of work the forensic police, coroner, or any other bureau officer does.

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Among other things, a young teenager with small precedents was brought to the cell who is right for us (and not his) and who in all likelihood will end up being found guilty by any jury that will be chosen to hear the trial and judge. Poor Christ... If he's guilty, his career will end here. If not, he has found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sorry, boy. That's what life is like. Only children are convinced that it is a beautiful thing and full of adventures, emotions and pleasant gifts.

«What do you think about it?». Before answering, I look around and see nothing that can be said to your woman at a candlelit dinner for Valentine's Day.

«If he's an 18-year-old who's done all this mess», he grumbles, «then we should shut down all the schools in the area and send our youngsters to juvie or to Sergeant Major Hartman. Who knows if he can't get a cherub out of this sack of shit that killed a man like that». I like the cinematic quote.

«But there are the others...» the policeman replies with a pleading tone.

«I know. That’s what I’m here for». I bend on my knees. My eyesight improves. What I see does not.

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«Do you want to meet them today?» The question seems superfluous. The sooner I finish this investigation, the better for everyone.

«Sure. I take another look and then I'll join you at the station». I stand up.

No traces, I said. A murder so heinous and complex in its execution and yet not even a hair of its author is found. Poor Cliff was hanged, stabbed and left to drip like a chicken and nobody saw or heard anything. The stench of death is so high that is hard to resist without throwing up or opening the window, if you don’t know the ropes. Instead, it is well closed. Nobody witnessed anything. The boy arrested is the unfortunate cleaning man and logically, with a criminal record, the local police immediately set their sights on him. We don't go so much for the subtle here. Especially when the town is so close to the elections. I can already imagine the pressures that the Mayor must have done to quickly close a case that sees a quiet WASPs as the victim, and a good taxpayer too. It's useless for me to stay here. Today is not really a particularly lucky day. Before I turn around and leave that sickening bathroom, my gaze meets that of poor Cliff. His eyes are glassy but they seem to suggest that

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not even for him today was a date to be framed on the calendar.

I walk down the corridor. From there, I quickly reach the exit of the building. I haven't even realized it but when I see that the daylight is already fading I realize I've been examining the artwork of a mad psychopath for at least four hours. I proceed towards the parking lot and reach my second, the chosen agent Edward Mercury, who like any good nerd who respects himself is taking notes in a notebook to photograph every corner of the area. He is young and good but I am convinced that if what I think happens to the plant we will soon need help and a different approach to the investigation.

«Have you noticed anything in particular?». Right. As if the madman who made this mess had left a business card with his name, surname and address.

«The testimonies confirm every element in the report we received». Edward sniffles as if he has some allergy. «Looks like the killer didn't go in or out of the building. The cameras confirm this. When Brian Gibson, the suspect, came in to clean up the victim was already dead and it is impossible that he was the one who committed the murder.. ».

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I turn my head to my second and have a look that doesn't bode well. The agent notices it and reduces the intensity of the sound of his voice.

«At least not in that moment..». He corrects himself.

«Do you mean that we must ask the police to release the alleged murderer?» I urge him on.

«Of course not...» he scoffs.

«Good». I cough.

And after starting the car, I leave with a decisive acceleration. After about ten minutes we arrived at the Headquarters. We go into the offices and meet Sheriff Quinn, a fat lawyer who seems more inclined to control the apple pies of the housewives of the city than to chase reckless young people or black boys. We do not have time to fill the usual paperwork when darkness arrives and shortly after it starts raining.

I look out of the office window, bored by the monotonous chant of the cops. I observe what is a real storm that is hitting the roofs of the city. Wind, rain, barking dogs, lightning that encircle the horizon and illuminate the clock of a bell tower, a cat crouched in a basement stares at the roofs of buildings whipped by the rain, a bum takes shelter under the stone of a bench.

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Outside, Nature is bathing people's dreams and dreams. Inside, I'm about to hear the craziest and most incredible story any sane man could ever hear. Two elderly people, one white and one black, had been seated in two different rooms. Then, after my arrival, both of them merged into a