A Christmas Story in 8 Parts: Part 3
Dec. 27th, 2004 11:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
franceslievensPrevious parts
The fat guy was sitting behind his desk, studying forensic reports for 5 different murders. Another body had been found right after he had left Donnie Drake's flat. Detective Gavarni had rushed to the other side of town to see it, but nothing new came up: same scene, same pools of blood, same stench of urine. Why the hell did people always pee in their pants when confronted with the last stages of life? The detective sincerely hoped that whenever that bullet with his name on it would find a way through all these layers of fat, he had taken a piss before that fatal moment. The fat guy chuckled at his own bad pun and then brought his attention back to the reports. There had to be some sort of connection between the victims. He just had to look more closely.
The detective sighed and put the folders away. There was nothing in there. The killer or killers had done most of the forensics team's job. Victims, ready to go to a Christmas or only recently returned from one, were brutally cut up and out-door decorations were missing. Every constable and cop they could spare was out looking for clues, murder weapons, Christmas decorations, anything. Nothing came in. Gavarni had been up and running for the last 48 hours. The only thing left to do was sit and wait for the next victim, hoping that would bring the missing clue. Such a thing wasn't Gavarni's style. He picked up his coat and left.
Back at Donnie Drake's place the detective was standing on the pavement looking up at the building, searching for something he hadn't seen before. He was debating whether he'd go inside or move on to the next victim's apartment, when a voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“Hey you!” Gavarni looked to his right, into the pimpled face of a teenager. Baseball cap on his head, skateboard under his arm. “You're that cop, right?”
“Detective…”
“Yeah, whatever. You do the murder investigation on mister Drake, right?”
“Yes. Why do you want to know?”
“Because I might have some information for you.”
“And you're sure that's valuable information?”
“Sure I'm sure!”
Gavarni rolled his eyes in response.
“You wanna know or what?”
“Yeah, okay, say what you have to say, and get out of here.”
“Well, you know, on Friday all these cards came falling from the air. It was as if it were raining, but cards, you know. You couldn't really see where they came from. They just fell. No plane, no helicopter, no nothing. They just fell.”
“You happen to have one of those cards?”
“Yeah, here.” The kid got a piece of crumpled red paper from his pocket.
Gavarni took it. The paper was thick, definitely expensive. On one side six words were printed in golden letters: “All free men of Christ, unite!”
The fat guy was sitting behind his desk, studying forensic reports for 5 different murders. Another body had been found right after he had left Donnie Drake's flat. Detective Gavarni had rushed to the other side of town to see it, but nothing new came up: same scene, same pools of blood, same stench of urine. Why the hell did people always pee in their pants when confronted with the last stages of life? The detective sincerely hoped that whenever that bullet with his name on it would find a way through all these layers of fat, he had taken a piss before that fatal moment. The fat guy chuckled at his own bad pun and then brought his attention back to the reports. There had to be some sort of connection between the victims. He just had to look more closely.
The detective sighed and put the folders away. There was nothing in there. The killer or killers had done most of the forensics team's job. Victims, ready to go to a Christmas or only recently returned from one, were brutally cut up and out-door decorations were missing. Every constable and cop they could spare was out looking for clues, murder weapons, Christmas decorations, anything. Nothing came in. Gavarni had been up and running for the last 48 hours. The only thing left to do was sit and wait for the next victim, hoping that would bring the missing clue. Such a thing wasn't Gavarni's style. He picked up his coat and left.
Back at Donnie Drake's place the detective was standing on the pavement looking up at the building, searching for something he hadn't seen before. He was debating whether he'd go inside or move on to the next victim's apartment, when a voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“Hey you!” Gavarni looked to his right, into the pimpled face of a teenager. Baseball cap on his head, skateboard under his arm. “You're that cop, right?”
“Detective…”
“Yeah, whatever. You do the murder investigation on mister Drake, right?”
“Yes. Why do you want to know?”
“Because I might have some information for you.”
“And you're sure that's valuable information?”
“Sure I'm sure!”
Gavarni rolled his eyes in response.
“You wanna know or what?”
“Yeah, okay, say what you have to say, and get out of here.”
“Well, you know, on Friday all these cards came falling from the air. It was as if it were raining, but cards, you know. You couldn't really see where they came from. They just fell. No plane, no helicopter, no nothing. They just fell.”
“You happen to have one of those cards?”
“Yeah, here.” The kid got a piece of crumpled red paper from his pocket.
Gavarni took it. The paper was thick, definitely expensive. On one side six words were printed in golden letters: “All free men of Christ, unite!”
