the stain

a stain of gray was all that remained. no blood. no body. the floor was green. there was a chandelier hanging above the gray area on the floor. the carpet fibers held a story of the dark past hidden away by the new aroma that pervaded the room.

"i don't know what happened, but there was no crime here." the detective stood across the room from the butler. he had been sent at 3:34 am to investigate the murder. the butler called the police only an hour earlier. detective claud. he was the best they had.

"i beg your pardon, sir." the butler had a british accent. he had moved to america nearly twenty years ago, but his accent barely weakened in that time. "it's not quite that simple," he continued, "i woke up 2:15, just like i told you earlier, to the sound of rustling. i got out of bed and headed straight down to the study here, where i found the body of master gregory. he had a blow across the top of his head by the looks of it. whoever did it was already gone, murder weapon too. now i don't know what you see, or don't, but i know what i saw. the master of the house was murdered by god knows who, and all you can do is sit here and tell me that no crime was committed? i tell you, i am about as baffled as anyone that the body could just disappear without a trace, but i know what i saw."

somewhere in the middle of the butler's speech, the detective had taken a seat in the study chair. the chair was leather with ribs running up and down the back. he was tired. in the past two weeks he had been called to three different crime scenes. this was his fourth. he had only managed to solve two of them so far and he was getting no closer on the third. a man dead in his car in the middle of the woods with no sign of foul play. there was the rope, the gun, the ceremonial alter and empty robe that stood as if it was alive. he had come to hate religion. and money. the two most often exploited motives. this was no different. money. the wealthiest man in town. dead. or missing. he didn't know. he didn't care. in fact he was somewhat upset at the wretch. he could have died in the day. but no. night. always waking him up. as if he didn't miss enough sleep already. less than 4 hours a night for too long. he tried to count the weeks. it hurt too much.

"sir, i know you're good. you're the best in the nation. but you can't always be right." the butler took a bottle off the book shelf. brandy. he opened it and poured a glass for the detective. "maybe this will help?" he looked at it. drank. it burned. but it helped. he could think. if not very clearly, he could still think.

the detective knew he was wrong. he knew that the butler wasn't lying. he knew it wasn't a dream. he had seen it all before. he knew when someone was lying or just making things up without knowing. but he didn't care. he just wanted the case closed before it opened. being the best was quite the opposite. he always wanted to rise to the top. now that he was there he looked for a way down. there were none. dead. it must be nice. R.I.P. when could he rest? and in peace? he couldn't remember the last time he had slept without his phone ringing through his dreams. most of the time it was relief. the things he had seen. his dreams. as dark and darker than what he had seen. waking was a relief. death. what would that be like?

"sir?" the butler had been standing there watching him think.

"he was murdered. i don't know who. i don't know how. i do know why."

"well, why?"

he thought about framing the butler. it would work. everyone trusted him. he could solve it in one night. no. he might not be entirely good but he was not evil.

"what was on his desk?" he pointed. "here." there was a spot where no dust had collected. something had been there. recently.

"a book. it was... bloody awful when your memory starts to fail! i can't remember it's title." bloody awful? no. the detective couldn't wait until he could no longer remember.

he looked at the spot. and two inches wide. seven inches in length. the the discoloration on the rest of the desk he could guess it was about ten inches tall from where it's shadow had protected the wood from the light from the window. he stood up and raised his hand to the top of the window. it was in the east wall. the distance between the book and the window. no. it was nine inches tall.

"'the history of galiano, a prophet's tale'." it was a fact. not an assumption. the book was worthless to him but he knew that some would kill for it. had killed. he knew of only one other. he needed it.

"we have a motive. a book. a book with knowledge that could lead one to great power." he scoffed at the idea. it was ridiculous. but he knew that some believed it. "religious. our man killed for religious reasons. not very holy."

TBC