Black Blood

Bright lights flashing, clicks going off everywhere. People standing by corners, murmuring, some pointing. People jostling outside, phones in hands, lenses pointing inside, trying to see if they could catch a glimpse of the gory details so as to put them up on their social media feeds. So they could achieve internet fame for a few minutes. Before they went back to their dreary lives. He had brushed past them, some taking eyes off their phone screens for a few seconds, to give him a look of scorn, others pointing their cameras at him. Who was he? The internet would answer. The yellow tape held them back, but for how long. Next thing you would know, phones would have x rays inside them, and these people would be able to see inside the house. Would they be able to handle it, he wondered.

The thing that he hated most about these was the smell. Always the smell. The cleaners would come after he and his men were done here. The thing that he hated most about these was the smell. Never got used to it. And it was distinct for each one. The underlying decay was always there, yes. Sometimes there was the smell of defecation as their bowels released at the moment of death. But always, there was something else. A unique smell, a fingerprint of scents. Here, it was oranges. Spit. And age. Oranges smelled of citrus. Spit was defined by the stale moisture omnipresent in this house. Age was defined by the wrinkles on his face. There were no words for how the smell felt. But it was here, lingering in the air, soaked up by the furniture, by the moth eaten sofa, by the aged wooden table, it was everywhere. It was part of this house.

The man had a wrinkled face, blue eyes, lightless, lifeless, creases marking his hands, skin in folds. He was not fat, nor was he thin, but his skin gave away his age like the rings in a tree trunk. It was covered in spots, was grey, and was unlike the taut, tight skin of youth. Hair sparsely, half heartedly covered his scalp. His fingernails were uneven, and as The Detective looked around, he found the glasses by the coffee table at the foot of the brown moth eaten sofa.

The most unusual thing was how normal all of this looked. It wasn’t. The medics who had examined the body said it was not a natural death. They said his blood was black, and John had sent him photos of the vials, and videos of them drawing blood. Another expert had been brought in, he said the same, and so they had called The Detective in.

He sighed, he knew what would happen next. They would find the killer. A video would be sent in to the station, anonymous, always anonymous. It would clearly show a man doing the deed, and he was curious to see what it was. But that wasnt really why he was here. He was here to figure out the grand scheme behind all these crimes. Who or what. It could not just be a sudden uptick in crime. It had to be organized. It made no sense any other way.

A man watched him leave the house as it started to rain. He watched from a large screen in a darkened cavern and picked up a device. He typed up the words. On the trail.