(Perspective of a forensic scientist named Menrva)
Tuesday September 6th 1949.
18:42
"There are many kinds of devils: devils that kill and harm one another, devils that see joy in the suffering of others, devils that use their power to undermine others, and devils that hide their evils behind the letter 'D.' If I ever met such an evil—someone who could hide the murder of fifty people, in broad daylight, without a trace—what could a man like that do to me? Torture me? Psychologically? Physically? Make me think he's my only hope… and then use me?"
"Fifty people, dead. Most had their heads cracked open, horns growing from their eyelids. They say it's S.A.D. One is a coincidence, twice is suspicious, but fifty damn people? All without a trace…"
I turned from the man I'd been speaking to, just in time to see my acquaintance holding a ziplock bag. Inside, a single bullet.
"Sir, we found a bullet."
"None of them were shot, though. They all committed suicide."
"This one wasn't," he said, raising a finger.
I walked over to the body. "Place it in a bag and send it over."
"The bullet?"
"Of course, the bullet, not the body," I said, smiling at him.
Then I turned stern. "The gun wasn't in his hand. Someone this meticulous wouldn't leave something so loud behind. There's an exit wound, higher up the back of the skull. Which means the shot came close. Very close."
"You see, when you shoot from far away, the bullet loses speed. By the time it enters the skull, it ricochets inside—turning fragile brain into soup. It slows down. Often stays lodged in there. But this?"
"Exit wound's massive. That means it was fired point-blank. It didn't bounce around. It went straight through."
"And there's gunpowder on the skull. He was shot from inches away."
"Why?" I muttered, more to myself than anyone.
I waved my partner over. He offered the ziplock.
"Keep it. Just come here. Use it to ID the gun."
"Any idea who he was?"
"Classified."
"Did he have ID?"
"Nothing."
"Shame."
"Bit bad, isn't it? The body. He had family," he said, shrugging.
"Don't get why you would take time off your annual leave just to see this man," he continued in a nonchalant manner.
"Well, it's what I enjoy most about the job: figuring out the psychology of the murderer. This one though, it's unusual. Not normally what you would
expect. Hell, I'd say it's the devil's work. Supernatural. Fifty people die and no one knows who, how, or what this is for, that matter. Honestly, one regret I have is picking this sect of the job. While you get to view the body, I'm a forensic scientist, stuck in the lab doing tests and paperwork."
"You act like my job's much better."
"I'd suppose it is."
"Grass is always greener on the other side, isn't it?" he said, chuckling with a strange edge.
"When the first officers arrived, did they see anyone?"
"Not them. I did. Saw a young man. Dark brown hair—almost black. Eyes, same. Kinda gloomy."
"Just him?"
"There was another. Brownish hair at the crown but the rest was blond. Murky blue eyes."
"Was he afraid?"
"Think so. But there was one more man, he had his entire head, split open. In half. He was screaming sum."
"What?" I questioned
"Jupiter, I think."
"Jupiter? Like the planet?"
"Yeah. Or the Roman god. Zeus."
He nodded.
"Over fifty people dead. Two witnesses who fled the scene. Why?
Is he afraid of the devil he's become? Did he kill them all and feel guilt, or was it someone else? Or are they both the same? No bullets were used, each of them killed themselves. They were all facing the same direction, took the same course of action, killed themselves at around the same times. What did they see?"
"You know," I said, turning to my partner, "It reminds me of this thing from the Bible where looking at God instantly purifies you of all sin. I imagine it to be in a fiery kind of way. If you look at all of the victims, their eyes were burnt out of their sockets, as if they had seen a God of sorts and died from it, went mad from it."
My friend began taking blood samples, looking around at the other officers on the scene as he did, "I really hate that monologuing stuff you always do,"
"I know. You still listen to it anyway, don't you?"
I slowly unraveled the cloth from my left eye. Opened the lid. Smiled.
It flared brighter than before.
"Can I touch it?" he asked, stunned. "Is that… fire? In your socket?"
"Touch it," I whispered.
"Touch…?"
He reached out, gently, with his index.
Then recoiled. Fast. He looked at his hand. His fingerprints were gone.
"Damn! It's hot?"
"Of course it is."
"The fire... it doesn't go out. Does it?" he muttered to me.
"It never goes out, does it?" he muttered.
"No," I said. "I saw the face of God. It burned me with eternal fire."
"But it had no face. No body. Just... a vast emptiness."
"A silence so loud it shook me. Authority without a voice. And I went mad."
"I couldn't think. My thoughts shattered like glass. Until something touched me."
"It was warm. Calming. Serene. Like the chill after a fever breaks."
"A person and a place at once. In that place, it rained white phosphorus forever."
"Another man saw It too. But not the warmth. Just the God."
"He laughed. I thought he was happy. But he laughed too hard. Then shot himself."
"He curled his pinky to his middle finger. Clenched the grip. Thumbed back the hammer. Pressed his index."
"Click."
"Bang."
"What's man's greatest fear?" I asked.
"Death?"
"Wrong."
"It's the unknown. We fear death because we don't understand it. Same with God. Same with each other."
"It's like the hedgehog dilemma—the closer you get, the more it hurts."
"That's the job. Not figuring out how they died."
"First, I figure out who. Who would do this? And why?"
"If I were a man who watched fifty people die—women, children—how would I act?"
"When you answer that… Then you've answered everything."
My friend looked up, eyes distant.
"I'd suppose," he said, "he'd take reverence."
I nodded, brushing the melting snow from my ID.
"Menrva."