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March 17
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Chapter 1; Part 1

December 15:

I stood in the doorway of his house, looking in on the scene. I suspected it had transpired sometime late in the night, but was told it was obvious that it had occurred during broad daylight just the day before. Odd, that. The door had been opened without hassle and literally nothing inside the home seemed to be out of place or missing. Well, except for the body, of course.

If the detectives were right, then the murderer had just walked into the residence, completely welcome in the middle of the day. It would mean that the victim allowed his murderer to kill him, and it would mean that absolutely no one glanced in through the windows while it happened. Since nothing was missing from the house, it would also mean that the murderer was not a thief and had only come here to kill someone who was most probably his friend.

Investigators paced the crime scene, searching high and low for any evidence. All they could label thus far was the body itself: 1. There was one piece of evidence, just one. This murder was apparently flawless in the eyes of these people, and in my own.

The detective to whom the case had been dealt walked into the room from another part of the house after having searched the residence for anything out of the ordinary. He found nothing.

Enter: Lawrence Frost.

He came from behind me, pushing past everyone else without care. He walked into the family room and sat down on the couch next to the corpse. All eyes were on him at this point. Some were waiting in anticipation, others were silently condemning him for disrespecting the dead so indifferently. He didn’t say anything at first, he just took a moment to look around the room, after which he just leaned in close to the corpse and examined the murder wound. It was a knife wound. He had been stabbed in the chest. Just once, but it was enough to kill him.

“Bizarre.” He finally said, “Utterly bizarre.”

“Yeah,” said the chief investigator, “we thought so too. No sign of forced entry, no sign of anything missing from the house, and no sign of a struggle.”

“No, no; not that.”

The detectives began to look back and forth at each other, trying to figure out what it was this man was getting at.

“What? Really?” said Lawrence, apparently confused at their ignorance, “How could you have possibly missed it?”

“Missed what?” begged the Captain.

“Only the most important piece of evidence in this room, the largest piece of the puzzle.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you not notice anything odd about this body?” Lawrence asked, pointing to the corpse next to him.

“You mean, besides the fact he didn’t fight back?”

“Well, no. That’s not odd at all. I’m referring to the lack of blood.”

The Captain’s jaw dropped a bit at the realization. Nowhere had anyone found blood. There was none. Not on the body, not on the couch; nowhere in the entirety of the house.

“So the murderer wiped the place clean?”
Lawrence smiled, “No, Captain. He did not. No blood was spilled in this building.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, still standing in the doorway. Lawrence looked in my direction, and stared at me for a few seconds before asking me who I was. “I’m a friend of Gregg’s.” I replied. Lawrence looked around at the faces of the investigators present, as if what I had just said was a great mystery in and of itself. The Captain looked at me with concern, though I wasn’t sure why at the time. I mean, sure, I had lost a dear friend and was not in any condition to really converse with some consultant who seemed completely oblivious to human emotion, but I didn’t care. I was ready to do anything I could to help bring my friend’s murderer to justice.

“Who’s Gregg?” Lawrence asked, finally.

A detective in the back of the room spoke up, “He’s the victim. Gregory Feldman.”

“Ah.” was Frost’s only reply to the helpful gentleman. Then he looked back at me, “What’s your name?”

“Mark Abby.”

“You’re an author, Mr. Abby?”

“Yes, how did you…”

“Have you written anything I may have read?”

Waves of Ash was one of my more famous works. Perhaps you’ve heard of that?”

Lawrence didn’t reply, simply stood and walked past me and back outside, staring at the stepping-stone path which led up to the house itself. Snow covered the yard and most of the road. It was mid-December and the air was piecing.

The Captain came and stood by my side, “Sorry about him.” he said.

“It’s fine. I’d put up with anyone if they could help find who did this to Gregg.”

The Captain smiled. “He is our best. Lawrence Frost, the consultant. A private eye. If anyone can find the murderer, you can bet he can.”

“Thanks, Matt. This means a lot.” I said, while putting my hand on the Captain’s shoulder.
So I began writing today from boredom and slowly found myself developing a mystery. This is the first time I have ever tapped into the genre, and have no idea what I'm doing.

I strongly suspect this is a sudden onset of inspiration from having watched the Sherlock series and begun watching the Elementary series.

Either way, I doubt very much this will be short enough for me to post a series here on deviantArt. I plan to see if this gets good feedback (if any at all) and then to perhaps turn it into a full story from there.
:iconwolfsoren:
wolfsoren Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2014
Complete lack of blood. Simple. He was killed and drained elsewhere then cleaned up and placed in the house.
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:icontiamarth:
Tiamarth Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Hmm... you pose a valid theory. But are you correct? 
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:iconthemr42:
TheMr42 Featured By Owner Mar 19, 2014  Student Writer
Alternatively, if there was no struggle and he had "allowed his murderer to kill him" it would have been easy enough for the murderer to simply leave the knife in the wound, not moving it, meaning no blood would be forced from the wound due to vacuum. We are not given the ETD (estimated time of death) so the murderer could have retrieved the knife a a later time, once the blood had begun to coagulate. But the Killed Elsewhere theory is far more likely though the lack of blood on the victim's clothing is peculiar. 

Sherlock Holmes 

On the stylistic side of things I do think your investigator is a tad stereotypical, the arrogant detective, separate from the authorities, that refuses to explain his working and progress until forced or prompted. I try to read your character and all I can see is Holmes, striding about the place, the template overshadows your individual so far though following chapters will offer plenty of opportunities to define Frost as his own man.

A very nice read and I'm looking forward to reading the method.  dd
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