Bloodied Memories

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  Standing in the elevator, clean as it was now, it was easy for Rockford to remember it as it had been two days prior. His reflection on the mirrored walls – which now conveyed all too clearly the frustrations of his fruitless hunt – had been hard to spot, obscured by the gore that painted the confined space a horrifying red from top to bottom. It hadn’t been a pretty picture, and the poor woman who had been unlucky enough to call it would probably be needing some serious psychiatric help in the near future. Rockford put a cigarette between his lips but didn’t light it, pondering whether his own desensitization to such acts was really a good thing.

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small wad of polaroids he’d managed to score from a connection he had in forensics. They were only doubles, but they didn’t like giving them out regardless. Eno had really come through for him this time. The elevator’s messy past that had since been cleared up, leaving nothing but this one, resilient stain, stared out from the glossy snaps. In one of them Rockford spotted himself crouching down next to the huddled heap on the floor – what was left of Bunting – and he remembered the thoughts that had been going through his head at that moment. Why. Why make it so messy. It hadn’t been an accident – the paint job was purposeful, calculated and seemingly timed to perfection. Despite first impressions this wasn’t the work of a crazed psycho, although perhaps the killer had hoped it would indeed look like it.

  No matter his ethereal leads of murderous intent and potential pseudo-psychology, it didn’t get Rockford any closer to knowing who the mysterious murderer was, or why Bunting was dead, or what he was doing here in the first place. There were so many questions, too many. Wouldn’t be a mystery if there wasn’t Rockford thought to himself.

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~ by Joseph Blame on January 10, 2011.

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