Pushing up the Diaries - Assignment Example

English Pushing Up the Daisies He was aroused from sleep by the loud and unbearably annoying sound of the cellphone ringtone. Stretching his arm to the nightstand, he took it and answered in a sleepy irritated tone: “On the phone. Who’s that?” “Hey, Jonathan? It’s Jake. Another one. We have another murder here. Same circumstances. I’ve already sent our experts to the scene.” “Another woman?” His voice oozed weird mixture of concern and overwhelming weariness: last two and a half months were really far from normal life, yet resembling hell. “Yeah, Rose Hopkinson. Her neighbor, an old lady, found her in the morning in the backyard. They haven’t heard from her for a couple of days, though she used to visit them every day. So they went to check out if she was alright”, the speaker’s tone was also stained by an air of exhaustion. “Hmm...” “… Lexington road. Call me when you’re on your way”, and Jake hung up. Jonathan Blade, a strongly-built man little over thirty, has seen rough times for these humble 6 years of working as a chief investigator in Hazardville police department. However, life was obviously trying to show that there was much more to be seen – a series of violent murders kept the town in awe. He remembered clearly the summer day when the first case was reported – he was hanging out in his favorite rock bar with Tony, his best friend (in college, they used to dream of rock career, playing KISS and AC/DC covers) and a talented biology teacher at the local school. It was Sunday – and sun was literally scorching that day indeed – and they decided to get a refresh. An urgent phone call from the same guy, Jake, interrupted Jonathan’s leisure: a female body was found in the park, bearing traces of violent murder. Limbs covered with bruises, marks of stifling and… a lily sticking up from her mouth. The town was staggered by this blatant and odd crime, yet the motives weren’t clear. Until the following cases of the same nature did arrange this horror into a logical sequence. Jonathan made a cup of cheap instant coffee – Iris always made delicious drip coffee, adding a drop of rum syrup into it, but he himself was too lazy and exhausted those days. Probably, he was reluctant to do that not only because of listlessness, but even more because of that overwhelming uneasy feeling that tortured him every time he thought of their “used-to-be” happy marriage and the way it all corrupted. Having slipped on Levi’s jeans and fished a clean shirt out of the wardrobe, Jonathan sat down on a couch and began looking through newspaper clippings arranged carefully in the chronological order. The first one, dated June, 11, said: “A Mysterious Murder: Lily Warren Found Stifled in the Park” The second one was published 10 days later, featuring a photo of a good-looking young woman with blonde wavy hair: “Another Victim of a Maniac Found Dead” “Heather Mills, a 25-year-old waitress was found dead in her apartment. According to police reports, the victim was stubbed with a bladed article yesterday…” Jonathan kept skimming through the clippings. The picture was daunting: once in ten days beginning with the 10th of June one young woman was violently murdered – either stifled or stubbed with a knife, and every time a flower was put into her mouth as if a murderer wanted to celebrate her beauty for the last time. Despite his experience, Blade hadn’t encountered anything like this before, yet he was rather decisive in his intention to clarify the case and bring the serial killer to justice. And what was most demoralizing about all that is terror keeping Hazardville in a tight grip and the fact that crime scene were clear of fingerprints and any evidences that would guide police in the right direction. Having resurfaced from deep thoughts, Jonathan jumped into his second-hand Ford and headed to Lexington road. * * * The crime site was marked by yellow tape, with photographers, police officers and forensic experts scurrying around. Jonathan passed the house and came to the backyard, where Jake was issuing instructions busily. “Huh, Jonathan!” Blade decided to get straight to the business – he didn’t want to stay at the crime site too long: “Show me the body, Jake.” Jake showed him to the part of the yard with flowerbeds scattered here and there. Rose Hopkinson lay among them half-naked, her eyes closed and her skin already bluish and pale. This sinister picture of death was marked with a splash of color, looking intolerably unnatural – a red rose in her mouth. Jonathan composed himself and carried out examination of the place. Jake approached him and asked almost hopelessly: “Nothing?” “Totally nothing. Damn!” He paused. Jake glanced at him compassionately, waiting for instructions. “Okay, buddy, do me a favor: fill in for me here. You know, Iris is arriving in a couple of hours and I’ll have to pick her up”, he felt uneasy and oddly ashamed, saying this, – Jake and others were well aware of details of their divorce. However, the situation was confusing: Iris belonged to the category of women who are keener on bad guys than on gentle loving fools interested in long and happy family life. Unfortunately (or not?), Blade was among the latter. Iris left him for some weird guy from Chicago almost three months ago, and her upcoming visit would draw the line under their relationships. They said in vital statistics office that documenting the divorce wouldn’t take longer than a week or two, and Jonathan suggested his wife to stay in their house. Normally, one would say that it is a decision that would only rub acid into deep and still bleeding heart wounds, still Jonathan’s policy was an unconscious willing to grasp last moments with her and a desperate attempt to get her back. * * * Knock. Tony – a tall thin man wearing round glasses and a worn shirt - went to the door: “Jonathan, you! Come in, buddy.” Jonathan came to his friend as he always did, to relax, to talk, to watch baseball complementing the process with several bottles of stout or to ask for advice. That evening, Tony looked a little bit tired, though he readily invited Blade in: “How is it going? Want something to drink? Huh?” Tony’s apartment spoke clearly for him and his occupation: countless photos of animals, a modest collection of old biology books on the shelf in the living room, several pinned tropical butterflies in laconic grey frames hanging on the walls. Despite the fact that the flat was obviously a bachelor’s den, it almost amazed with neatness. He turned on an air conditioner and – guided by Jonathan’s nod of consent – took two bottles of cold beer out of his old fridge. The cop parked himself on a couch and took the same notorious clippings out of the bag. Tony nested in an armchair in front of him and asked: “So… How’s your investigation?” “Well, nothing optimistic yet”, Jonathan said, arranging the clippings on a wooden coffee table in chronological order, again. “See, that’s a serial killer. The only thing we know is that it’s a man – isn’t difficult to understand judging by the marks of fighting on the bodies. He must’ve been stronger than his victims. And those flowers he puts in their lips…” “Hmm”, Tony looked puzzled at the clippings. “Do you have photos?” “Sure”, the cop fished a thin paper package out of his bag, too; taking photos one by one from it, he passed them to Tony. “Look at all those flowers.” “Well, he must’ve been rather careful in picking them. Look at these beautiful purple asters”, Tony pointed to the photo #5. “These are ginger flowers”, now he was talking about the photo #6, a girl with curly red hair, stifled, having a bunch of small red flowers in her pale lips. There are 8 photos of victims, each made ten days after another. “It looks as if he was creating a kind of collection.” Lily, ginger, aster, rose… “The worst is that we fail to identify him, though all the girls in the town are scared to death of getting into this damn collection”, Jonathan said. “Well, never mind, we’ll cope with it. Somehow. So, is the game tonight?” * * * Two days later, on the 30th of August, Jonathan was staying late in his office, still trying to resolve the case and find at least some clue. Sitting at the table, he skimmed though the photos again and again. He turned over Tony’s words about flowers in his mind. Here’s the first victim with the lily, here’s the second one with… Hold on. The inscription on the back says Daisy Morgan. Daisy. With a bunch of daisies. “Holy Hell!” – this thought stroke him like the lightning. Blade looked at the back of the first photo: Lily Warren. Then he typed several words in Google. Lily… Daisy… Flowers… The top link stated: “Summer flowers”. Things started getting clear. It wasn’t that mysterious anymore. Lily Warren with the lily; Daisy Morgan with daisies; Heather Mills with – hmmm – obviously, heather. Then there were Jasmine, Aster and Ginger. The one preceding Rose Hopkinson was called Dahlia Wright. Jonathan looked at her post mortem photo: stifled, pale, with a white dahlia in her mouth. “Mr. Blade, are you staying here tonight?” He was interrupted by Andrew, a police officer and his fellow, who was on duty that night. “Looks like that. This “flower” murders, you know. I think I’m on the right way, come here”, he waved Andrew nearer. Showing him the results of his considerations, he commented on them: “Look, all the girls murdered bore the name of flowers – and these flowers were left with them after their death. Lily Morgan had the lily, Heather Mills with a bunch of heather and so on. Now, we have eight of them, killed every ten days starting with the beginning of June…” “He seems to be collecting summer flowers as a kind of tribute to summer, doesn’t he?” “I think so. But then there’s one more left - tonight, or, maybe, tomorrow, he is to kill again”, Jonathan’s face acquired concerned look. “Well, the last one is Rose Hopkinson”, he said, showing her photo to Andrew. “Well… Hmm… Rose with a rose flower”, the latter replied musefully. “Look, why’s this flower here?” His finger was pointing to lilaceous weird flower lying on the grass three feet to the left from the victim. For a second, Jonathan felt remorseful for being so inattentive to details. But… “Of course, that’s iris, Mr. Blade. My wife grows flowers like that, plenty of them. She is always busy in the gar… Mr. Blade, wait!” But Jonathan was too off the wall because of that staggering thought that had dawned on him. He hopped into the Ford and was already on the way home, overwhelmed with thoughts: “Iris. Iris. Iris must be at home. I’ll get there and won’t let her leave the house. That cannot be Iris. Certainly not.” These words buzzed in his head like wasps. Finally, Blade’s house heaved in sight, lit by headlights. * * * Light was turned on in the living room and in the kitchen. As Blade opened the front door, he sensed delicious smell of roast meat with spices and herbs – just like his ex-wife used to cook for special occasions. The radio could be heard from the living room, too, giving noisy sounds of U2’s brand new song (ironically, “Iris”). Yet, it was unnaturally quite. Jonathan’s heart was about to jump out of the chest, but he pulled out a gun and moved forward towards the kitchen. He was terrified by the thought that Iris could be harmed. Radio sound were getting nearer as he approached the kitchen door, which was open. Iris flowers were scattered all around the kitchen floor, and she lay, having only her underwear on. Gentle white lace was stained with blood. And a big purple iris was resting in her beautiful mouth, her skin still looking alive and tender, her black hair artistically messed up. Iris… Jonathan froze to the floor, unable to move, think, yell and even cry. “Dear Iris”… There she lay, the final specimen in the collection, complementing the terrifying tribute to summer. Life was leaving her for good, taking away fresh fair complexion and blush, and a flower remained the only manifestation of life, though not fully dead and not fully alive. As anger began rising in his guts, he squeezed huge fists and was about to take the phone out of his pocket: need to call Jake, need to call Andrew. Meanwhile, a tall thin man in round glasses was creeping behind him with a kitchen knife, getting ready to attack… Read More