The Shattered Mirror

Chapter 1

"For God's sake, John, let me in!"
The short, stubborn officer stands his ground, his bushy brow furrowed at me and forehead creased.
"Can't, sorry" he replies curtly. I shift my weight onto one leg, placing a hand on my hip.
"You gotta be a pain in the ass all the time?" I mutter, more to myself than to him.
"You know, where she's from, disrespect is punishable by death" A familiar face appears in the painted doorway following a voice I know almost too well. I roll my eyes.
"Hah hah, you're so funny George. Though, last time I checked, that wasn't a law in Michigan"
The lanky man adjusts his spectacles and raises his eyebrows condescendingly.
"No, I mean where you're really from" George repeats, his voice dripping with so much sarcasm that you could take a damn shower in it. I shake my head and sigh. Normally I wouldn't mind his little jibes -more directed towards society than me- but right now I am standing in the street with the sunlight beating down on my back at eight am.
Which is way, way too early.
Hot, tired and a little hungry doesn't usually agree with me.
"Can you just convince this guy to let me in?" I whine impatiently. George shrugs and murmurs a few words to the officer, who stands aside begrudgingly to let me through. "Thank you" I call to him in a sing-song voice as I pass through. George leads me up about six flights of stairs until we reach the apartment. By the time we get there, his breathing has turned heavy and his face is red - he isn't really used to physical work.
There are uniformed police officers taking down witness statements with solemn expressions, and forensic analysts passing to and fro inside the open door like a colony of white ants, carrying small bags containing little specks of something or another. I pull a couple of latex gloves out of my pocket and start to stretch them over my hands.
"Okay, gimme the sitch"
"The victim's name was Howard Finnigan. He was in his mid-twenties, around twenty four or five. About one am the residents of the apartments nearby said they heard a scream. No one saw what happened because the windows were blocked up with pillows and sheets"
I frown, glancing quizzically at him.
"We think he was trying to muffle the noise or block out the light" George explains. I flick my eyebrows.
"Obviously hasn't been here long, then"
"No, only about three weeks. We checked the lease, and he was planning to move out in about a year. One of the witnesses said that they thought they saw a shadow pass by the window in the stairwell a couple of minutes after the scream, but at that time of night it could have been anything"
George finishes glumly, evidently put out by the lack of a lead. I have to say I'm not entirely pleased. I can only hope that the forensics team has more to say about the case. I stroll into the room, glancing all around me, taking in the surroundings. I am greeted by a blast of stifling air, scented with alcohol and tobacco, the former only slightly more prevalent.
"Jeez. This is like a snapshot out of the Golden Oldies" I wrinkle my nose. "Is that a gramophone? Are we sure he's twenty and not sixty?"
"Your empathy is overwhelming, Jules" George drawls drily.
"It's not like he's exactly gonna mind"
I hear a small, polite cough behind me and turn on my heels. Which would be a whole lot easier if I wasn't wearing heels. "Okay, Anna, what you got for me?"
One of the analysts removes her mask, revealing a heavily freckled face behind it. She's young for someone in her field, about the same age as the victim. But she's good at what she does; very good.
"Actually, it's what I don't have" Anna responds cryptically, her thick Scottish accent lilting her words. "We can't find the murder weapon. Well, that's not true - we know what it is, but it's missing"