Acess Code for Murder

The Infinite Possibilities

She was still conscious, which surprised me a bit. I could hear her moans of pain, something that stressed me out even more. I picked her up and layed her on the backseat of my car, underneath a blanket. I turned on the police siren to get by faster, and, surely enough, everybody pulled over just to let me pass. A drive like that would normally have been about 20 minutes with all the traffic, but I somehow managed to finish it in 6 minutes. I pulled over by the hospital's side entrance, where all the ambulances were coming and leaving. Taking her out of the car, I froze for a second, not knowing what to do. My senses were drifting away and my grip on reality faded quickly. A man came by behind me saying:

- Sir, are you ok? - I came back when he asked it a second time. - Are you ok?

- Yes, but she's not. - He looked at her shoulder and exhaled heavily.

- Hey! Give me a hand here. - He said to someone coming from the inside of the hospital.

They quickly took her away into the ER or something while I stood there waiting. Eventually, I sat down on a bench, while just waiting for my love to come out of that door.

She didn't, though; only a 60-year-old doctor came, asking who James Atton was. Expectimg the worst, tears formed in my eyes, something the doctor realized.

- Settle down, son. She's fine. - I emitted a big sigh of relief. - We need to keep her here for medical reasons, but she'll be able to go back home in no time. - He patted my back and went back in.

Still feeling a little crushed and broken, I returned to the hellish neighborhood where everything took place, with a deranged mind and attitude that just proved I was the open facet of the town. 

I was only sure of one thing: I had made a very important mistake, which made the killer slip by. Amidst all the confusion, I forgot to look if there was anyone behind the door... I know it sounds very dumb and you might be wondering "Why would you do that?". It's very simple, to be honest: after stabbing Maggie, the killer must've hid behind the door, since coming down the stairs would have been way too risky, because I could've caught them. Hiding in the rooms would also have been risky and not probable, since I did check inside the bedroom to see if she was there. 

I suddenly realized at that point: "She wasn't supposed to be in my office. What was she doing there?" I arrived to a quick conclusion: she was peeking at my notes, either to destroy them, or to manipulate me away from the killer. Her visit to Anne's house made it sound even more suspicious, even though the maid guaranteed she hadn't been in the upstairs area (even thought she could've been clearly lying). What if she was just a distraction? I still hadn't investigated the gardening company and the gardener herself, although the description of her seemed suspicious: we hadn't come across anyone with a giant scar in the face, so it was unlikely she had actually done something. Besides, she came way too late for the robbery, so she couldn't have possibly stolen it, unless of course a person was lying.

Like most of the cases I talk about here, this was a screwing with my brain, its difficulty messing around with my brain cells. There were too many possibilities that needed to be answered, but bringing up the philosopher question again, I don't give up. I can't. I can't stop for the Law; it's something that I need to finish or else I'll stay like Descartes: floating around, not able to touch the ground and too far away from the surface to actually breath. 

I returned to my office, and everybody was still in my house.

- You can all go home. - I said, holding resentment towards everybody I adressed. - As soon as I solve this I'll call you all and immediately arrest the culprit.

- Is she okay? - Simone asked. I didn't bother answering. I just opened the front door letting the cold autumn air come right in, with a scent of leaves and guilt penetrating my nose.

I had enough of that town, and just wanted to go. To leave. And to do that all I had to do was solve that code.

I went upstairs to my office to settle down and concentrate. The code needed to be solved immediately, but I couldn't do it: all I kept doing was shutting my eyes, and so I went into my room, read two or three pages off of Erica's oldest book: "Tis the Season" and immediately fell asleep.

Writers in general need to have broken minds to succeed: they need to both understand madness and sanity to write about them, and no person can get a grip on both at the same time. That thought intoxicated my mind: "I should become a writer." I said to myself at that point. "I'll be even better than..." I picked up the book again to check Erica's full name. "Better than Erica S. Niegel", I thought as I closed my eyes.