The Degenerates - Under Edit

t w e n t y s e v e n

It was at least a ten-fifteen minute job, as some parts of the outline were coated thicker in places. I had snapped two blade-ends before I had finished up, blunting the third, but I had to be as careful as possible, I didn't want the librarian discovering my vandalism just yet. A film of white powder and flakes of paint piled on the floor at my feet, so I reminded myself that I'd have to clean up before leaving.

I pressed the outer surfaces of the now cut out door, attempting to find a place where a door handle would have been. After straining my touch senses, I found a very minute dip in paint. If I hadn't have concentrated so hard, I would have missed it over and over again.

I pressed the blade into the dip, twisting, creating a small cavity. I used the torch to carve the exact outline of the hole. I fished around the internal lining of my jacket, my fingers catching the small zipper, reaching in and collecting the small plastic bag.

My fingers shook, and I tried to breathe to slow my heart rate.

I tipped the bag, letting the small key fall out.

I inhaled, and pushed the key into the cavity. It resisted, but with some force, the key eventually slid in. I exhaled gleefully.

I had taken the key and bag when I was at Trey's last, knowing he kept it hidden in the bathroom, however the original discovery of cocaine in the bag was now long gone, flushed away.

I had racked my brain over and over since the discovery, so much so that I could barely sleep properly, my mind not wanting to shut off. I kept wanting to make a connection between all three; the brothers, the drugs, and the key. I then found about Brad's drug addiction. Whether Trey believed me or not, I knew that the arson attacks were related to Brad and James, and possibly then to Brad's murder.

The jacket I found from the frat was now my last remaining hope.

I used all my grip strength, despite my fingers being fatigued from the effort of cutting through the paint, and pried the door open.

Much to both my suspicion and suspense, the door revealed a room.

Perhaps not so much a room anymore; it looked more like a very short corridor. A gap in the infostructure of the walls of the building. Maybe it was also used for storage previously, but then again, it was coated in more grey dust than I'd seen anywhere in the town, broken gravel, small pebbles littering the floor.

The room was held up by brick and mortar on either side, a concrete ceiling, and a filthy concrete floor. The fire had to be started here, but whoever started it, had to have come to the realisation that concrete does not burn.

The fire would have had to been started on paper, old rubbish, books or whatever other flammable material was littered on the ground. Once it ran out of things to catch alight, it would have simmered down.

The files, the library itself, was just an accident.

Whoever wanted to torch this room, must have left after the anticlimactic finish, however satisfied that whatever else they wanted gone, had incinerated. Charred remains would have still been intensely hot, possibly still even burning slightly.

I thought about this, then looked around my surroundings: up, down, sideways. And then I found it. A window.

The window in the corner near the shelves must have been open; and knowing Alsbury's weather patterns, perhaps it was windy. The wind would have been breezing through the open window, the air blowing with the burning embers, restarting the fire.

I imagined what this area of the library could have looked like, and now that wall that stood before me was bare, and nothing stood up against it, suggested to me that possibly the shelf of archived files were standing right next to the door. An ember, a tiny flame, anything hot from the room must have reached the files.

These possibilities swam around in my head. I came to the conclusion that the files were collateral damage; perhaps having nothing to do with Brad, James or the murder. I suppressed Trey's voice, because it was now that I realised that I still had a link.

I pulled my phone out, finding the photo of the jacket I took. The jacket had been dirtied and coated in dirty grey dust, and at the time I had guessed they were from a construction site. I ran my fingers down the wall next to the doorway, inside the room.

I rubbed my fingers together, inspecting the pick up. The grit matched that found on the jacket sleeve.

I had a spiderweb of connections and assumptions flying around in my head. I couldn't tell which brother had been here, as I didn't know who's jacket it was. I did, however know, that whoever started the fire in the manor was not alone.

Blood makes for the perfect partner in crime.

It was starting to dim inside the room, which meant the sun was setting now. I had what I needed for now, but the room needed more inspection, because I still have absolutely no idea why these fires were started. I would have to tell Trey, and I could now, as I had something that proved him wrong.

I turned to leave the room, when I noticed a dark shape in the corner of the room. My blood ran cold.

I almost laughed in relief, my chest rising and falling deeply. As my eyes adjusted in the darkness of the corner, they were just boxes stacked on top of each other. I reached for my torch, and flicked it over the boxes.

I blinked as I recognised that these were the town archives; so perhaps not all of them perished completely.

The boxes were charred, and I still had a small amount of light. I opened the first one, which had the years 1998-1999. I shone the torch over the surface of the box, finding at the very top, a stack of newspapers bound together by twine.

The very front page had a very familiar headline. I found my phone again, finding the picture I took of the random newspaper clippings from inside the jacket in Brad's room.

Madman Manhunt: Where is he now?

I heaved the box of the three that were stacked underneath. I needed to get out of the library before dark.

I strained at the weight of the box, but managed to get it out of the room and onto the table. I watched the librarian lock the doors; as I expected, but I ensured I could open and close that window in the corner.

I forced the stiff window open, pushing out the flimsy flyscreen with my palms. I locked the room up, and used my jacket to 'sweep' the paint dust under the shelves. I gathered my belongings, stashing them on my body so I had free hands. I tried not to groan as I hoisted the box up on to the ledge, then dropped it flat on the grass. I followed suit, and once out, pulled the window down behind me.

I broke a sweat carrying the box back to my car, droplets dripping from my forehead into my eyes, and now that it was nightfall, it was not any easier to see, and it didn't help my car was a dark grey.

I located my car, finally able to drop the box on the passenger side. My back ached from the weight.

I slid into the driver's side and drove away from the library, back to the dorms, and parked in my usual spot. I couldn't take the box into the dorm, so I gave into my curiosity, and opened it back up again. I used the blade to snap the twine, and looked at the front of each newspaper, which most, related to the 'manhunt'.

Though, by the time I had sifted through each month's issue of 1998, the last one stated: New Year's Resolution Turned Problematic: One Becomes Three.

I skimmed the story, which concluded that the serial shooter did not work alone. Forensics concluded that multiple people were included in the murders, and they still weren't found by the end of the year. I reached for 1999's editions, hoping that they did find them, and did haul their asses in prison.

I hung my torch by its wrist strap on the rear view mirror, my arm aching from holding it up. I find that Police had begun closing in on a local gang, which were suspected to be those responsible of the murders, in March of 1999. By June, they had caught them.

I bit my tongue so hard that I tasted blood, I begged to hold back tears, and I shook my head in disbelief. June's issue had written a story on the ringleader of the gang, Martin Jennings.

Martin Jennings had been married; and had a one year old son named Trey.