The Yellow Skittle Sociopaths

Chapter 6

I stride through the swinging doors to find a silent massacre has occurred. Dead bodies of chefs and cooks are strewn across the floor, with identical slash marks across their faces. I hear Anthoni yell from the dining room.

"Hey! What happened?"

I hear her but do not respond. Besides, I work better alone anyways. I kneel and study the nearest body sprawled on the tile floor; a young woman whose features are unintelligible due to bloody marks across her face. The slashes are thin; obviously made by a sword or machete. Bloody footprints lead away from the killings and out the back door. I pull out my iPhone and start taking pictures of the prints and slashes.

I hear Anthoni again. "Come on Savanna Jackson! I'm too lazy to get up... you know how lazy I get when I'm bored and HUNGRY!"

I roll my eyes and study the prints closely. Size eleven men's. Hiking boots. Most likely made of leather. But upon looking closer, I notice something strange. One print, undoubtedly the left, has been muddled; which tells me the murderer limps on his left foot. There's something else too; something someone else would have overlooked. The heel of the right boot is missing a chunk of rubber, almost as if some small animal came and bit a piece off.

"I AM NOT coming in there.... I WILL NOT.... I don't care what you're doing...." Anthoni yells, and I hear a chair fall over, quickly followed by the sound of a knife slice through the air to wedge itself in an innocent wall.

I roll my eyes again. She always did this to me back in Britain. Complain and try to get me to call her in. Not. Going. To. Happen. "What ever you say, and I didn't think that wall had done anything to hurt you," I call sweetly, knowing that will set her on edge, and begin my searching again.

I notice that nothing else in the kitchen has been touched. Pots, pans, knives, dishes.... everything seems fine and untouched by the killer. This means he used his own weapon, and no one knew he was there, or certainly they would have tried to defend themselves. It seems as though the killer came in, delivered a slaughter, and left.

"But why?" I mutter to myself, pacing around the dead bodies and doing my best not to step on them. Those filthy, petty policemen would want the crime scene in peak condition. "Why would someone do that? What were their motives?"

Suddenly it hits me. "It's so obvious!" I practically shout, and I am not at all surprised when Anthoni yells, "What is?"

But naturally I do not respond. If she wants to know, let her come herself. The answer is as plain as daylight itself. The owner of this restaurant had a row with some producer. Perhaps he did not pay a debt or bill. The producer got angry, and killed all the workers of the man who had done him wrong.

Simple really.

I bounce on my toes and stride out of the kitchen, tracking bloody footprints on the maroon carpet of the simple dining room and completely ignoring the holes Anthoni was boring into my back with her eyes. I take the stairs two at a time and find myself in front of the frosted glass door sporting the label "Manager." I turn the brass doorknob and let myself into the stuffy office room. Bookshelves and file cabinets line the walls, and a simple shaggy rug adorns the hardwood floor. Luckily the blood on my shoes had wiped clean on the floor below, so nothing suspicious will seem to have occurred in this room to a police investigator's ignorant eye.

Nothing appears out if place, until my blue eyes notice the creamy file sitting open upon the mahogany desk that centered the entire room. I stride to it and grasp the top paper, which appears to be a sales record. Circled in red pen is a name.

Antonio Banderez.

"Gotcha." I whisper, place the paper back in the file and stuff the whole thing into a large pocket inside my trench coat. Souvenir.