“Sir, the body was first noticed by the assistant. She has a key to the house. She entered from the main door and walked to the study calling out for the old lady until she found her in the office.” The young detective smiles at his precise and clear narration of the morning events.
“Has the body been moved since then?” The older detective ignores the enthusiasm of the young one and asks.
“No, sir. The forensics team is not here yet. I was the first to arrive at the location once we got the call. Looks like suicide from where I stand. But it isn’t.”
“Hmmm! What makes you say that?” The older detective detects intelligence hidden behind the enthusiasm.
“Because of this.” He points the gloved finger to the diary splattered with blood stains.
“So, she died while writing in the diary. How does that prove it is a murder?” The older detective has some hoops planned for the young one to jump.
“Firstly, because I found the diary inside the drawer. Closed and neatly tucked away.”
“Those blood stains look old. We need the forensics here now.” The older one walks around the room restless, looking for something.
“Yes, they are definitely old. But this one.” Pointing the latex index finger to the one drop slightly brighter than the others. The one that looked out of the picture. Like it did not belong to the story it ended in. “This one is fresh.”
“Secondly, this is the last entry. The date is from 2 weeks ago.”
“Are you telling me she hasn’t been writing? The obsessive woman who kept a record of all her whereabouts. Who wrote down her every move and hasn’t written a single entry in over two weeks? That raises my suspicions—more than that bright red blood stain.” The older one reclaims his position.
“We should read the entry.”
“Sure sir. I agree.”
“Aarrgh! Where is that coffee? I thought the assistant was getting coffee for us.”
“She is, sir. I will go check.” The younger one’s enthusiasm is weakening in the absence of coffee.
“Yeah, make it fast. Unfortunately, I don’t have my reading glasses, so you will have to read the diary for me.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. Be back with the coffee.”
He walks back holding 2 cups, almost giddy about reading a dead woman’s very last thing she ever wrote.
August 14,1999
I am so done with all of them. Every time the phone rings I can just see my bank account getting thinner and thinner. It is like they have collectively decided not to lift a finger until it is to speed dial my number for more money. Now Luke wants me to pay for his daughter’s wedding. That child, I love her, but she had no chance of being good at anything with such iodiotic parents. But then that would mean my own children should have been successful and rich considering my successful life. I just want to shut them all out once and for all.
So I read a clause in my life insurance. It claims that if my death is ruled as a suicide or murder then all my insurance money goes to charity. And none of these ungrateful pieces of shit will get anything. So let’s try the first option.
What in the bloody name of FUCK! I cannot do this. My finger is bleeding so much, I can hardly write. Why did I have to try using the left hand? And how did I end up cutting my finger when it was the wrist I supposed to slit? Clearly, I need professional help.
Aaha!
“But this does not prove anything. It could still be a suicide. A bitter old lady killed herself and donated millions of dollars to charity. She outsmarted her whole ungrateful family. Now that is good journalism. Hey, call that blogger who keeps leaving his card at our office.” The coffee has done its magic on the older one by now.
“Sir, I still think this could be murder.” The younger one has a point that no one will listen to.
“Detective, what difference does it make? Either way, the old lady fulfilled her wish.”
“After the forensics team has done their work, we will disclose this to the whole family.”
‘Forensics’! The younger one might be able to convince them about his theory. He reassures himself.
Black Coffee and Grey Stories 