Chapter One
". . .Police are suspecting that last night's killing of Maxwell
Davenport was caused due to a robbery. . ."
The television crackled in the background, the
young lady on the screen staring back out of it, her black hair neatly tied
back, and her voice clear and demanding. The human voice, a powerful tool of
communication informing the world of the truths that lay hidden in the cracks
of society if not told otherwise.
". . .It is believed that there are no leads at this point and
forensics have been combing the area since the body was discovered in the early
hours of this morning . . ."
Finding evidence in a filth ridden alleyway
downtown? Good luck.
The television with which the ladies upper half
seemed to suspend sat on a small stand in the corner of the room, with a
balcony with white sliding doors to its right that looked out at the city from
a few stories up. A sofa lay against the wall to the right of that again,
brown, leather, plain. There was no carpet, and except for the tiny coffee
table next to the sofa there was nothing else in the room really worth
mentioning.
". . . No suspicious fingerprints were found on the body of
Maxwell himself or on any of his possessions. . ."
Adjacent to the lounge area was a small kitchen,
white and tiled with wooden wall units situated on every available space where
the fridge was not situated - the lounge end of the bar. There was no wall
dividing the lounge and the kitchen, instead there was a small bench with a
fake marble counter top that could be used with stools on social occasions. On
the counter was the remnants of this morning's breakfast, a large plate of
beans, eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms on toast, all smothered in brown sauce.
". . .If you have any information that may help authorities in
the case of Maxwell Davenport then please call the number at the bottom of your
screens now or report to your local police station. . ."
With a slight murmur the only occupant of the
house got up to his feet, discarded the dishes into the kitchen sink and turned
down the hallway switching off the
television with the remote as he passed. Straight ahead was the door to the
outside world, to the right was where he slept, and to the left just past the
bathroom was the room where he was currently heading. Inside the room was dark,
a pull chord light was the only source of illumination and lit the room to a
stagnant glow without the help of the windows (which were blocked by a thick
set of dark red curtains - almost maroon). Looking ahead towards the curtains
with its back to the door was the large desk with a computer and large piles of
paperwork. The paperwork continued all around the room, files and documents and
folded newspapers lay in a display of organised chaos and continued half way up
the walls.
The walls were all covered with the clippings
from newspapers and internet print outs, assorted crime files and stories
regarding crimes committed and criminals involved or suspected, all connected
with push pins and red string.
The person walked up to the wall with a permanent
marker in hand, staring at the wall for a moment or two before revealing a
small smile.
"One more down, bye bye Mr Davenport"
And with that a profile picture of max was
crossed out and next to him a similar built male was staring back at Max's
killer, expressionless and unconcerned.
"And you're next"
