By Abhijato Sensarma
I’ve always considered brevity to be blue. A concise plan, a neat introduction, and a minimalist finish—all speak of a calmness I adore.
Brevity is my greatest ally and my greatest foe. I speak in short sentences. I punctuate my speech with thoughts about the environment—the clues reside in the latter, after all—and I take in a crime scene with the unfiltered eyes of youth. Then, I contemplate what the scene hides from me with the wisdom of my twenty-three years in the force.
Like always, I ask the officers to be as brief as possible today.
My guy in the behavioral unit, Dr. Joe Smith, opens his file and reviews the notes his team’s prepared for him. “The murderer displays a clear pattern of homicide across the city,” he declares in front of my team. “And he’s done it before, perhaps with a different M.O. He leaves behind a feather of the bluebird at the crime scene… and nothing else.”
“Nothing?” I look around the briefing room. My team remains focused on the presentation.
“Nothing. No DNA. No prints. He wiped it clean—like he knew where we’d be looking.”
“Maybe he does know where we’ll be looking,” says Inspector Grayson, my understudy. He’s the second-in-command at the station and appreciates brevity, too. This makes him one of the few people I interact with beyond the confines of this job.
The behavioral expert tilts his head sideways, probably considering Grayson’s point. “There’s not much we’ve been able to decipher at this point. The killer hasn’t exhibited any other identifying patterns. He’s not interested in taunting the authorities.”
“But does he do it for the recognition?” Grayson asks. “Leaving a bluebird feather at every crime scene is a narcissistic trait.”
Dr. Smith looks down at his notes. “We thought so, too. But my team thinks it acts as a deeper symbol for the killer’s purpose. His murders have all been committed in the same manner—a slit throat in a single stroke. Almost surgical. He knows what he’s doing.”
“How do we know the killer’s a he, Doctor?” Rachel Donavan asks. She’s a recent, but good, addition to the team.
“The victims might have been efficiently disposed, but there have been traces of a struggle on a few occasions. Chloroform was used during most of these breaking-and-entering assaults. The physique of the victims, the minimal trauma during the struggle, and the height of the killer if the person indeed attacks the victims while they’re tucked into their beds—it all points to the likelihood of the killer being a man.”
“Let’s not rule out the possibility,” Rachel says.
“We haven’t.”
She crosses her arms. “Have we cross-checked the records to see if it’s someone from within the police force?”
This query is met with silence—not out of ignorance, but apprehension. The victims were all criminals with one thing in common. By the time their cases were solved, their statute of limitations had run out. They’d escaped justice. Until they ran into this man—or woman—who the press has now dubbed Bluebird Killer.
“Looks like there’s no answer to that just yet,” Grayson says. He proceeds to assign the officers their daily duties and looks toward me for approval. I nod. Then we disperse. There are other cases, for now.
At the end of the day, I find myself standing in front of the evidence board again, where a picture of the bluebird feather occupies its center. The originals reside in the station’s storage vault.
Staring at the board helps me collect my thoughts. The threads travel across the length and breadth of the case. Usually, I study the faces of the suspects, imagining how each one must think while taking a life. But in this case, there are no suspects. Not yet. And if the killer continues in his ways without committing an error, it will remain the same.
“They always end up making a mistake,” Grayson says as he walks up next to me. It’s late in the evening, which means most computers have been turned off, and our officers are headed home. The night shift will begin shortly. But for now, the space around the board remains empty except for the two of us.
“Who’s it going to be tonight?” Grayson asks.
I stare at him for a while. Then, I reach into my pocket and take out a photograph. There is another thread which connects the second type of people whose pictures are tacked on this board—the victims. I reach forward and pin this new photograph at the end of the string.
“Rupert Johansson. Sixty years old. Killed his mother before eloping at the age of nineteen. Lives on the other side of the city now. A bachelor businessman who’s being investigated for embezzlement in a separate case.”
“You’re sure you want to keep at this?”
I nod.
Grayson looks at me the same way he looks at the criminals when we interrogate them. With pity in his eyes and the burden of regret which comes from knowing some people are beyond help. It’s a look I despise—but I have to have the courage to keep going. Like me, what my victims did must eat them up inside. By killing them, I’m doing them, and our community, a favor. It’s why I can’t ever stop.
“Good night,” he finally says, punctuating my introspection with a sigh of his own as he walks away.
I reach into my pocket to feel another bluebird feather. We are the men in blue, the ones meant to serve justice. But sometimes, justice takes too long the first time around. When it knocks on Rupert’s door tonight, it will be swift. It will be brief. It will be blue.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Whoah!
Scarily precise. Good job!
Killer closing line! No pun intended ;)
I really love the voice of this! It feels like something out of an Agatha Christie novel.
Interesting premise and twist. The guy in charge is the guy they’re after. You would think his blue obsession would make it obvious, but maybe he keeps it that veiled?
The line about Grayson being one of the few people the narrator interacts outside his job is excellent foreshadowing!