Chapitre I

Skin: pale.
Eyes: bloodshot. Bulging from his skull.
Tongue: swollen. Hanging over blue lips.
Position: Stomach down. Both hands over his throat.

Gently, I comb my fingers through his oily grayed hair. An older gent. Unkempt. Smells as though he hasn’t bathed in awhile.

I pry his arms away from his neck. Rigor mortis has set. Been dead for a few hours, at least.

“Identification?” I ask.

“None, monsieur. He is a stranger,” the officer tells me in a shaky voice.

The dead man’s fingers creak and snap as I uncurl them. The poor officer gags.

Strange. He is missing two finger nails; middle and pinky.

Stranger still: the skin over the pinky is smooth, scar tissue long faded. Yet there’s dried blood around the middle cuticle. He lost the middle nail recently.

“The witness?”

“Over in the kitchen monsieur,” he points, “though she… hasn’t been responsive.”

I lay the body’s hand on the ground. After removing my gloves and straightening my coat; delicately, I step over the body and towards the kitchen door. It creaks open. A single, faded candle lights the room. Within the corner of the dark room, lit by a weak orange glow, a young woman is curled on the floor, hugging her legs to her chest.

I remove my hat, and kneel next to her. “Mademoiselle–”

No response. She’s quivering, clenching her thumb between her teeth. Her breath is heavy and uneven.

“I am detective Aldric Escoffier. What is your name, chérie?” Nothing. Her eyes are red, dry trails of tears run down her cheeks.
I inch closer. “Chérie, I understand you witnessed something horrifying. I am trying to make sense of it. But I cannot help, if you don’t tell me what happened.” Her eyes meet mine. We sit in silence, then her gaze returns to the dancing shadows on the wall.

My lips curl inward. I stand and turn my back.

“He strangled himself…”

I look over my shoulder, eyebrows perked. “Pardon?”

“He ….” Her broken voice trails off with quivering lips.

I kneel back to her side and lay my hand over her arm. “Easy, chérie–start from the beginning.”

She fidgets. “I found him… out in the field. As though he was half awake. He could barely walk. I took him here–to my home. When he came too, he looked at me. He screamed, and he–” she chokes on the words, placing a hand over her neck, “h-he…” tears spilled from her eyes, “he wouldn’t stop…” she grasped her head with both hands and buried her face into her knees. Strained, painful sobs and whimpers followed suit.

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle. Merci.” I squeezed her shoulder gently, and returned to the scene. The young officer, standing in the corner furthest from the body, looks to me with worried curiosity.

“Suicide, he strangled himself,” I tell him.

“‘Strangled himself’?! What could drive him to do such a thing?”

“Nothing. It should be impossible. Grab a cart, and help me bring this man to my office. I will perform an autopsy.”

The young officer does not respond. I click my fingers and repeat my instructions. Beads of sweat rolled down his face as he passed me.

Now, alone with a dead man, I rub the ache out of my left forearm and light a cigarette. Coughing from the repulsive taste, I meet his vacant gaze.

What drove you to do such a thing?