May 27, 2012

Chapter Seven: Wild Goose Chase


“OK, so Marceau should have the warrant and we’ll be good to go,” proclaimed an exuberant Stone, who briefly motioned his hands towards the sky in relief until Sterling slapped him to put them back on the steering wheel.
“Well, we’re actually pretty late. Marceau told us to meet him an hour ago,” reminded Sterling anxiously.
“If he followed the values he preached, then he should know that patience is a virtue. Plus I’m pretty sure that picking up doughnuts—which could be our last meal—is always a good idea to settle our nerves.” As they drew nearer and nearer towards the address, it became clearer and clearer that this was not the area that you would expect a Latino serial killer. Surrounded by suburbia, Stone was noticeably irked by all of the yuppie, cautious and affluent white people staring at his beaten down Prius with dismay, with antagonism. Ignoring that though, they finally pull into the driveway of the house which was as bland as possible with no distinguishing features from the other factors and as white as the snowy background. Marceau was leaning on his black Mercedes, just tapping his leather shoes and his eyes fixed on his watch, intent on nothing else. As the trio regrouped, Stone offered Marceau a pastry which he vehemently denied, then produced a pistol and as they neared the door alerted the group of the possibility that the killer lurking within and to stay by his side calmly and observantly.
As the door eerily creaked, the only light that seeped through came from the tops of the veiled curtains, as Stone fluttered a light switch to no avail.
“Didn’t pay his damn bills,” remarked Stone in frustration. As they drew the curtains open and let the sun into the room, the plain emptiness unsettled them all. No rugs, no pictures, scarcely any furniture except for a couple of chairs huddled by an old box set TV. As Stone walked around, urging the others to follow, he couldn’t shed the feeling that each creak, each soft thud of a footstep, even his own breath all allied against him; the very silence deafening by revealing the barely perceptible cacophony that surrounded him which practically embodied the soul sucking eyes of Mister Dominguez. The silence became a presence, sharpening every one of the group’s senses, their perception so finely tuned that their imaginations turned against them, shadows and hushed noises alike became the enemy. Yet, as they scoured the whole house, nothing appeared to be amiss, nothing appeared to be out of place. In fact, it was extraordinarily ordinary noted Stone, where a disturbing thought crept in that the mundane exterior compensated for some horrific paraphernalia elsewhere.
As they dared to venture down to the basement area however, a foul odor permeated the air, pungent and blood curdling, which caused the group’s hairs to stand on end. As they approached closer and closer to the room, the very stairs from underneath them groaned from their weight. Stone once again drew out his Glock, which shivered over the anticipation of grave danger. When Stone finally reached the bottom of the staircase alley and turned the corner, he immediately ducked back as he saw Dominguez merely standing in the middle of the room, a bizarre quirk he muttered in his mental conscience. After pacifying Sterling and Marceau and waiting briefly yet endlessly, Stone rallied as much audacity as he could, and ventured to peer back at the least expected image he could think of.
Feet dangling. Sterling and Marceau convened beside Stone, who already approached the hovering, rotting body suspended by a sturdy rope while a toppled chair lie beneath, and all three wore flummoxed expressions. Sterling examined closer and remarked that the body had to have been at least 72 hours old, right after the murder.
“Well, we might want to check that list of suspects again,” quivered Stone.
(Chapter Eight)