Murder Under The Nose

The winter night of Chicago pushes the snowfall south from the winds of Lake Michigan. 10:27pm on Tuesday, the florescent lights populate the skyline orange and blue. Blanche stares out the window of an apartment with the orange and blue lights reflecting off her green eyes. In her vise grip she wrings her fingers around a rope, swelling her fingertips into purple bulbs like grapes. Beneath her shaking hands and coarse palms was Gavin Eldermire, with the rope wrapped three times around his forty year old neck. His jaw clenched as he gasped for air over and over, gagging and drooling bloody saliva down his overcoat lapel. Blanche continued to stare out the Chicago window, seeing the thick snowfall sprinkle the Windy City white, watching the white curtains sway over her view.

Blanche walked into Detective Archie Leech’s office and stood by his upholstered chair in front of his cluttered oak desk. The hot-tempered Texan native set down his cigar in the divet of his porcelain ash tray, on top of a stack of newspapers. The light blue smoke drifted towards his wood ceiling, which had a circular fade in coloring where the smoke had worn its saturation over years and years of smoking. Archie looked tensely at Blanche, the gruff crease on the bridge of his nose from equally long years of pensive stares carved fear into her heart.

Archie coughed a harsh cough, curdled with coffee and ash. “Ms. Blanche,” he sighed tiredly, “A journalist for The Informer was murdered last night, Gavin Eldermire. Strangled in his apartment.” He leaned back with discontent. “Little ol’ fashioned method, don’tchya think?”

Blanche locked her eyes with his. “Yes.”

“I reckon this killer planned to take out Gavin, and either found whatever was lying around or he ain’t too creative.” Archie looked down at his shuffled tapestry of documents and envelopes on top of his desk. Blanche watched his hands carefully, as if beneath all that paper was the truth, hidden in this very office.

Archie reached over and took another puff of his cigar. “Whatddya make of it, Ms. Blanche? Premeditated? Impulsive? Most murder is done on a whim, s’not til the next day they realize what they did.”

“Must’ve been impulsive,” she tightened her stomach, swirling with guilt into a vortex of vomit.

“Must’ve been. I reckon this fella got the wrong idea of Gavin and took it too far.” Archie looked up at Blanche, then to the side. “You’ve been working for me for about a year now. What say you, kid?”

“What do you mean?” Blanche replied.

“You got a hunch on who might’ve done it? Friends and family say he had no enemies, no unpaid debts, went to church; an all-around decent guy. They not tellin’ the truth or they just don’t know the real Gavin?”

Blanche licked her lips and sighed as slowly as her lungs could let out air. Suddenly, she had control of the narrative. “Perhaps, Archie, it was impulsive, like you say.”

“Figures. No one’s gonna care about a newspaper author long enough to have bad blood.”

“Perhaps, Archie, it wasn’t bad blood. Perhaps there was no motive at all.”

Archie furrowed his brow out of disapproval yet curiosity. “No motive?”

“What if, say, someone killed just to kill?”

“We call ‘em psychopaths, Ms. Blanche. Serial killers kill for the thrill.”

“Not a serial killer,” she corrected, “Someone killed Gavin, perhaps, to know what it’s like to kill. And more so, perhaps, to know if they could get away with it.”

Archie dug daggers with his pensive eyes at Blanche for accusing a motive so wild that he couldn’t help but wonder. Perhaps she said too much. He began to laugh. “Ms. Blanche, you should stick to paperwork. I’ll find the killers.”

Archie stood up from his weathered desk and walked towards her with a fatherly love, gently placing his hand on her back. “You’re going on that little get away, aren’t ya? Taking time off for a vacation tomorrow.”

“Yessir, Archie. Going to Denver.”

“What’s in Denver?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why go?”

“To get away.”

Archie chuckled at Blanche’s coy retort. “We could all use a little nothin’. Tell you what, Ms. Blanche, you’ve been good to me and workin’ long hours, why don’t you get a head start on that little get away? Take the day off.”

A slow smile curled around her thin lips. “Really?” she asked in a low tone.

“Really.” Archie escorted her to the door of his office. “And when you’re back in town, I’ll tell you about this case with Gavin Eldermire. See how close your hunch was to our mystery murderer’s motive.”

“Do tell me,” Blanche smiled wide as she straightened her hat upon her head.

“Who knows,” Archie pondered aloud, “Maybe it’s not so complicated in the end. Perhaps the truth will be right under my nose. I just have to get through all this paperwork.”

“Perhaps.” Blanche wrapped a scarf around her neck three times. “Farewell, Archie.”