A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - part 7

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Ransack is smoking another cigarette. Mackinstosh's face is partly obscured by his camera. Davies legs have buckled and have somehow walked him backwards and stuck hid stiff straight up against the far wall. In the corner, directly behind the open door, and down off the left bottom edge of the bed, is the body. For Ransack it doesn't look as atrocious as the first time he saw it, and now looking closely, within the mess he can make out what would have been a flimsy nightgown and at least one average sized tit. The centre of the body is a big gaping hole. It looks like it has been stabbed through hundreds of times with a cooks knife. From this wound internal organs and intestines have been ripped out by the handful and are spilled down upon the floor. What was once the top end of a woman is now just a back piece of neck and maybe some windpipe. Who knows??? The entire face and head have been bashed in with such furious violence that there is nothing left except a lump of blood clotted hair. Pooled out a foot, around the entire length of the body, is thick black blood  picked through with slithers of skin, teeth, bone and flesh. On the wall, about knee height, there is a round blood splattered imprint where a head has been brutally slapped against stone. Off to the right of the body the bed is trashed. The wooden headboard has been freshly split and has come away at the left side. The mattress is bare and grimy; stained by years of body fluids and spilt drinks. The sheets and covers have been pulled free and hang off the left bottom corner of the mattress and trail over towards the body. It looks like the victim was dragged off the bed by her ankles as she tried desperately to grip a hold of something. It was Crimescene Photographer Mackintosh who broke the silence:

“Inspector, please don't ask for any 'upskirt' shots... I'm suffering from gout and am worried if I go to ground I may not be able to get back up. The last thing we need right now is another player out the game.”

Ransack didn't respond. He just took the words in and thought Mackintosh an even viler specimen of human maggot than he had done so before. From another angle, however, it was interesting what Mackintosh had said. Ransack understood from it that it was down to him to direct the photographer. That all he had to do was show a few discerning looks and order Mackintosh to capture whatever it was he wanted. Ransack tapped an inch of ash onto the carpet and thought. .

“Davies, get yourself over here... you need to start getting this room noted”
“I can't, Sir.... Really... I need a moment....” replied Davies, still pinned to the far wall, his words sounding as though he was chattering with the cold.
“Well, a moment is just what we haven't got!” replied Ransack. “I need you now, Davies.. Right this instant, please!”
“I'm sorry, Sir.. I.. am... but I can't.... I really can't!... I'm sorry, Sir...”

Ransack felt worn, exhausted. It seemed that even when he honestly tried to get on with his job that everything conspired against him. He lowered his head and with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand began to slowly massage his temples, working the stress around in a circular motion .Even with his eyes closed he could still see the blood.

Suddenly, as if someone had connected live electrodes to the sides of skull, there was a flash, and with the flash a sharp pain went right through Ransack's head and deep into his brain. Then it happened again, and again. And each time it happened, not only was there the paralyzing pain, but now the body in the corner seemed to light up electrified and become visible even through the skin of the Detective Inspector's eyelids. Ransack let his cigarette drop to the floor and now clenched his head in both hands and scrunched his face up like he was experiencing a torturous migraine

Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.

It was Mackintosh, shooting frame after frame after frame... a perverted leer visible just under his camera.

“MACKINTOSH WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!!!” screamed Ransack. “STOP IT THIS FUCKING INSTANT! STOP!!!!”

Mackintosh rifled of a couple more frames, sending Ransack into spasms of pain, and then quit. “Sorry, Sir, just a few personals for a rainy day... You never know when the internet may go down!” he said, aiming his camera down towards Ransack's smoldering cigarette on the carpet and taking a snap of it. “Don't worry Sir, that's for personal too,” he finished, “probably!”

Ransack grinned and stared hard at Mackintosh. Mackintosh gave a squirmy puzzled look back and then gripped a little tighter to his camera as if it could somehow save him. Ransack, once again, produced his pack of John Player Blacks, and still staring intensely at Mackintosh ever so carefully drew a cigarette loose, placed it between his lips and lit it “Don't worry Mac,” he said, in a frighteningly calm tone, “this time I'll use the ashtray.”

(To be Cont'd....)