A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 9

Jenkins saw the flashing light in the bedroom from way down the hall. Mostly it was bright yellow to dull but there were also some flashes of white light too. On top of that there were voices, or at least 'a' voice. It was Ransack screaming: “On/Off! On/Off! On/Off! On/Off!” while furiously flicking the lightswitch up and down. “Enough light now, Mackintosh, or d'you still insist on using that fucking flash of yours? Maybe destroying fragile evidence with it's harshness? Oh go on, get me again, I'll say 'cheese' this time! But I know your kind. The camera's just something to obscure your face while you perv in on death and rape and sexual violence. It's your own sneaky way to get a close up of a cunt.... get your nose right in there and then curse the job while your cocks standing at full mast! I'm fucking onto you Mackintosh!”

Jenkins entered the room and  froze, slack-jawed. Not at the bloody mess laying in the corner, but at the bloody mess standing opposite it: his chief, Ransack, rattling the lightswitch.

“The man's crazy!” screamed Mackintosh. “Absolutely fucking crazy! You need to stop him and get him out of here! He's bleeding all over the fucking crime scene!”

 At that moment Ransack flicked the light on and stopped. Although the room was now evenly lit for some weird reason Ransack seemed especially illuminated. It was as if the forces that be were shinning a light on him. He looked like some insane character you'd find staring back at you from a shop window display at Christmas time. Ransack composed himself. He adjusted his shirt, pulled his jacket to a straight fit, and drew his tie up. It was more out of habit than any serious idea that he could make himself look respectable. For that he'd need a bed bath, a whole new change of clothes, a case of make-up, at least one good doctor and a psychiatrist. All his meager attempt at composing himself managed to do was make him look even more crazier than before. In the weird light that lit him up Ransack grinned and clasped his hands before him. Blood ran from his temple and left nostril.

“Boys, boys, boys,” he said, in a kind of humorous way, “let's not try to rise above our ranks. I'm the senior officer here and you'd do well not to forget it.. The only real problem I see is the incessant flashing of that fucking camera. It's having an awful strange effect on me, making me feel unwell... dizzy. I can't support it, hence the light! So put your mutiny back in your pants and let's get on. Everything's to be noted down... that I insist on!
OK, Jenkins, quit gawping at me like that and pull your face back together – gravity's not that strong. Get your notes out and write this down: Victim: female. Height: 5'4 – 5'8. Age: early thirties. Hair: brown (medium length). Eyes: hazel. Married: unlikely. Children: none. Occupation: whore – and a cheap one at that. Mackintosh, listen up and listen carefully. This is an order and not an insult: take your camera and FUCK OFF! We won't be needing you anymore. Get back with your own sorry lot in the kitchen or garden, sugar dusting dog turds for prints. Go on, Fuck off outta my sight! And watch your step as you go... there's evidence everywhere.”

 When Ransack had finished he stepped out of the spotlight and casually headed over towards the bed and body. Jenkins and Mackintosh stood staring at each other as if a ghost had just passed between them. It was Jenkins who moved first. As independent minded as he was he was still a policeman and rank and position were as much branded into him as the uniform he no longer had to wear. He had no choice but to obey the orders of a superior officer and so he followed Ransack over towards the massacre. Mackintosh, however,  quite outside of Ransack's control, ignored his order and remained in the room. For a moment he just stood there looking like he was thinking (or taking a shit). Once done with that he turned around, raised his camera to his eye and observed Ransack through it – his finger on the button ready to catch anything that wasn't words...

A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 8b

The first strange thing was Ransack himself. Even now, fully conscious of himself and his work, he still continued to break protocol by smoking and flicking ash around the crime scene. If anything, he seemed worse than ever, as if deliberately laying down a challenge to the photographer Mackintosh and anyone else who may be against such things. “Here, get a personal of this!” boomed Ransack, flicking his latest half-smoked cigarette over towards the body. It landed a foot away from the mountain of flesh and sizzled out slowly in a pool of jellied blood. Mackintosh snapped the cigarette and then turned his camera onto Ransack, the flash lighting up an evil leer that had now corrupted the Detective Inspectors face. As the shot of intense brightness from the flash faded Ransack once again clutched his head and scrunched his face up in agony. He reeled back a little and seemed unsteady on his feet. Then, for the first time in this whole affair, he said, “My God , I've come over all queer... I'm really not feeling at all well!” Barely had the Detective Inspector finished than he stumbled back and only remained on his feet thanks to the open door and making a quick grab for the handle.  Flash. Zmmmmm

 Detective Davies, who up until then had remained pinned in horror to the back wall, now unstuck himself and rushed to the aid of his chief. He caught him around the back and under the armpits, dragged him a foot and then lifted him back into a respectable standing position.
“God, are you alright Sir?” he asked, righting him. “Shall I go get some help? There's a doctor in the kitchen.”
Ransack blinked the room back into focus and steadied himself with a hand on Davies shoulder. Mustering up the stubborn resolve of an invalid he pushed himself on, around his support and made his way over towards a distressed wooden dresser which sat in the opposing corner to the body. Ransack leant against it for support. “I'm not sure, Davies,” he said, “I've been feeling ill all afternoon but was trying to keep it under control, you know, hoping it was maybe just something I had eaten. But there, well, you saw it, I just nearly went arse over bollocks on that one... God! YOU SAW ME, didn't you? You both saw it!”
“Saw it, Sir?” said Davies, astonished, “Hells Bloody Bells I did! It was me who caught you, Sir... you'd definitely have gone for a burton if not. But you've been acting mighty weird all afternoon ... Jenkin's noticed too. He even noted it down. We thought it may have just been the case, the scene... especially as it seemed to happen just after you viewing it. But yes, I saw it.... you took a fair old wobble, Sir!”
“And you, Mackintosh... did you see what happened?” Ransack asked, now looking nothing but a little cunning. Mackintosh didn't reply. Not with words anyway. Instead he once again pointed his camera at Ransack and ever so deliberately took another full shot of him. It not only meant that he had seen it, but that he'd captured it on film too – the revered and celebrated Detective Inspector Ransack caught going bandy-legged because of something that a butcher's apprentice see's every day. Ransack gave Mackintosh a glare. It was full of hatred... and something else. Mackintosh smiled and turned away. Ransack lit another cigarette. He sucked and puffed it into good existence, so just for a moment his face was completely obscured in a mist of thick mysterious smoke.

It was Davies who broke the silence. He didn't really think it relevant anymore but he asked anyway. “Sir, will you be wanting the doctor? He's just next door and I need some fresh air myself.”
“No, no doctors,” replied Ransack, “we've only 25 minutes left, I'm sure I can make it through... Though I do feel awful strange, God... and these cigarettes are going straight to my head . But doctor, NO! The only thing I need right now is an ashtray! But look, if you need fresh air go and give Jenkins a call. Get him in here with me and you save your soul and take over the secondary scene. Now go on.”
As Ransack finished he eyed the dresser clumsily, like a drunk, and seeing a half used ashtray leaned across to use it. Just as Ransack tapped the head of ash from his cigarette he lost his footing and crashed right along the dresser knocking everything everywhere. This time not even Davies could save him. Ransack crashed right along and then slid off the side, down past the drawers, whacked his temple on one of the handles and landed, to a flash, flush level with the carpet. For a moment Ransack looked along the soft dirty beige pile he had landed on. His eyes came to rest on a pair of scuffed and beaten shoes, something like you'd find on a dosser. They belonged to Mackintosh. Ransack spat out a huge gob of blood and then rose to his knees. He swiped the back of his right hand under his nose taking a smear of bright red blood. Davies rushed in to help him but Ransack warned him away. “GET JENKINS,” he barked, “Get Jenkins in here now!”

The Sunday Limerick

The Scented Tweets of a Twit Twitter

There once was a twit fond of Twitter
Who tweeted his life from the shitter
He typed 'pfff' for a fart
and LOL when he laughed
And twice once a day a 'Heil Hitler!'

--- - ---

A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 8a

Something had changed inside Ransack. The calm he had first shown immediately after his little turn was now upon him proper and he felt like a different man. All nerves about fucking up the investigation left him, and as to what any of his colleagues thought, well, it was 'fuck them' too! This was the biggest case of his career and one he could not afford to lose. And maybe he wouldn't. Just as quickly as half his mind had flushed blank a little while ago, now it was back; his head a cistern full of clean and clever police forensic knowledge. Once again he was able to look at the crime scene and see all the little clues and traces and tell-tale signs left behind by the killer. It had all returned. In an instant he knew who his colleagues were, his position, his character. He remembered his book, and the lectures he often gave on forensic policing and the importance of the secondary scene. Even small things like where to get extra evidence bags and spare gloves, or what to do with uniformed officers who lay traumatized and humming to the Gods in public, had returned. Ransack straightened himself to full authoritative height and fixed his tie. He was back! Though that's when things got really weird....