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...