Category Archives: suicide

Coffee Roulette: #FridayFictioneers

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PHOTO PROMPT © Yvette PriorC

Coffee Roulette

Steph and Tyler were left. The others were lying dead at the base of the table. Two coffee cups overturned. One drawer opened. Two left alive; two choices to make.

“It’ll be fun,” Sean promised. “Reward’s will be high!” A lark.

It wasn’t.

Sean chose coffee: drank, convulsed, died. Bob the same. Rose chose a drawer. Wrong choices.

“Coffee, or drawer?” The host asked, gun in hand.

Steph thought it was a simple pattern: coffee, coffee, drawer, drawer.

Tyler thought so as well and grabbed the coffee.

Wrong choice.

“Coffee, or drawer?”

$500,000,000. Beaucoup bucks.

Steph reached for the drawer.

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It’s #Friday Fictioneers prompt time, as always created and hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on her blog, Addicted To Purple.

The rules are simple if you’d like to do this:

    1. Use the photo on Addicted to Purple as your prompt (goes up on Wednesday).
    2. Write a 100 word story, complete with beginning, middle, and end.
    3. Make every word count.
    4. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor of the photo credit.
  1. Add the InLinkz button (below) so your readers can find the dozens of other bloggers who have taken up this challenge.

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From The Standpoint Of Water

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From The Standpoint Of Water

At the breaking of my spirit

At the disbelief in all I’ve found

Nothing really comes together

Nothing really sticks around.

 

Reflected on the surface

Just air and refracted light

But underneath I’m churning

Gonna embrace the night.

 

From your expectations I am less

Then what I thought I was to be

No one stays the course, anymore,

I’m left to drown instead of set free.

 

From the standpoint of water

I am nothing but a drop

That runs along forgotten shores

Drifting aimlessly among the crowd

Some are buoyant, but so not me,

I’m sinking down without a thought.

 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

I’ve heard this lie, this damned refrain,

Yet moving out beyond my ways

Always finds me still in place.

 

From the standpoint of water

I am nothing but a drop

That runs along forgotten shores

Drifting aimlessly among the crowd

Some are buoyant but so not me,

I’m sinking down without a thought.

 

I’m sinking down without a thought.

 

Who Is The Fairest?: #FridayFictioneers

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PHOTO PROMPT © Nathan Sowers grandson of our own Dawn M. Miller

Who Is The Fairest?

Magic Mirror had it rough ever since the Wicked Queen was defeeted. Wearing red-hot metal shoes is one thing; being forced to dance in them? A whole other mishegoss.   Queeny was toast.

The Mirror was in a funk: nobody asked it anything.  On top of that, the Mirror became a magical vagabond. Wherever it was stored, or hung, the locations were beneath it.

“A shack! Alas, alas!”

Its finale placement. It deliberately cracked itself up. Fare thee well.

Who was Fairest wasn’t fair, at all.

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It’s #Friday Fictioneers prompt time, as always created and hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on her blog, Addicted To Purple.

The rules are simple if you’d like to do this:

    1. Use the photo on Addicted to Purple as your prompt (goes up on Wednesday).
    2. Write a 100 word story, complete with beginning, middle, and end.
    3. Make every word count.
    4. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor of the photo credit.
  1. Add the InLinkz button (below) so your readers can find the dozens of other bloggers who have taken up this challenge.

Julemo, The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy

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Julemo, The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy

A prompt from A Creative PTSD Gal

...Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished:
For never was a story of more wo

Whoa. Hold on. Two kids, in the throes of their first lust love, just offed themselves. Their pining for each other hurled a monkey wrench into a powder keg mess, and boom it went off. Four confirmed Main Players died beyond these two, with enough blood on the streets, steps, terraces, and food stalls, that suggest there were a lot more (names not important to the larger issue) who fell down dead: damn kindred kept taking and hiding their deceased. Poor mojo on their famial name if the numbers were known by the populace.

Now, neither head of the two bloodlines were respected or even liked. They held their positions due to fear, the potential of favors bestowed, and the rest who care to be seen with the ones who are being seen without their even trying to be seen. They are a headache on the populace, if not to that last sentence. It’s no wonder their wives cloistered themselves with knitting, other crafty projects, wine, and “hey, is that a codpiece or are you happy to see me?”

No matter, for they all become even more bit players than they had already been. Well, except for the best friend. And the brother. But, this isn’t about them.

The once hot-to-trot teens were wheeled away. Unbeknownst to all the other players involved, not to the building where their bodies were supposed to be prepared for the funeral process. A bit of misdirection brought them to a place that, if alive, they would have killed themselves before willingly entering. Well, again, they were dead, so there was really nothing they could do.

Some of the gas buildup inside of them started to waft out, perfuming the surrounding area. Merc would have enjoyed that, gotten a great big chuckle out of it, and made a bon mot that all his friends would have laughed at, praising his scatological wit, whether they got it or not.

Friar Lawrence waved away the awful smell that started to fill up his small cell. He was lambasting himself for the way everything had unfolded. The friar knew he was culpable as an instigator, sticking his nose so far up the problems of the two households that…well, the picture in his head was enough to cause him the willies. He gave himself some satisfaction that he had nothing to do with Romeo meeting Juliet nor for the two of them falling in lust love with each other.  Just pretty much everything else that ended in their endings. He had a plan to fix things, no matter that Mother church would condem him to Heck for what he was about to do.

He knew a guy who knew a woman who knew a group of people who said they knew things no one else on Earth knew. Two of that group had been waiting in the friar’s cell. They had done their preperations already, and by the time friar and the corpses (later to become the name of a Punk band, circa 1972) arrived, the two men were five sheets to the wind, having found Lawrence’s holy wine stash.

The Friar, after admonishing the pair, needed their help in transferring the bodies to the prepared circle on the floor. Closing his eyes, he performed the sign of the cross, prayiing that he was not overstepping the will of the church and the savior or, well, not as badly as others might judge him. He uncovered the two; first Romeo (“Look at that…” was hushed by an elbow in the ribs by one of the men), and then Juliet (they both whistled their approval).

Candles were lit, ewe blood was tinkled around, and an undercurrent of chanting proceeded. Finally, Friar Lawrence came to the section he most dreaded: he would either succeed or epicically fail. He hoped to make things right, and only if he went through with this…if only he went through with this..if only…

The taller of the two sidemen gave the friar a shove. “Go on, mate. We ‘avent got all day. Go on with your self. ” The other man, who had been nodding off, came to, enough to agree. “Go on,” he slurred.

Friar Lawrence went on. He rushed through the Latin chants, stumbled over the sections that were complete gibberish to him, but was assured it was all right. Once the ritual words were complet, he said:

“These two, whose fate death doth stole, left this earthly plane too soon, too soon. I beseech the one on whom I call to make things right. Make them live, again, so that they may be together, as one.”

With that, a poof of a cloud enveloped the cell, with a stench that made Lawrence wish for flatulence again. Once the cloud settled, a ghastly, oozing, smirking demon, on the smallish size, appeared.

“Really? That’s what you want, what you went through, what you will suffer the eternity of damnation for? Really? For these two?”

Trembling, Friar Lawrence fell to his knees. The taller of the two men just sat down; his friend fell over, snoring.

“Yes,” he quivered. “Yes, yes, yes. My suffering is nothing compared to what these two suffered. Please. Make them live, so they may live as one.”

The demon (whose name I dare not write on pain of pain), looked at the two on the floor. His eyes passed over Juliet’s form, but with Romeo, he spent a lot of time…contemplating. The friar shivered even more, noticing a tumescence he wished he’d never had noticed.

The demon announced: “OK, as you wish.” With that, he snapped his clawed phalanges, and another foul-smelling cloud encircled the square cell. Friar Lawrence keeled over, dead; the tall man slung his passed out partner over his shoulder and was out the door before one could say “Bob’s your uncle,” which he was, but…

When the fogginess in the cell faded to nothing, it took the demon with it.
A stirring came from within the circle.

A painful groan caused eyes to pop open, followed by more groans as the aches and pains of death were shook off upon standing. There was a stretching of limbs, a rolling out of the muscles. Looking around this familiar room, it came that no one was in attendance when there should have been many servants around. Standing in place for a long, stiff time, perplexed, the bright rays of the sun were eventually replaced by crystal clear moonlight as it streamed through the small windo-nee-hole in the wall.

Hands began exploring, feeling what was known but also unknown. Panic soon set in, followed by a flailing  of appendages, hair being pulled this way and that, and a frenzied carrening around the room.  Finally, exhausted, a large plop! on the ex-friars sleeping pallot was felt in great pain. Huge moist sobs ensued.

The star-crossed lovers were, as that damnable friar (in reality, now) asked as he asked for.  Alive, but as one.

Only one.

Combined as one.

One body. One set of hands. One heart. Even death would not part them now.

Knowing he/she/they could not stay, they threw on one of the hated robes that Lawrence had left lying around, which, truth be told, needed a thorough washing.

They realized they could not be called Juliet nor Romeo anymore. That started up a quick arguement. Neither won. They were somewhat something wholey new. The idea came to combine names, somehow; neither one of them could agree who came up with the thought first, which started up another quick arguement with themselves.

Romiet didn’t sound right at all. They were in agreement on that. A few other configurations were considered and abandoned. Fred didn’t work at all for them. With resignation, Julemo was the best of all possiblities.

They crept out of the cell, vowing that the only time they would ever return would be to cause its destruction.  Easing on down the road, it was tough going in the beginning.  As they got the rhythm of their gait in check, they made their plans. Julemo knew if any of their kinsmen found them, they would face death, again.

Julemo fled, under the fairest stars in all the heaven.

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Author’s note:

Jo at A Creative PTSD Gal was one of the writers/bloggers I fell upon (sorry for the bruising) during the AtoZ Blog Challenge. I enjoyed her work and visa versa. Like others, I found a prompt on her blog that actually was a contest, which was the least of it. I liked the picture prompt and that led to Hence, The Exorcists.

Jo had been following another blog that dropped a lot of prompts and then dropped dropping said prompts from their pages. I also had not won the prize from Jo’s contest, but she sent me an email with three potential prompts:

  • The main character is trying to quit smoking and the medication that she is using to help shows her the evil within someone she thought she knew since childhood.
  • The world just survived an apocalyptic event (your choice) and your character has to team up with the one person they hate to survive. 
  • It was not your normal Romeo and Juliet tale. The star-crossed lovers aren’t kept apart by their family but rather an unforeseen paranormal being.

Obviously, I took the last one, tweaked it, and Bob’s your uncle. I left it open-ended because, who knows? Why? I don’t know. Third base.

Hope you liked it. Please check out her blog for stories, doodles, and a lot more.

Behind A Thousand Doors: The Abysmal Dollhouse (AtoZ Blog Challenge)

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** New Readers to this challenge: This is a serialized, continuous work. Please start with the first piece, Abysmally Yours. The AtoZ Blog Challenge began April 1st; ends April 30th. Thank you.

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Behind A Thousand Doors

The Abysmal Dollhouse

The sweat ran out of Roger’s body, soaking his once crisp white shirt, black slacks, black socks, black shoes. His wispy hair was plastered down as salty drippings ran into his eyes, irritating and momentarily disrupting his eyesight. Wipe, drip, blink, repeat. Roger’s breath rasped loudly; the combination of the extreme muggy heat did not mix well with his pell-mell running. Roger ran. He had to. The sound of thumping footsteps followed, closer and closer still.

Bursting through a door, Roger found himself in another long hallway, dotted with more doors. He’d lost count of how many doors he’s opened, how many similar halls he’s raced through. Straightaways, T-sections, dead-ends. Pausing for a moment, the noise behind him grew. He pushed on, stirred when he heard a woman’s voice call out “mijn, mijn, mijn…”. His heart accelerated before his running began again.

Patches of red bricks shone through areas of decayed and dingy white plastered walls. Roger barely noticed them, passing them by in his haste, leaving hallways behind, closing doors to discover more of the same. Stained glass windows sporadically broke up the passages, filtered colored light barely illuminating his way.  Still, the thumping followed him. Still, the echo of  “mijn, mijn, mijn…”

A grand staircase stopped Roger: one stairway leading up, the other down. Its complexity in marble and iron railings, its vast size placed underneath a huge stained glass ceiling,  startled him momentarily.  Up, or down. Roger knew he could not stay where he was. He wanted out of this place, whatever it was. He had no idea where he was, how he got there, or what was after him; he only knew that going on was all that mattered. He only knew his life depended on it. It was that primal.

The noise of a door slamming echoed in the atrium. Roger took off, choosing a downward flight, hoping one of the bloody doors would take him out of this place. Tripping in his haste, he tumbled down the remaining 14 marble steps, falling hard on the landing. His head hurt, his arms and legs were banged up, and his back arched as he lay there, staring upwards. His chest rose and fell with each sharp gasp for air.

Silence. Silence forced his eyes to the top of the stairway.

A woman. The woman. Tall. Her long blonde hair fell below her hunched shoulders, her head tilted down, her dead eyes staring into his. The red dripping from the jagged tear in her throat, staining down her torso, her skirt,  joining the red dripping off of the long butcher’s knife clenched in her right hand, spilling red onto the top stairs. Watching it cascade down one marble step after another.

“Mijn,” she said.

“I killed you. I killed you. I killed you!” Roger screamed as he raised himself from the landing.  He whimpered: “A suicide…I made it look like…”

Roger, wincing, trudged down the remaining flight of stairs. The woman followed, slower now, matching his rate of descent. He reached the floor, finding himself in ankle deep water. The humidity level had been rising, combining with Roger’s exertions, drawing more moisture out of his pores. His internal cooling system was not working against the overwhelming heat and the unbearable fear.

He slipped. She grew closer, stepping into the stagnant pooling water. Looking around, looking for an escape, Roger saw a line of doors surrounding doors surrounding doors. Each one he went to was locked; each one solid, thick.  With each one tried, Roger heard splashing footsteps, heard a gravely “Mijn.”

On the twenty-fourth door…or was it the seventy-ninth…or the two hundredth…or one thousandth…he stopped and turned. She was there, knife raised, still dripping, as she said “Mijn!”

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The lock to The Abysmal Dollhouse’s door quietly repaired itself. The Shopkeeper busied herself cleaning up the bits of broken glass that had been left in the wake of her furtive guest. He had slammed the door so forcefully after rushing in. Ashen, the man barely apologized as he stumbled along the aisleways, brushing against one dollhouse after another.

Small cries of “Mine! Mine” came from her assemblage as he passed them by.

“Hush, now,” she gently said, to none in particular.

Emptying her dustpan of the last of the door debris, she placed it back on its hook and settled her broom of straw and wood in its place in the corner. She heard a distant, tiny cry coming from one of the grander display houses.

The Lawang Sewu, detail exquisite, she felt, was slightly ajar. She walked over to this landmark of Indonesia and marveled, again, and the detail of its many doors and marvelous stained glasswork.

Gently, she brought the two halves of the cabinet house together. She noticed that there was some water leakage coming from its base. Off the Shopkeeper went, to fetch a rag, to wipe up the excess moisture. Doing so, she turned off the overhead display light.

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The AtoZ Blog Challenge

During the month of April, 2018, the challenge requires that we write 26 posts, starting with the letter A on April 1st (yes, it’s not an April Fool’s Day joke) and ending with Z on Monday, April 30th. A week or so later, there will be a reflection post that will wrap up this experience, for me as well as my readers.

The Lawang Sewu (the Thousand Doors) is an actual landmark building in Indonesia. It has a long and varied history, and if you’d like to know more about it, click HERE.

There stories of hauntings in the building, with the spirit of a Dutch woman-a suicide-seen by many. Care for a visit?

Perhaps the Dog (A to Z Blog Challenge)

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**To start from the very beginning: From the Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas

** To read the first part of this story line: Offending Elm

Perhaps

“Perhaps the Dog”

The Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas

Pearl, the yellow Labrador cadaver dog, was brought in. A fairly new addition to the police force, Pearl was acquired in the last months of Inspector Rovas’ service. He and Sargent Detective Gil Katsaros had worked with Pearl and her K-9 handler, Officer Maggie Trabold, previously. They were rewarded with good results  from each interaction. It was Berrak who had brought up the idea, remembering Zarian remarking on the dog’s prowess. Officer Maggie allowed Pearl to get to know Berrak on the drive over to Haley’s Woods, but once on the scene of the crime, Pearl was all business.

Along with her missing teeth there was little to no soft tissue left for any identifier of the victim. The ME at the time postulated that she would have been in the tree approximately for a month before discovery. Rovas wished, as so many times in the last few years, that the advancements in crime detection today were available decades ago. How many more cases would have been closed quicker. If only.

They had used some of their K-9 troops when the body was first discovered nineteen years ago. Rovas had hoped to find any scent of the person or persons who shoved the body into the tree cavity. The search dogs followed a trail that led a little bit away from the Elm, due north.  The dogs stopped just about ten feet away from the tree. The scent went no further in any direction.

Rovas, Berrak, and Gil followed Officer Maggie and Pearl into the grove of trees. Rovas gave the yellow taffeta to Pearl’s handler. Gil had signed it out of police storage in the hopes there would be something the dog could work with.  Officer Maggie got down on one knee and offered the material to Pearl. She sniffed it, picked her head up, then sniffed some more. The officer got up in time as Pearl started to drag her towards an Elm tree.

Pearl had an extremely sensitive nose, which had been noted early on in her training. She honed in on the Elm tree as she pulled Officer Maggie to it. “This is the tree where the body was found?”

“Yes,” Rovas answered. He was pleasantly surprised at this turn, skeptical at first due to the length of time involved. Berrak had done her research before presenting the idea to him. Some cadaver dogs could find a scent even up to thirty years old. Gil was harder to convince, but he went along the day after he had dinner with EMT Jill.

Maggie helped Pearl up a bit towards the space in the tree trunk. Pearl dove her head in as best as she could, came up with her head swiveling, and then again she thrust her snout into the tree opening. Officer Maggie eased her down and took off Pearl’s leash.

She started at the tree, walking around it a few times, but then veering off towards the north. Rovas, Gil, and Berrak were various degrees of pleased at this. Berrak hoped Pearl could lead them further along, and she was clutching her husband’s hand when Pearl led off in another direction, this time to the east of the copse. She wound up at another grouping of trees and snuffled along the ground. She came back to one spot again and again until she just stopped and looked at Officer Maggie.

Both Rovas and Gil muttered “Damn!” It took a few seconds for Berrak to also utter “Damn.”

Gil went back to the vehicles and retrieved spades and electric lanterns from his and Officer Maggie’s car trunk. The four of them took turns digging where Pearl “told” them to dig. Rovas was livid while he dug. The previous search turned up blank, no hint there could be another body in the vicinity. Pearl was bred to find the dead, human dead, and of that he was sure that was what they were going to find. “Damn!” he said a few times more with each shovel full of the disturbed earth.

Berrak was the one who found the human skull. In unison, with spades and hands, they brought up the skeletal remains of a body. Gil went back to his car to call for transport. The sun was setting, so Rovas and the officer turned on the lanterns. Berrak had been gently cleaning away dirt clumps on the body, careful not to cause any damage. She looked up at Rovas and held up some metal on a chain.

“Zarian, look. Dog tags.”

She got up as he brought a lantern over, with Officer Maggie and Pearl following. He turned it over, cleaning the dirt out of the grooves as best he could.

“Hmmm….there’s his social security number, blood type B, name…,” he wiped away more, “David…Sosenko. And…huh.”

“What, Zarian?”

“Berrak, what does that look like to you?”

She examined it closely. “An H. I’m pretty sure, in this light, it’s an H.”

Gil had arrived back while they were examining the tags. “H is for his religion. H for Hebrew.”

“He’s Jewish, um, was Jewish,” she said.

“Yes, it appears so,” Rovas responded. Turning the tags over in his hands, Rovas felt they finally had an important piece to this puzzle.

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“The Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas” is my theme for this year. Cold case files for the good inspector to delve into, trying to make sense &/or solve. My plan is to use a variety of genres within this overarching theme to allow me to play and, of course, challenge myself. Some cases might bleed into another case. Most will be stand alone. We’ll see, won’t we?

As to the Blogging from A to Z challenge, I’ll let the words of Arlee Bird (founder of said challenge) tell you what this is all about:

The brainchild of Arlee Bird, at Tossing it Out, the A to Z Challenge is posting every day in April except Sundays (we get those off for good behavior.) And since there are 26 days, that matches the 26 letters of the alphabet. On April 1, blog about something that begins with the letter “A.” April 2 is “B,” April 4 is “C,” and so on. You can use a theme for the month or go random – just as long as it matches the letter of the alphabet for the day.

The A to Z Challenge is a great way to get into the blogging habit and make new friends.

So, join me (and the over 1700 other blogs involved) starting on Friday, April 1, 2016 and ending on Saturday, April 30th. Comments and such are always welcome. I hope you enjoy the stories.

Love Her Madly (A to Z Blog Challenge)

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Author’s Note: I must apologize. If you read the previous entry, Kaleidoscope Eyes, I made an error in regards to confidentiality issues with women’s health. No one brought it to my attention; it was just a realization later in the day. It has been edited and, I hope, makes more sense. Most importantly, that it does not trivialize a very sensitive issue.

**To start from the very beginning: From the Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas

**To read the first and second part of this story line, click on: Jane’s Addictive and then Kaleidoscope Eyes

 

Love

“Love Her Madly”

The Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas

Seven years ago, five people in their 20’s died of a drug overdose. The deaths were cut and dried, but who called it into 911 remained a mystery until now. Aimee confessed her part in that night, but Rovas felt there was still something more. While SD Katsaros took Ms. Andersson to the station for her to write out her part in that evening, Rovas and Berrak went home to dig deeper into Edward White, the one who, Aimee claimed, brought the lethal drug to the “meditation” party.

At first glance, little was to be gleamed from what was online. Berrak went online searching. When she found something of interest, she’d pass that information to Zarian. He would follow it up with phone calls when he could. For the next few hours this continued. They felt they were getting somewhere when Gil called them, asking them both to come down to the station.

When they arrived, Gil led them to his office and closed the door.

“What couldn’t you tell us on the phone, Gil?,” Berrak asked. “We have an idea, but…what did Aimee say now?”

Gil brushed his hand through his hair and sat back in his chair. “Aimee is the queen of omissions. Yes, she was involved with Robert Larsen, was best friends with his sister, called 911 and left. Yet, she neglected to tell us that she knew Edward White a lot more than just as one of Robert’s grad school friends.”

“Were they…,” Berrak asked.

“No, although according to her, he wanted it to be.”

Rovas interjected: “That seems to mesh with the few things we were able to find out. I made some calls to his parents, his sister, and though reluctant to bring it up after so long, they shared little tidbits. I was able to get his parents to speak to me on speaker. They were closed about his drug use, especially the father. Mrs. White  started to talk about it. ‘We thought all that was behind him’ she began, before her husband shushed her. They ended the call soon after that.

I finally reached his sister. She confirmed that her brother was a heavy drug user in his teens, but he got clean. She thought he had stayed that way. She did give us something new: “Eddy was really upset. He really liked this girl, but he said she really didn’t like him. She told him so, that bitch.” Rovas closed his notepad. “I asked her if she knew who that girl was, but she said no.”

“Aimee,” both Berrak and Gil said at the same time.

“Yes, Aimee. She initially “forgot” to mention that to us. She finally filled in many of the blanks that were missing once we got her here. Robert Larsen ‘pushed’ White on her. She felt this was a way ‘Bobby’ was trying to distance himself from her. He asked her out a number of times; she said no every time. Aimee said that just a few days before the incident, she…told him off in an unflattering way. She loved ‘Bobby’ and only wanted him. She told him to get lost, in much harsher terms.”

“Damn!,” muttered Rovas. “White brought the drugs, which she said was not the norm. Gil, Berrak, this was a murder/suicide. It had to be. Edward White wanted revenge against both Robert and Aimee, and to hell with whoever else fell by the wayside. Gil, he may have a a sealed record as a juvenile drug offender.”

Gil nodded, making a note to look into this.

“But, there were five bodies, and each one seemed to have their own roach,” Berrak queried.

“Aimee admitted that Edward gave her one and kept insisting that she light up, but she hesitated simply because of the way he was acting. He and the others were already on their way. She just put the…ahem…roach in her pocket and forgot all about it when the others started reacting to the pure heroin that White mixed in.”

Rovas looked at his wife. “Roach?” He had a smile, and shook his head.

“I am hipper than you know, Mr. Rovas.” She sat there with a Mona Lisa smile while the men chuckled.

“He meant to kill her along with the others, but Aimee’s refusal squashed that.” Rovas sighed. He turned to Berrak as Gil left to get them some coffee.

“What will happen to Aimee?,” Berrak asked her husband.

“It’ll be up to the courts to decide.”

They left soon after they sipped at the coffee.

It was almost a week later when Gil called them. Rovas spoke to him. Berrak noticed he tensed up, his hand going white gripping the receiver. He hung up with a curse.

“I don’t believe this. You won’t believe this.”

“What? Zarian, what has you so upset?”

He sat down and took her hands in his. “John Peters escaped from the mental ward on his way to jail.”

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“The Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas” is my theme for this year. Cold case files for the good inspector to delve into, trying to make sense &/or solve. My plan is to use a variety of genres within this overarching theme to allow me to play and, of course, challenge myself. Some cases might bleed into another case. Most will be stand alone. We’ll see, won’t we?

As to the Blogging from A to Z challenge, I’ll let the words of Arlee Bird (founder of said challenge) tell you what this is all about:

The brainchild of Arlee Bird, at Tossing it Out, the A to Z Challenge is posting every day in April except Sundays (we get those off for good behavior.) And since there are 26 days, that matches the 26 letters of the alphabet. On April 1, blog about something that begins with the letter “A.” April 2 is “B,” April 4 is “C,” and so on. You can use a theme for the month or go random – just as long as it matches the letter of the alphabet for the day.

The A to Z Challenge is a great way to get into the blogging habit and make new friends.

So, join me (and the over 1800 other blogs involved) starting on Friday, April 1, 2016 and ending on Saturday, April 30th. Comments and such are always welcome. I hope you enjoy the stories.

Kaleidoscope Eyes (A to Z Blog Challenge)

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**To start from the beginning: From the Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas

**To read the first part of this story line: Jane’s Addictive

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“Kaleidoscope Eyes”

The Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas

Time, again, was on their side. People’s guards are up after an incident, those who have committed a crime in whatever fashion, with whatever results. Complacency sets in the more time moves along, creating a security gap that widens each day that they feel they’ve gotten away with it. Guilt plagues many. Many, but not all.

Sargent Detective Gil Katsaros sat in front of the woman he was sure had called into 911 seven years ago. Aimee Andersson, 31, had been chewing her thumb nail until she noticed him focusing on that. “Nervous, Ms. Andersson? Please relax. We’re just revisiting in the deaths of your five friends.”

Aimee had looked down at her lap. “They weren’t all my friends. Becka and Bobby, yes, but the others…I just knew them because they were part of Bobby’s circle. Outside. Other grad student friends of his.” She looked up, taking in the other two in her living room.

Ex-Inspector Rovas and his wife, Berrak, sat to the side, on the loveseat. Rovas had interviewed her, along with all the others, all those years ago. He studied her reactions, vocally and physicality. She was hiding something; he thought so then, and even more so now. Fact finding had advanced so much in such a short time. Berrak proved to be an excellent online researcher, which finally led them back to Ms. Andersson.

Berrak had delved with precision into the four women who had no alibis that that night. Besides knowing the five who died in various degrees, none of them, besides Aimee, had any motive for such secrecy. Rovas and Gil both agreed there was more to look into with Aimee Andersson after the three of them reviewed what Berrak had discovered.

The Sargent Detective took the lead, again, as the only official representative here. “So, Becka and Bobby-Rebecka and Robert Larsen, yes?” She nodded. “You were close to them. Rebecka and you were friends from High School from 11th grade on, until…”

“She was my best friend.”

“And Robert?”

“I knew him a…little. He was a year older, hung out mainly with his own friends. Went to college, then it was just Becka and me.” She let out a huge puff of air. “You know all this. He,” she said, nodding towards Rovas, “asked me all this…then.”

Rovas interjected. “Yes, I did, but it doesn’t hurt to make sure we have the facts correctly. I hope you see that.”

She nodded slightly, looking down at her hands one more time.

Gil picked up the questioning again. “I need to ask this: did you know Robert Larsen more than just a little? He had to come home from college for visits, vacations…you say you were Rebecka’s best friend. Your fingerprints were found in various parts of the house, including the basement, which means you had been there often enough, and recent enough from the time of the crime, to not have been around Robert after he graduated college. He was back there, again, going for his masters.”

Aimee twisted her body on the couch, looking quite uncomfortable.

Berrak, inwardly wincing, could not hold it in any longer. “Aimee. You were out out from your college classes-a lot-soon after the semester started. I was able to…find school records.” Berrak hesitated, knowing she had to bend some rules to get what she found. “After the second week, you missed class after class. Or, you would show up to morning classes and run out, sick. Right or wrong, three professors noted this in case…You then dropped out of school, after not showing up for most of the semester after that.” Berrak looked to her husband.

Rovas nodded. “Aimee…were you pregnant?”

The three of them looked at Aimee, awaiting an answer. Tears dropped onto her hands, which she had brought up to cover her mouth, her cheeks.

“Yes.” Quietly.

“I’m assuming it was Robert’s.” Pause. A nod. “Was it rape?” Rovas asked.

Aimee shook her head. “He didn’t want any children, especially not then. He was just starting his grad work. His work, his parents, his…his…his!” She broke off. Looking up at Berrak, focusing solely on her: “Robert never asked me what I wanted, needed. I wanted to be with him. This was not planned, but I hoped…”

Berrak got up from the loveseat and went over to Aimee, taking her hands as she sat down on the couch beside her. Aimee cried while Berrak held her.

After the tears subsided, Aimee told the rest. “Robert was involved in Political Studies. He wanted to move into the political world. He…convinced me that having an abortion was the right thing, since he did not want to get married then, and I didn’t have a good job at that point to support a child, even with his help.”

Gil asked “How does that work, then, with his being part of these pot parties?”

“Bobby thought it was such a non-issue. He felt marijuana was going to eventually be legalized, so…and that’s kinda what’s been going on lately.”

“He didn’t want…this,” she splayed her hands, “…to come back and cause problems for him down the line if he made it later in life. We did the…abortion…two states away. Legal, and confidential.” She looked up at Rovas; it was the first time anger crept into her voice. “Bobby was trying to protect future Robert. So, the whole way over, I tried to change his mind..about the baby, I mean. He kept arguing his point. I…finally gave up.”

The silence that followed was painful for all of them.

Gil finally broke the tension. “Aimee, were you the one who called 911?”

“Yes.” Crying again.

“Why didn’t you tell your name to the operator? Why did you leave?”

“They were all dead! They OD’d right in front of me.  Seconds. They all had their own joints. Everything was fine. Then…the convulsions. Their bodies spasmed out. I was terrified, not thinking straight. The look on Becka’s face, the pain… and then Bobby…I called.  I ran.”

“Why did you kill them, Aimee? Your trouble was with Robert. Why did you kill them all?” Gil asked.

Rovas had put up a hand while Gil was asking this, but it was too late.

“I didn’t kill them, dammit. I loved both of them! Even after what Bobby had me do. My only ‘crime’ was calling then leaving, staying quiet. I felt my life was over. I shut down for months afterwards.”

Rovas got up, walked over to Aimee. He knelt to her right. Berrak was still to her left.

“Then, Aimee,’ he asked, “why would Robert bring something so dangerous?”

“But, Bobby didn’t bring it. It was just his and Becka’s place. Eddie brought the pot that night.”

“Edward White?”

“Yes.”

He stood up first, beckoning to his wife and the Sargent Detective as he entered the hallway.

“If she’s not lying, which I don’t think she is, now…” he sighed. “We looked in the wrong direction. The whole damn time.”

“I’ll take her down to the station to write this out, officially. Berrak?”

“Yes. It’s time to look much deeper into Edward White.” She looked into the living room, sadness washing through her. Aimee folded in on herself on the couch, weeping quietly.

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“The Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas” is my theme for this year. Cold case files for the good inspector to delve into, trying to make sense &/or solve. My plan is to use a variety of genres within this overarching theme to allow me to play and, of course, challenge myself. Some cases might bleed into another case. Most will be stand alone. We’ll see, won’t we?

As to the Blogging from A to Z challenge, I’ll let the words of Arlee Bird (founder of said challenge) tell you what this is all about:

The brainchild of Arlee Bird, at Tossing it Out, the A to Z Challenge is posting every day in April except Sundays (we get those off for good behavior.) And since there are 26 days, that matches the 26 letters of the alphabet. On April 1, blog about something that begins with the letter “A.” April 2 is “B,” April 4 is “C,” and so on. You can use a theme for the month or go random – just as long as it matches the letter of the alphabet for the day.

The A to Z Challenge is a great way to get into the blogging habit and make new friends.

So, join me (and the over 1800 other blogs involved) starting on Friday, April 1, 2016 and ending on Saturday, April 30th. Comments and such are always welcome. I hope you enjoy the stories.