Inspector Kirkland was not very amused. He had already had to deal with eight different cases of couples' counseling this week alone, and he did not get his degree for being a psychologist. Years of work and patience had gotten him this far, though, so he decided to have a stiff upper lip and pick up the ringing telephone, despite the large possibility that it was just another spouse who suspected their beloved of adultery.
"Inspector Kirkland speaking," he answered the phone. His quick, pronounced voice showed his disinterest in the conversation. Who else could it be other than a paranoid spouse?
"Inspector Kirkland," a familiar voice replied, "The police would appreciate a bit of advice for a case, please come to 598 Roosevelt Place as soon as possible."
"May I inquire as to why the police are asking me for help on a case?"
"There's been a peculiar murder," the voice continued on the other line.
Inspector Kirkland had arrived at the quaint little house not even ten minutes after the conversation had abruptly come to a close. The police had the house surrounded, and he could see them interrogating an obviously devastated young man. The blanket, the very same that police gave to those going into shock, wrapped around the young man's shoulders did little to block the bitter cold gnawing at him, snow settling itself in his unruly hair. Then, a police woman turned her attention from the melancholy young man to the inspector.
"I'm sorry to have to call you under these circumstances, Arthur, but the force needs to solve this one as quickly as possible to leave poor Alfred to mourn his brother in peace," Elizaveta, the policewoman and old friend of the inspector's, said. Alfred must have been the name of the young man being interrogated, and his brother, the victim, the inspector concluded. It was no wonder the poor boy was going into shock: his brother had just been murdered, and now the police kept interrogating him about it. The boy's head snapped in the direction of the inspector, the tear tracks on his face conflicting with the baffling sense of hope somehow contained in his eyes. He sincerely believed the inspector could do his job and solve the case. The inspector's curiosity was piqued by the hopefulness he saw in the young man's eyes, and he decided to talk to the poor boy.
"Hello, my name is Inspector Kirkland, and I would like to ask you a few questions."
"I've told the police a million times already: I don't know anything about Mattie's death!" Alfred answered. The teenager's response to the question showed his growing frustration towards the whole situation. He saw no use in asking questions when a murderer was on the loose.
"And why, if I may ask, is that?" the inspector responded.
"I had to run to the store, but when I got there I realized that I had left my wallet at home. I ran back to the house just to arrive as the police were turning the corner." the skeptical glance he pointed towards the inspector showed his reluctance to share his story once again. The police must not have believed him. The inspector, however, had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
One question had entered the inspector's mind: "Where are your parents?" he asked.
"They're on vacation. Mattie and I are nearly adults; they didn't think anything bad would happen," the teen's anger dissipated as the gravity of the situation finally hit him. His brother would never reach adulthood. He would never go to his brother's graduation, or see him get married. He would never nag about how oblivious Alfred was being or be demolished in a game of catch; he would never play hokey again. Alfred's frustrated tears turned to raucous laughter as he realized the ironic situation. The one time his parents decided to leave the two alone overnight just so happened to be the day that his brother was murdered. He wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders as the laughter faded into an eerie silence. Then, he sat down in the middle of the lawn, a distant look in his eyes and thoughts of his brother's death plaguing his mind.
"Let's head inside," the Elizaveta's voice interrupted the inspectors' train of thought. It was probably best to leave the boy with the professionals; shock is quite hard to properly handle without proper training. The two of them stepped up onto the front porch just as a large icicle had decided to fall off of the awning. "Watch yourself," the policewoman had joked as the icicle fell between the two, "You wouldn't want to get skewered." The inspector gave her an exasperated look as they walked through the doorway.
The sight that met them was not necessarily a pretty one; it was quite the opposite, in fact. The disfigured body belonging to a young man was lying on the floor, dead, the burns covering his body the obvious cause of his demise. The neighbors had earlier recounted from memory that after Alfred had left for the store, Matthew had been seen inside the house. No one was seen entering or leaving the house before a series of loud noises had prompted a neighbor to knock on the door, and with receiving no answer, they quickly called the police to the scene. The rest of the room showed no signs that the crime had indeed been committed. The windows were all closed and there were only two entryways, either through the front door or into the hallway that connected the kitchen and living room area to the rest of the house. The inspector was then informed that the search for fingerprints and DNA had been unfruitful. It was as if the only proof that the murder had occurred was the body lying motionless on the floor.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! This will most likely be a multi-chapter story, but if you want any pairings to appear, then just review with your request. It may take a while for me to update, but I'll try my best. This is also my first story, so feel free to leave any constructive criticism. I really hoped that you enjoyed the first chapter! Don't worry, next time I won't leave such a ridiculously long Author's note.
