Carlos Cortez

While, Paul continued with the enquires, I headed back to the station, to see if any evidence could be gleaned from the items found at the Murder scene and the Victim's home. 

I had been the Sheriff of this town, for as long as I can remember, but in all that time the word Murder had never been played out in my mind. It's very presence, causing a prickling unease to the tip of my tongue.  

This was all new to me. I was not set out for this investigation, but until the weekday, I was alone with my lacklustre, uninquisitive mind, burdened with the task of solving the death of a man both disliked and liked by the different folk of this town.

 I had radioed in for assistance, but unfortunately, till Monday, every qualified Detective was either away or tied up with their own psychological demanding case. I could have just waited for this Detective, but I could imagine the judgemental eyes, as I sat with my grounded coffee, doing nothing, as the town divided itself in two.   

So, it was down to me and my limited team to make headway into an investigation of hidden motives. Of course, the number of Officers in town were of a large amount, but none of them ever qualified in the art of murder. Well I say none, four people, with their own set skills, make a team of quite effective minds. 

These four people included Janice Lambros, Bradley Beckett, James Seymour and lastly Mr George Ainsley. 

Now you're probably wondering how a simple librarian, was key, in the solving of Clive Forsham's murder.  

It was a simple answer really; Ainsley had lived in the past, he was a human calculator, with  infinite wisdom occupying his mind. He could tell if a painting was the real deal or just a fake. He could psychologically analyse people's words and patterns. He could identify whether a letter was written by the alleged person or someone, trying to replicate that person's handwriting, for their own personal gain.

James Seymour was the youngest of the four, with gelled hair of golden delight. He was slinky, but relatively tall. His eyes were of a Hazel green, his teeth a yellowed white, due to the number of sugary sweets he stuffed daily in his mouth.

James had been an Officer coming up two and half years now, which although he loved, he planned to leave soon, as he sought to seek, to achieve more with his life.

He had always dreamt of being an analyst, a man, who tested Substances, ran DNA and analysed fingerprints. Someone, with the skills to uncover hidden evidence.

His life was set in motion, his training finally all complete. All that was left to do, was wait, till he was called about starting his new job.

Bradley Beckett (or Brad as he preferred to be called) considered himself to be a cool, hip young fella.

He had a heavy muscular build, with tattoos running all over his body. He had the words Love, Life tattooed on alternate arms. Their was an Eagle on his back and an Octopus on his front. Most people had reasons behind their tattoos, but not Brad, they were only ever there as marks of his refined coolness.

He was our Tech expert, who although had no actual policing experience, proved to be quite an asset, when it came to finding secrets buried beneath the dark Web.

The truth is Bradley was a simple IT Technician, with a knack of hacking into the toughest of systems. He always imagined himself working as a Professional Hacker, assisting Companies and Agencies, by hacking into their systems and determining the flaws within their coding.

The last member of this team was Janice Lambros, a Greek woman, who has lived in England majority of her life.

Her hair was a pearly white, her hands wrinkled, but when your hands touched, you felt a radiation of love. Her smile was heartwarming and welcoming, despite some of her teeth now rotted away with age. Her eyes were a shining silver, like looking into the eyes of the moon.

Janice was the only one with qualified experience, with 50 years experience working as a Coroner in the big city. In fact, she would have kept going, had she and her husband not been attacked.

The attack left them both scared and uneasy. So, they moved into town, settling into retirement, where they came to live out the rest of their lives in peaceful harmony.

Unfortunately, I disturbed their peace, by calling on Janice's assistance, when I was tasked with finding the person responsible for the car accident, that altered Paul Harvey's life, for the worse.

She was thrilled to be invited back into a world where her life had blossomed. And, once the case ran it's due, she came to me in confidence and said "If you ever need anymore assistance, don't hesitate to call me. Now, look I'm going to tell you something that you may or may not already know."

I encouraged her to tell me and with a deep breath in, she said "The thing is my name is not Janice, but in fact Junius. Junius is a Greek boys name, meaning youthful. Through out my life I never felt the boisterous Masculinity, but rather the carefree Femininity. As a child I wore dresses, makeup and even heels. I attended Ballet and faced an intense level of Bullying. But, I didn't care, for I had the support of my family, who despite their own perspective and viewpoint, loved and cherished me for who I was."

She took a nervous gulp, as she then prepared to continue on, by this point she was already tearing up.

"That was the reason me and my husband were attacked. Me because I chose to register as a woman and my husband for accepting me. That attack changed us, I mean I was on the verge of death, the pain unbearable. I wanted to surrender to the light, but my husbands warm, intellectual voice brought me through."

Remembering her tale, causes me to think back to what I had said earlier, about how I should have picked up on Antonin's sexuality. I beat myself up over this, for I had brought into the stereotypes, despite the living proof of Janice breaking and disproving that mound of lies.

Transgender woman were seen as outgoing, quirky, outspoken and of course flirtatious. But, Janice behaved and spoke like the most natural of women, that's why it was such a shock to learn she was in fact a man.

Armed with this new lease on life, I head to the lab to meet with Janice and James, who worked together in uncovering the cause of Clive Forsham's death.

I exchange pleasantries, before letting them share with me their findings.

Janice speaks first, in her gentle, but sophisticated voice, as she says "Clive was definitely poisoned, see here (she points at Clive's lower lip, as she says this), it's  gone dry and blistered, which evidently suggests, Clive was recently exposed to some level of toxin."

"I ran a test on the poison and found it to be the fast acting Cyanide. It's the most commonly used poison, when it comes to killings. It's also one of the ingredients used in the making of a suicide pill." James interjects, with a sense of insecurity about his voice.

"There was no sign of Ligature marks, bruises, or entangled cloth. Nothing to suggest that Clive and the killer were in a scuffle." Janice continues on, as if she had never in fact been interrupted.

"I knew Cyanide could be in both a pill or powdered form. Seeing as there was no capsule of sort inside, It led me to believe the powdered form was what was used. This then opened up the possibility, that the poison was inserted into something Clive had  drunk or eaten." Janice states.

I turn to her and ask, quite eagerly "Did you find anything?"

"Well, yes and no. I did find traces of Cyanide, entangled with another substance, but since half 7 or 8 that morning, the only thing he had was a glass of Lemonade. The very drink, that was concocted in the makeshift kitchen and placed on a table, for all to access. Meaning the chances of this being murder is slim. Because, for the killer to know the exact glass Clive would drink from, would be quite an impossible feat. I'm afraid to say, this likely is a suicide."

Her words upset me, but not as greatly as they would Paul, his heart would shrivel and his brain would burn. All as he learns, that his friend willingly left, without so much as a goodbye. 

I had thought up a couple of my own theories, that aimed to disprove Janice's valid, evidenced and factual based claims.

My first theory was the possibility, that the killer slipped poison into Clive's drink, while he wasn't looking.

The second being the fact that Clive was not in fact the intended target, but instead an unfortunate victim, of someone else's miscalculated mishap.

Of course, both these theories were quiet far fetched and the logical answer seemed only to be that of suicide. 

But, since I was already here, I thought I might as well see if Brad's and George's findings proved or disapproved this claim of suicide.
                                                                                                                                                                                          George patiently stood waiting in the next room along. He greets me with a warm, impressionable smile, followed by a firm, but respectful handshake. From under the desk, he pulls out an old leather briefcase, placing it on the table, as he reaches in and takes out the note we found by Clive Forsham's body and a small diary I had found buried among one of Clive's study drawers.

"Do you see any difference between the two?" George questions, in a headmasterly manner.

"Nope!" I respond quite bluntly and no real thought to my answer.

"Look closer" he encouraged.

I lean closer, to the different documents, till my eyes are strained with water, but, yet despite all that, I still failed to see a difference between the two.

As I sigh in defeat, George looks over at me, clearing his throat, so as to prepare himself for the long awaited explanation.

"Ah, but there is, albeit a little small. See Clive's handwriting is quiet elegant and free. Within each word, he curls each letter into the next one. However, the problem lies within the last letter of each word, for as you can see, here inside the diary, Clive extends the flick of the last letter of each word ever so slightly, well with exceptions on letters such as O and Z.  This suicidal note, does not contain this fundamental part of his natural handwriting form, which suggests to me, that it was fact written by someone else, as an attempt to make it look, as if it was a suicide." 

"Is there any possible way, Clive could have written this note himself. Like say for example if he wrote, while in a state of panic." I ask, not wanting to undo George's words, but instead confirm his claims, for they acted in contradiction to Janice's claims.

George cranes his neck, as he clears his throat once again.

"Well, that possibility could be argued, but I don't see much validity to the claim. After all, had Clive been in state of panic, when he wrote that note, he would have effected more than one part of his natural handwriting. For when were angry we tend to write faster and when depressed we tend to write slower, our natural way of writing goes out the window, leaving instead words that reflect your emotion. The fact that the note matched Clive's natural writing almost to the tee, leaves me with no uncertain doubt, that Clive was not the writer."    

It takes a great level of skill and focus, to notice such a thing. I admire it, I envy it, I even so much as envy Janice. All because with their age, they carry so much wisdom and despite all that, they're still eager to learn more. 

I can imagine my wrinkled self, stiff with arthritis, as I slouch on my couch, with nothing, but wasted years to show. Some would say I served the greater good, as the Sheriff of this town. But, what did I really do? I walked around town, with a gun and a badge, waving and chatting with those I met. I broke up the odd fight here and there, solved the odd burglary from time to time, but nothing ever to serious. My severest case being a car collision just outside of town.

I made a mess of that case, I failed in delivering justice to the man that sliced clean through Paul's quite happy life.

"Am I really a Sheriff, if I work in a crimeless town?" I think to myself, as I feel this void of unaccomplishment begin gnawing away at my heart.

I try to push the thought from out of my mind, instead allowing my focus to be on this last question I wished to ask George.

"Did you take a look at the diary?" 

"I had a quick flick through the pages and there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. But, a closer examination might uncover something." he replies, with a courteous nod and a wide joyous grin, which were both commonly used in a respectful way of saying goodbye.

I thank him for his time and move on to find Bradley Beckett, sitting comfortably in a revolving chair, playing PAC-MAN on his latest phone, the iPhone 11 Pro Max. A phone that costs him close to £50 a month.

I could never understand why he would waste his hard earned cash on a such costly phone, when he could just as easily buy a smaller, cheaper phone, that offered the essential features needed for a phone. 

Bradley does not look up from his phone, as I enter. He lifts finger up to signal, that he would be with me in a moment.

A few moments later, he punches the air, spins on his chair, as he bellows "high-score!" 

He drops his phone gently against the table, as he pulls himself up from his seat. Swaggering over to me, with a smirk of defined sophistication. 

"What's got you so pleased?" I ask with a sense of mocking sarcasm. 

"Well I found quite a crucial clue, whilst looking through Clive's phone." he says cheekily, failing at hiding his excitement, of the power and intrigue he now held over me.  

"Oh, do please enlighten me."

"At first, I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, apart from a few flirtatious texts between him and Mr Girrad. There was nothing on his calendar or written on his notepad. I was just about to give up, when I noticed  a repeated outgoing call between Clive an this number, 07432 619265." he pauses for dramatic effect, before then continuing on. 

"I decidedly choose to call the number and although I didn't get through to anyone, I got this prerecorded message." as he says this, he walks back to the table, picks up his phone and dials the number he had just stated.

"You have tried to reach William's Wills today, however we are unfortunately closed until Tuesday, between the hours of 7 and 9. Feel free to leave your, name, number and reason for calling us today and we'll ensure a member of our team calls you back as soon as possible." a female robotic voice echoes from within Brad's phone.

I look up at Brad, my eyes wide with confusion. I mean Clive was in his 50's and it was only natural he was looking into securing his wealth and belongings in the hands of those he loved and trusted dearly. 

So, this call proved nothing, and as I explained this to Brad, he smiles and says "Ah, but that's not the extent of it." 

I'm growing tired of his games and just so desperately want to demand straight answers. 

But, I remain calm and in a collected manner ask "What else did you find?"

"I knew I had heard the name William's Wills, somewhere before. So, I googled it and a whole hit of results came rushing through. I clicked on the first site that appeared and a familiar golden bordered page opens up. You see William's Wills was not just a business that offered support and counsel in the making of a will, but among many other services to, that were applied in supporting and advising those suffering from a deadly disease, such as cancer."

"Clive, had cancer!"

"It's hard to say for certain, but it seems highly likely, that he was suffering from some form of deadly disease."