Obscure Blood

by Christopher Leonidas

  “This room seems familiar,” he said. “I still can remember that cinnamon smell.”

  My dad once blindfolded me and threw me in when I touched his handgun, he thought. I was five years old.

  His father never took him into the room without first blindfolding him. He did not let him know what room it was. Octa never knew the direction that his father took him to the room. Now, he knelt on the floor and started looking for any unusual patterns on the carpet. The room had a first aid kit and canned foods that dated back to his youth. The carpet was sealed to the floor too. Rising to his feet, he sighed.

  So the room was a secret room that his father had probably used to store groceries and medical tools. But, he must have used it to hide himself when Octa was attacked by him. He was still in the house after the police officers came in. This was the reason he was nowhere to be found in the neighborhood. There were some visible blood trails leading to that place.

  Octa then stepped out from the room, leaving the light on. He pushed the shelf back and closed the room’s blinds. He looked straight ahead, focusing on the shelf. No light, he thought. Smart man. He opened the blinds, walked back to the closet, and turned the light off.

  He tried to copy the prints on the switch and handle and bagged them. He went back outside, and beginning with the house to the right, interviewed people in the neighborhood. He inquired about any unusual characters or activities they may have noticed in the past few days, weeks or months. He found nothing.

  Chapter Four

  As he was walking away from a porch, an old lady in her late 70s stopped him and spoke her name, “Hi, my name is Hawoman Parish.”

  She had suddenly appeared from the sidewalk. Octa was about half a mile away from his childhood house.

  “I just want to know more personal information about my father.”

  “You look like your mother,” she said, when he turned his face toward her.

  “Do I know you?”

  “No, likely you don’t remember, but I know you,” she said.

  “What can you tell about my family?”

  The old lady invited him in. There were two brown couches and a TV. The couches were torn. The walls were cracked. The wooden floor creaked under every footstep as he followed her further inside and saw pictures of her and his mother. Though her hair was gray and her hands wrinkled, she walked slowly but without trembling.

  “I know you, you’re my mother’s friend.”

  “Yes,” she said, leading him into the kitchen.

  She poured some coffee in a cup, handed it to him and motioned for him to take a seat in the living room. For a minute, he walked around the room looking at the pictures. They both took a seat. They were sitting down on different set of couches facing each other.

  Her face could have been taken for that of a 50-year-old’s. She looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Your dad changed ten years after marrying your mother.” Octa recalled the history of his father’s service as a police officer. After his first partner had died in the line of duty, his father had developed PTSD. It was about ten years into the marriage that all this happened.

  “Do you remember the names of his partners?” he asked. “No, I don’t,” she said.

  “Should I call you Ms–?”

  “Ms. Parish, please.”

  The look on her face was depressing. She took a long pause before speaking again.

  “Did my mother ever tell you anything about fights?” he asked.

  “No, your mother portrayed the marriage as heaven,” she said. “They were a lovely couple. I’m not sure what could have happened to your father’s mind if he really did kill her. I have seen you at your family home. What are you looking for?”

  “I just want to know more personal information about my father.”

  “You should contact your mother’s sister if she’s still alive.”

  “My mother had a sister?” he responded, his eyes opening as wide as those of a wolf. “What’s her name?” he asked, suddenly curious.

  Ms. Parish rose to her feet, finished her cup of coffee, looked straight at Octa, and said, “You need to leave now.”

  Octa’s eyes quickly scanned the room, and looked outside for any unusual things.

  Without interruption, he found his way out as he thanked the lady for the information she had provided to him. He walked back to his old home.

  He reentered his parents’ house and went into their master bedroom. He was looking for any leftover things from the day his mother was murdered. He pulled open drawer after drawer, went from door to door, and threw books and other objects on the floor. Nothing was of great value. He sighed. He was tired, and stretched and yawned.

  Looking down desperately, his eyes stopped moving and stared down at half of a picture sticking out of a book. He bent down and removed the photograph. It was of his mother, clearly showing her blue eyes, darkish hair, and white skin, his father, with brownish yellow eyes, dark hair, and light brown skin, and another lady, who had the same traits as his mother, except that this woman’s eyes were green. There was a note on the back: From Chelsea Cracker to Molly Cracker. Love. Your sister.

  Chelsea Cracker must be the sister, he thought. How can I never have heard about you or even met you in my childhood? Having a picture made things easier for him. Regaining his senses, he called a friend from human resources and asked for any addresses that matched her name or any recent information on her. Then, just as he was putting the picture in his pocket and leaving the bedroom, he stopped. A noise inside the house had grabbed his attention. It sounded like someone had stumbled. Maybe it was in the living room.

  He slowly made his way to the living room, though he could not walk that fast. From around the edge of the doorway, he saw someone take something from the bookshelf in the living room and put it in their back pocket. He couldn’t see what it was. The person’s face was masked, his hands were covered with gloves and he wore long, gray sweatpants and long sleeves, Octa thought it was a man. The person’s biceps and triceps were bulging whenever there was a movement.

  “Freeze,” he said. He raised his weapon toward the man.

  The intruder was kneeling before, came up from the floor, quickly grabbed the handle of a bag, rushed toward the window, and ducked down. Octa shot but he missed the intruder with all three shots. Why would Octa shoot at the perpetrator while he had no gun? Perhaps, the man was just someone who was looking for something valuable to pawn. I just wanted to scare him with some bullets, but somehow he sensed I would never shoot him, he thought. That bag he took is full of albums and family letters.

  Octa attempted to sprint toward the window, but his injuries prevented him from running. Though he saw the runner’s back, he was too late. The intruder jumped in a car and sped away.

  Chapter Five

  What’s so great about this house, anyway? he thought. The case was wrapped ten years ago, and the clue I’m looking for is the reason my father resurfaced. The house could no longer be of any use to him since everything concerned with the case had been wrapped up. He exited, jumped in the taxi that picked him up from the hospital to his childhood house and made his way to the office.

  “Where have you been, Octa?” Chief Detective Albany asked.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said.

  As he was making his way to his office, his boss said, “You need rest.”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, as she walked away. She did not say anything about the files that were missing on the children’s cases, which made Octa think she must have not known about them. Damn, I have a lot to pay for taking those files in the first place, he thought. Now they’ve been shredded. Should I report them missing? Better than telling her I took them home. A few minutes later, Albany called him to her office. When he entered, she handed him his badge.

  “I know you took the evidence of the child murders,” she screamed at him for taking those files home and someone shredded them.


  Octa froze.

  “Are there any evidence left?”

  Octa remained speechless.

  “Don’t tell me you lost them.”

  “They were stolen from me,” he answered.

  “Huh, Octa, this is the last time I’m covering for you. I know you took them, because the teapot links to your family incident. You already know the FBI has control of the child murder cases.”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  “Just walk out of my office, please,” she said while pointing her right index finger toward the door. “Sometimes, you get on my nerves.”

  He walked out of her office.

  It was seven in the evening, and as Octa walked the length of the police ward room with a cup of coffee in hand, he requested updates on the investigations that his squad was working on and reviewed plans to solve the cases. He started a preschedule to decide who would be on duty over the weekend. They had over 66 murder cases opened. Still, many detectives were at the office on off hours to work on as many cases as they could.

  “Did you ever know that the detective who investigated your mother’s case was assassinated three days after he was assigned to the case?” asked John Intel, the oldest of the department’s detectives, when he walked in Octa’s office. His hair was grayish-white and short. Octa made a quick motion with his hand for Intel to close the door, which he did, and then sat down in the chair near Octa’s desk. He took a chair and sat facing the other men in the room.

  “No,” he answered. “What do you know about the case?”

  “That it’s dangerous. In fact, all the detectives who investigated or had anything to do with that case; they’re all dead. Accidental death, car crushed, reckless driving, and no survivors.”

  “One thing I noticed,” Intel continued, “is that the first detective died three days after being assigned to the case, then a new detective was assigned to replace the first detective. The second died after six days, the next one after nine days and this went on and on. The investigation stopped after twenty detectives had lost their lives. If the three days rule applies to you, ten years after your mother was killed, then you have sixty-three days to solve the case.”

  Octa flipped the picture he had found across the desk to Intel. “Do you remember a Chelsea Cracker during the investigation?”

  “Yes, this is your aunt. She died from cancer two years after your mother was murdered.”

  “What do you think happen to my father? Was he a suspect?”

  “According to the evidence found at the scene, your father was kidnapped and beaten on a chair. No one believed he was alive, because of the amount of blood that was found for him.”

  “Was my father a corrupt man?”

  “He was as clean as your mother. That incident might be a personal issue.”

  “Someone didn’t want the case to be solved,” Intel said. “Since then, no one has wanted the case,” he said. “All of the evidence on your mother has been lost.” The silence deepened in the room.

  “However, someone in this office destroyed the evidence, maybe to avoid some further damage or they were close to getting caught. There was a big fire in the evidence room and, according to the firefighters, the fire came from an evidence box, which we identified as one of your mother’s evidence boxes. It was a grenade. Someone put a grenade in it. Everyone who went to the room was a suspect, but no one was ever found guilty or of having had anything to do with it. However, we finally concluded that the perpetrator climbed between the ceilings all the way from the electrical room. A hole was found in the basement floor, so it had to have been someone from the outside.”

  The phone rang and Octa answered it.

  “Yes,” Octa said.

  “I’ve got to go to a fire at 125th Street and 2nd Avenue,” Bob said. “Octa, I think you might want to come, because it is around where you grew up.”

  Chapter Six

  Octa rose to his feet, gulped down his coffee and tossed the cup in the trash as he left the office. “Catch you later, Intel. Something in the old neighborhood.”

  They both jumped in the same car and Bob, who was driving, had his sirens on as they sped along the streets. Not long before they arrived, Octa realized they were returning to the house he grew up in.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why is the house burning?”

  They pulled to a stop as close as possible with firetrucks blocking the street.

  “Sir, sir,” shouted an officer approaching the car. “A description was given. A male, with long, dark-gray hair, long coat. The man entered the house with multiple other men. About three to six. They were seen coming out with nothing in hand. The house burned once they left. They drove away in a red SUV.”

  “Was anyone hurt or killed?” Octa asked.

  “Here, no. But by coincidence, we have an ambulance a couple miles away that’s taking an old lady to the morgue.”

  “What’s her name?”

  The officer pulled a notepad from his pocket. “Hawoman Parish was the name found on her mail and confirmed by the neighbors. A robbery by the looks of it and killed, very probably, from fighting with the robber. Her head was smacked against the cement.”

  After taking the address from the officer, Bob drove Octa to her house.

  The men entered the house, which had been ravaged and many household items had been thrown to the floor, although nothing of great value seemed to have been taken. They assumed it because her big-screen TV was still there, and maybe some other expensive items. She was a victim.

  Octa sighed as he looked around the room. “After many years of peace, now she’s been attacked and killed. I think I’m the cause of this… She probably told me too much. Or, my father fears that I might find him.”

  “Detective Octa, there was a chair in the living room that was on its side and a rope was found one foot away from it,” the officer said.

  She was tied , Octa thought. They needed something from her. I think she refused to give in. Then, the perpetrator decided to let her go, then kill her in the street.

  What else you have? Octa asked.

  “Somehow, she ended out in the street,” the officer added.

  They wanted to make people think it was a robbery that went bad, but it is the opposite, he thought. I’m dealing with my father’s skill here. I might be wrong. I hope I’m not suspecting the wrong man.

  “Thanks for the information.”

  Before the ambulance left, Octa jumped in and examined her arms, which showed bruises that would be indicative of rope pressure. He went out and walked toward the police officers on the scene. Showing his badge, he said, “Do you have any more information?”

  The officer said, “She had visitors about half an hour ago, and the car appeared to be red. They then left. The lights went off. That was it. But waking up in the morning and looking through the windows, the witness saw her lying in the street.”

  “Were any unfamiliar characters reported?”

  “The only unusual thing was a male who had long hair.”

  “If anything unusual comes up while you’re investigating, contact me at this number. Do you have a business card, officer?”

  “Yes,” the officer said, as he reached inside his coat to hand one to Octa.

  Then, Bob walked to him and said “I’ve to go back to the office. Chief Detective Albany wants to talk to me about something.”

  “Do you know what it is about?”

  “No.”

  “So, I’m gonna have to drop you.”

  “No, I’ve someone picking me up.”

  “Cool.”

  Octa made his way to his car and parked it five hundred feet away from the house. He did not leave the scene. She dies not too long after I spoke to her, he thought. When the crime scene was secured and no one was left, Octa noticed Officer Outlaw Brinking, who was walking toward the old lady’s house. He must have left his car somewhere else.

  Officer Brinking is always on every scene, since I step
ped in to investigate these child murders, Octa thought.

  Octa stepped out of the car and made his way through the back door. No lights were shining inside. He did not hear any footsteps within. There was someone behind him. It was Officer Brinking. Octa must have entered the house before him.

  “I should have known I’d find you here, Octa,” he said.

  “I didn’t expect you, but I am not surprised,” Octa said.

  Octa turned around and Officer Brinking turned on the light.

  “I wonder what your family wants from you,” he said and pointed his 9 millimeter at Octa.

  “What do you know about my family?”

  “I wasn’t paid to tell you anything, but I should kill you even though they want you alive, since you might be worthless.”

  He shot Octa in his left shoulder, which Octa clutched. Blood started trickling down Octa’s arm, and he pressed his left hand over his wounded shoulder.

  As Brinking lowered his weapon, Octa kicked him in the groin, picked up a pan off the floor and struck him on the head.

  “Tell me about my father.”

  “I’ll never tell you.”

  “Awesome.” Octa hit him harder until he lost consciousness.

  Octa dragged Brinking out and put him in the trunk. Octa’s face was glistening with sweat. He held his left shoulder. Blood continued to spurt between his fingers, despite his efforts. He then drove to a hospital to take care of his wound. He had to make a police report. The doctor who took care of him was an old friend of his. After he put on a sling for Octa, he did not bother to get a report from him.

  Chapter Seven

  Octa left the hospital, drove home, pointed a gun at Officer Brinking and made him walk until they got to the basement. It was about ten in the evening. He turned on the light and descended the stairs.