The Man from The Land of Silence

SERGE WRIGHT, a thirty-year-old, seemingly from the land of the soft- spoken, highly economical with words yet confident, sat on the veranda visibly shaken and disturbed. The tie hung loosely from his neck – his jacket was forsaken to the ground. But he cared less.

As tears streamed down from his eyes, Serge gently rubbed his palms after an almost perfect- timed interval.

The door behind Serge opened and two uniformed men wheeled out the dead body in a bag on a stretcher in a cautious yet swift manner.

Serge made it to his feet and laid his hand on the bagged dead body as the men move past him to the ambulance parked just in front of his house. Tears, more tears, well and flowed his eyes and marred his handsome face as the he watched the men helped the dead body into the ambulance.

A couple of police officers and two coroners matched out of the house with samples and pieces of evidence in a box before POLA BROWN, in her early thirties, a newly enlisted police detective, emerged. Everything about her, the graciously pushed back hair, well pressed clothes, the badge, a notepad and pen and a well concealed pistol, spoke volumes about her organized mind and lifestyle.

Pola picked the jacket from the ground and gave it to Serge. "I'm sorry for your loss"

Serge nodded to make reply.

Pola retired to the stationary car adjacent to the ambulance and took her place on the passenger’s seat, sitting next to her grumpy and scruffy partner - a man whose usual attire is an old suit and tie that are neither clean nor vintage, IAN RICHARDS, in his fifties. A big scar ran from the top of his right eye to the tragus.

Ian looked at Pola teasingly, "You just had to shoot your shot at the grieving man."

"You're pathetic." Pola made a sharp reply.

Ian stood his ground, "I saw the way you looked at him"

Pola rolled her eyes in disgust. "I now understand why they call you 'Rusty.''

Ian chuckled. "Don't catch feelings yet. All I'm saying is that the brother can use some warmth and comfort. It’s a cold world we live in."

"Anything from the neighbors?" Pola inquired after forcing a smile.

Ian stared at Pola. "Are you changing the subject?"

Pola retorted. "Get a life. Anything from the neighbors?"

Ian looked at Serge who still retained his spot on the edge of the veranda. "Nah. Same old chorus... None saw anything unusual. No one sees anything on these streets."

Pola sighed. "Hm."

Ian tapped on the steering wheel rhythmically. "What do you think? Murder?"

Pola took a deep breath. "She seemed peaceful. No visible injuries. No forced entry into the house.

Silence swept across until Ian broke it. "Hmm."

 Pola pointed at Serge. "And him?"

"He is shattered. Devastated." Ian made reply.

Pola probed further. "Has he said anything?"

"No. He will date us tomorrow." Ian answered in a soft tone.

Pola nodded. "Alright. We better get out of here. It's been a long day."

Ian started the car. "Sure thing."

The duo drove away after the wailing ambulance and the police cars.

Serge, the lone broken figure sat for a while, before walking into the house with the jacket in his hand. 

Somewhere at a Restaurant

MILTON CLARKS, a seasoned pharmacist and businessman, in his late twenties, sat alone at a table for two sipping wine. He kept on looking at his phone in a rather an impatient and anxious manner.

He quickly dialed a number on the mobile phone and glued it to his ear.

Back at Serge's Home

Serge strolled into his bedroom and sat on the bed in the dark silent room.

The 'Phone' besides him rang. A strange number called.

Serge picked up the call.

INTERCUT Milton/Serge – (PHONE CONVERSATION)

Milton warmly opened the phone conversation. "Hi''

Serge, with almost a whisper, answered, "Hello. Who's this?"

Surprised to hear a male a voice, Milton cocooned in silence.

Serge continued. "Who is this?"

The call abruptly ended. Milton hanged up.

Serge looked at the phone, dialed the strange number and glued the phone to his ear.

The phone on the other side rang but no answer came forth.

Serge dialed the number again, but Milton's phone was switched off.

Serge looked at the strange number and mumbled it to himself before placing the 'phone' back on the bed. And with a deep breath, he laid on the bed facing the ceiling.

The next day, Serge honored the summon to the police station for his statement. He calmly sat at one end of the table. He, as always, rubbed his palms against each other gently. And of course, his fallen countenance and tear- stained eyes bore testament of so broken a soul he had plummeted to in less than twenty- four hours.

On the opposite end sat Pola with both her hands rested on a small object concealed in a small transparent plastic.

'Rusty' Ian paced about the room with both hands tucked in his pockets.

Pola looked at Serge with a pair of unflinching eyes. "Did you notice anything unusual when you got home?"

Serge, looked Pola straight in the eyes, made a short reply, 'No. Nothing was odd, at least not from a glance.'' He then at that point delve into the details of the occurrences of the previous day.

FLASHBACK...

Lounge

Serge, clad in a suit, walked in from work with a leather bag in one hand and a beautiful and fresh bouquet of roses in the other.

No sooner had Serge put his bag on the couch than he called out gently, "hey babe, are you home?"

Serge looked around and called again, "Babe...!"

Silence. No reply came forth.

Serge made his way out of the lounge and marched to the bedroom. His eyes widened with expectations. The bouquet of roses still retained their spot in his hands.

Bedroom

As soon as Serge opened the door, Soft music greeted him. His mouth curved with a smile. He puts the bouquet of roses on the bed, "Babe... I'm home."  Yet no answer came forth.

Serge was quick to notice that the bathroom door is not closed. He marched thereto and pushed it open.

Behold, IVY WHITE, twenty-six, a young kink- haired who during her day of life endured stammering tongue, laid lifeless and naked in a tub full of soapy water.

Pieces of a broken glass clustered by the open bottle of red wine just beneath her hand that hung from the tub.

Step by step, Serge charged forward slowly. Drops of sweat stood on his disbelief and confused stricken face, "Babe... Babe..."

Serge quickened his hand and reached the Ivy's lifeless body. He checked for Ivy's pulse on the carotid artery. Nothing indicated life.

And, between faint sobs, Serge vainly called unto Ivy, "Hey, hey, hey..." But there she laid. Gone and no longer aware of her surroundings nor the tears and plight of her broken husband.

As if rendering sympathy to Serge, the drapes ebbed in and out in tune to the gentle breeze from the open window.

... BACK TO PRESENT

Pola took a deep breath and inquired. "You touched her?"

"Of course... I checked her pulse. I closed her eyes,'' Replied with a bewildered face. "She was my wife of three years."

"I understand. And you lost your wrist- watch while attending to her?" Pola wondered.

Serge leaned forward in awe, "a Watch? What do you mean?"

Pola slid the golden Rolex in her hands to Serge. "Yes. We found it in the tub."

Serge shook his head, but without losing his focus on Pola, as he responded "It's not mine. I don't wear wrist- watches."

Ian abruptly stopped pacing about fired another question, "Are you sure?"

Serge calm replied, "It's not mine."

"Hmm." Ian sighed.

Tears welled in Serge's eyes. But he was quick to wipe the tiny watery bodies off his face no sooner than they stream down with his trembling hand. "Was she killed?"

"Well, anything is possible. It can be a natural death or otherwise. It's too early to call." Pola bounced back.

Serge insisted, "The watch suggests murder."

"Do you know any who might have wanted to harm her for any reason?" Ian inquired.

Serge responded, "Not to my knowledge."

Ian nodded. "Okay."

Pola and Serge maintain eye contact. A moment of silence swept across the room until the latter broke it, "If there's nothing more, I beg to take my leave. I've a wife to mourn."

Pola nodded graciously, "Sure. That will be all for now. Thank you for talking to us."

Serge stemmed to his feet and walked to the door. Ian opened for him and noted, "One more thing... do you always do the hand thing?"

"Rubbing my hands?" Serge inquires

Ian responded, "Yes, that."

"Yes. I've been rubbing my hands since my teenage years. It helps me to be calm," Serge calmly highlighted.

Ian acknowledged, "Okay. Alright"

Serge looked at Ian with searching eyes, "Anything more?"

"No sir. Thank you." Ian replied with a smile.

Serge nodded once and walked out.

Ian closed the door after Serge and turned to face Pola with a comment, "Well..."

Pola wondered aloud, "If the wrist- watch does not belong to him, then someone must be involved. The question is, who?"

Ian noted with confidence, "It's as simple as that."

Pola, amused, inquired, "Simple, you say?"

"Yeah.'' Ian affirmed. His countenance still framed in confidence.

Pola wondered even more, "You kidding right?"

Ian shook his in disapproval, "If we can marry the wrist- watch to someone, then we would be in a great position to wrap up this case."

"That does not sound simple to me." Ian openly opposed Ian.

Ian chuckled, "Don't over think. We get the wrist- watch owner; we would have our killer."

Pola sighed "Mm."

Ian teased with a chuckle, "Glad we are on the same page."

Pola shook her head looking at Ian in disbelief.

Ian drove another nail in the coffin, "What?" Then he beamed with a smile looking at Pola. The latter, with disbelief, sunk in the chair looking at 'Rusty Richard' puff up his feathers.