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Friday, June 29, 2018

Microstory 875: Forensic Countermeasures

The first thing I see when I get back home is yellow tape blocking my way in. I slip under it, and open my door, only to find a huge mess. At first I think someone broke into my house while I was gone, but I also see bloodstains on the floor, so it’s even worse than I thought. I was gone for a whole month, but I don’t have any pets or plants, so there was no need for anyone to be in here. I’ve been trying to sell the place, but I’m not using an agent, so I paused my listing while I was in Japan. Worried about disturbing a crime scene, I step right back out onto the porch, and call the police. After some waiting, they finally connect me with the detective assigned to a recent murder. She tells me to stay put, then drives up a half hour later to give me the details. No one was killed on the premises, it would seem, but the killer did dump the remains, and all the other evidence, inside my home for two separate murders. I have a hard time expressing my concern for the matter. I watch a lot of violence on TV, and while it’s not made me violent myself, it has desensitized me to death and destruction. I’m upset that this is going to make it harder to sell the place, but I don’t have the same look of horror on my face as I gather this detective is used to. Even without contacting me while I was on my trip, though, they ruled me put as a suspect, so she doesn’t push me too hard. She leaves, and I try to move on with my life. I hire cleaners, and put the house back up on the website.

Two weeks later, I’m still struggling with the sale, when it happens again. No bodies this time, but I wake up to find bloody rags, frightening sharp instruments that I can’t name, and jars of what I guess to be highly corrosive acid. I review the footage on my door cams, and see the perp. I actually know him, he lives two blocks over. But I also see myself, sleepwalking down the stairs. I pass right by the guy as he’s planting the evidence. He just stops and watches me, but gets back to work when he realizes I’m no threat to him. I can’t show this tape to the cops; they’ll never believe that I wasn’t awake. It’s something that happened to me more often when I was a child, but it hasn’t been a problem for a long time, and I can’t prove it. Like a fool, I just gather the evidence that night, and drive it back to his place, planting it in his kitchen, with plans to call in an anonymous tip from a payphone the next day. Out of caution, I sit guard on the stairs all night, in case he gets any bright ideas, I must have dozed off at some point, because I wake up to it all again, but this time he’s left the stuff next inside my backdoor. I try again that night, but he sneaks in yet again. That does it. I drive right over to the guy’s house, and bang on the door. After he answers, he looks around the neighborhood to make sure no one’s watching, then he ushers me inside. “Why do you keep doing that?” he asks me. “We agreed to keep all our stuff at your place since my old parole officer moved to town. You’ve already been cleared, dude...don’t ruin what we have. And why the hell are you trying to sell your house?”

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