A Cold Case Gone Hot

Edgar read the same line once again. His eyes were pale, his skin paler. His brain had certainly turned pitch white by now. He couldn't stop himself from giving it another look, as a drop of sweat started running down his left temple. 

"How could it?" His synapses finally made contact, for the first time in the last minute or so. Or was it two minutes? No one could tell how long he had spent on this nightmarish paragraph. He put down the newspaper on the coffee table, and sat back on the couch. Some of the ink had started to run after merging with his sweat. When he realized it, he wiped off the drop that was now reaching the tip of his left cheek.

He felt weightless, as if floating in deep space, facing the pitch black void of his own reality. "These people..." he muttered through clenched yellow teeth. He looked around, searching for nothing in particular. It somehow grounded him a bit. As he recovered his senses, he noticed the sweet orange hue of the rosewood flooring. The sun was setting fast at that time of the year. "Damn it," was all he could find to say, before getting up in a hurry. 

From the point of view of his unfinished coffee cup, the tall man disappeared behind a wall and emerged a moment later clad in black jeans and shirt, which made him look somehow between a mortician and a robber. He then took his jacket and car keys, and left through the main door. And that is all the poor coffee cup could see, before turning its attention back to the newspaper, where we could still read the now smudged article's title "Hamilton Family Mystery : New Evidence Leads Investigators to Reopen Cold Case".

***

The engine was pumping at a frenetic pace. The city was already far behind, and the road ahead seemed endless, leading to the setting sun like a portal to another golden dimension. 

"Hope I can make it on time," thought the concerned driver, while glancing at the speedometer. The Hamilton house was in another province, one he hadn't visited since the events. "It can't be it," was what his subconscious kept telling him. Twelve years ago, Edgar had lost a very valuable object, one that served many purposes, especially in his line of work.

"If they find it, I'm done for..." As it struck him once again, he pressed the pedal like a possessed beast. The engine roared in a scary, yet reassuring way.

Once a model family, the Hamiltons had suddenly been dealt the wrong cards in life. Their tragic fate had been a topic of discussion throughout the country for months. Even a decade later, people still wondered what had happened, and more importantly, why it happened. The murder weapon was never found, neither was the killer. Some suspected the mother, some the father. A distant cousin was once arrested, but rapidly dismissed. 

As the series of events played again in the somber man's head, the car continued to swallow the pavement markings one by one at lightning speed. The trees on the roadside were stacking up rapidly in the side mirrors, their leaves reflecting less and less of the now reddish sunlight. 

The road was never-ending, and so were the surroundings. Soon the trees disappeared to give place to bushes and rocks, growing increasingly small until they merged with the mountains on the horizon. When the sun finally waved goodbye and the sky turned purple, the car decided to warn its passenger and ask for a refill. 

"Damn thirsty thing, a real gas guzzler," sighed the moody driver. While looking for a gas station signage, he went back to his thoughts.

What few knew was that the Hamilton's did not owe their fate to a next of kin, but to a total stranger. Their bodies had been found all over the house, in what seemed to be premeditated. Or so the investigators believed anyway.

"To hell with them," he muffled. At that exact time, a gas station appeared on the right. The tires screamed as the car drifted uncontrollably, leaving a trail of smoke worthy of a dragon. The tired automobile slowed down and made its way to the old-fashioned gas pump. "Can't even put a sign!" Thought out loud the irritated maniac. 

While feeding his car, Edgar looked up and gazed at the stars. He couldn't often see them in the city, with all the light pollution. "I should maybe go back to the countryside," he started, "no one to bother me, no one to find me, just disappear like one of these stars."

A shooting star flashed across the sky. A swift burst of light that vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving the night darker in its wake. Darker, and lonelier. He felt the clack of the pump, indicating the car was done drinking. He removed the fuel nozzle from the car's lips, gently shaking the last few drops down its mouth, after which he proceeded to move toward the station.

A few moments later, the metallic steed was back on the road, heavy with fuel, while Edgar's mind was weighed down with memories. He remembered the Hamiltons, their faces, their last moments, all the blood and, most especially, the smell. "A scene from hell", "Unrivaled cruelty" and "The Hamilton bloodbath" were some of the newspaper headlines at the time. To him, it was the pinnacle of his past life. "Why did I have to lose this here," he had kept wondering since he read that article. An uneasiness had immediately overtaken him. He had foreboded what it was.

The moon was now the only source of light, apart from the car's little yellow eyes, casting a dim, eerie glow across the deserted road. Every few hundred meters, animals could be seen taking refuge on the roadside, mostly hares reflecting the car's headlights with their tiny vivid eyes. Buildings and signs stopped appearing, all that was left was a man and his machine gliding in the dark.

***

Edgar was troubled, but the car was at peace. Suddenly, a loud bang resonated, as if to mess with the both of them. The steering wheel went crazy, left-right-left-right, as did the pedals. The tires screeched for the second time today, then stopped spinning. 

"What again?!" yelled a furious Edgar, after catching his breath. He went out of the car, only to realize almost instantly that the front left tire was no more. "Stupid gas station cost me a tire!" was the first thing that crossed his mind. Drifting had most likely strained the already worn-down tire. 

The trunk creaked as the morose man opened it. He moved the plastic bag and the chemicals, and removed the false bottom to unveil the spare wheel. 

While mending the car’s rolling foot, the engine kept purring gently, as if thanking him. "Sure you did this on purpose," he said. He was not the kind of guy to talk to his car, but here in the wilderness, it felt like his only friend. As his hands were tightening the lug nuts one by one, his mind went back to his real problem.

The case had gone cold for lack of suspect, but not lack of motive. Despite the model-family appearance of the Hamiltons, the father of four had apparently gambled most of their savings away. After a while, it had led the police to rule out a nutcase or relative, in favor of a hitman. A violent, impulsive and quite frankly unprofessional killer, given the shape of the crime scene. 

"And now they think they have a clue..." grinned the wistful, makeshift mechanic.

When he was done fixing the wheel, he placed back the broken one in the trunk. He was greeted by a final creaking of the lid, as if agonizing, just before slamming it shut. It let out a sharp metallic thud that echoed through the still and peaceful air of the night, almost as a final breath.

When the car left, a hedgehog family was mourning one of their family members, victim of a devilish tire.

***

The sun was slowly awakening, piercing the rear window with its soft pink light. For once, the stellar object had enjoyed more rest than both the car and its driver combined. 

The empty countryside was behind him now. After a myriad of farms and hamlets, the road finally opened up to more and more villages and small towns. The sky was scattered with purple clouds and fiery streaks, as the birds enjoyed the first rays of sunshine in the cool and undisturbed morning air.

A sign bearing the name of the next town was adorned with flowers at its base. Edgar didn't need to look at the scripture to know he had finally reached his destination.

He first stopped at a coffee shop that had just opened and ordered a coffee, black. The employee tried a joke, given the outfit of his customer, but Edgar didn't react. He also didn't leave any tip, and left instantly. Like the tires on his car, anyone caught in his trail was sure to be smoked to death.

As he sipped his coffee, he replayed in his mind all the scenarios he had tried to foresee while driving that night.

The Hamilton's house was in a quiet neighborhood, where usually nothing interesting takes place apart from a casual summer barbecue. Although this time, it was packed with news vans and police cars, barring the road, as if the regular police tape was not enough. 

"Damn." 

Plan F. Going up front. Discretion was of the utmost importance. That was not the ideal scenario, but he had reasons to try it, if executed properly. 

The moment he turned off the engine, a police officer with a coffee cup three times the size of his began moving in his direction. He exited the car to face him.

"Sir I need you to turn around and leave, unless you can prove that you or one of your relatives lives in this street."

Edgar stared at the man with intensity, as if trying to find something in the man's face. He raised his left hand, showing his palm, while reaching out for his inner jacket pocket with his right one. It was a police badge. 

After glancing at it faster than he should have, the police officer smiled and became as chatty as ever, gulping down his coffee every sentence or so. 

Edgar's plan worked, and that is all there is to know from that conversation. The same afternoon, he was leaving the police station with one of his oldest and best companions, a tactical knife, engraved with his initials, a souvenir from his army days. Edgar had lost it while investigating the Hamiltons murder twelve years ago, but never knew when or where exactly. He had always been afraid someone would find it here and mistaken it as evidence. For you see, back then, he was a renowned detective. Nowadays, he was simply a freak.