The Mirror

The murders continued unabated. Every second day a body would be found in some secluded part of the city. The same modus operandi…strangled by a silk handkerchief. The victim pattern too was similar. Women between the ages 25-35. Most of them escorts. From the manner in which their bodies were found, it was obvious that they had been called to the assigned places where their lives were taken.

Detective John was convinced this was the handiwork of a serial killer. A dangerous one and more frighteningly, a relentless one. Obviously something had triggered him off to go on a killing spree like this. There were 6 bodies found in the last two weeks. The frequency and the intensity were alarming. Apart from the usual pressure from the top, the media as always had gone berserk. They had dubbed the killer ‘The Satin Smotherer’ since all the killings were done by silk kerchiefs. He hated the fact that he had to spend half his working hours dealing with the media rather than focus wholly on the case.

Edward combed his well-moussed hair back as he put his dark glasses on. He took out his pay and use mobile from his pocket and dialed her number. They decided to meet by the cafe in the waterfront. Post coffee he took her to quiet corner on the side of the cafe. As they kissed passionately, he took out a red kerchief from his pocket. Before she knew it, the noose had tightened around her neck. Her eyes widened in a mix of fright and shock, as he kept tightening his grip around her neck. He eased off as he felt her body go limp in his arms, her eyes still open, unfocussed. He let her drop in the deserted alley and walked away, whistling an old Sinatra tune. The blue moon shone brightly as his lonely figure disappeared in the darkness.

John was woken up from his sleep by the early morning phone call. Another body had been found, he was told. He felt his head heavy and his mind wasn’t working. He couldn’t remember when he had fallen asleep last night. It was like a haze to him…the few hours since last evening. He took a shot of whisky from the bottle on his table next to the bed. His head was still feeling heavy as a rock. He got up and splashed some water on his face. He had to get to the station early. The murders were getting out of hand now.

As he reached his office the place was abuzz with reporters who wanted more news on the latest killing. He shunned them off as he rushed towards his cabin. There was a sealed envelope on his table. He took a look at it and then forgot about it, as he got busy with his work. The whole day was spent working with his associates, assimilating facts and theories about how to nab the killer. It was in the evening when he was about to leave his office that his eyes fell on the letter again. It was from his psychiatrist. He tore open the envelope to read the contents.

“Report & Diagnosis: Mr John Edward Smith,

After having gone through the patient’s previous medical history as well as the therapy sessions conducted by me, the conclusions are as follows:

1. The hypomanic episode of Mr Smith last month at the break up of his marriage and the subsequent manic depressive episode at his ex-wife’s residence matches the clear and obvious symptoms of Bipolar II disorder
2. Mr Smith has a tendency to assume a secondary personality which might be completely opposite in nature to his dominant personality and at the same time be unaware of its existence
3. Immediate admission to a specialised psychiatrist medical institute is recommended

John kept staring at the letter even as he reached home that evening. His eyes were fixed on it and he barely batted an eyelid for about fifteen minutes, holding the note all the time. He finally got off the couch keeping the note on the table beside.

He went to his bedroom and stood in front of the mirror and stared hard at it. He could clearly see Edward, the ‘Satin Smotherer’ staring back at him from the mirror. The evil grin on his face was unmistakable.

“Edward must die”, were John’s last words as he put his device revolver to his temple and shut his eyes.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar