Murder In The Barn

Detective Zachary Moore took out his cigarette, shaking his head. He stood in the middle of an old barn; dead bodies of the victims strewn around him. Two dead, a husband and wife. They were killed in gruesome fashion; the kind that makes you struggle to get any sleep for days. It was late, too late to be out in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps a farm in Kansas was not actually in the middle of nowhere, but it was close enough. He checked his watch, muttering his annoyance. He was supposed to be here by now, why was that man always late?

Sensing another presence, Moore turned around and took his gun out of its holster. The figure came into the light, causing Moore to lower his gun. “What’d I tell you about lurking, Spruce?” Moore remarks, as Spruce winks. Spruce smiles, looking around the barn. “Where are they?” Spruce says with excitement in his voice. Moore sighed, turning the lights on in the barn and pointing the man in the direction of the bodies.

Private Investigator Oliver Spruce was a strange man. His tall and lanky figure mixed with his shaggy and disheveled red hair, certainly gave off an impression to all who saw him. Spruce lacked what one would call emotions or more accurately, any care or warmth for people. Despite this, Spruce’s genius intellect made him an invaluable resource. Despite his eccentric side, Moore was of the opinion that the private investigator wasn’t as bad as others made him out to be.

Moore blew out smoke from his cigarette, as he watched Spruce inspect the bodies. “I doubt even you can find anything useful from this mess”, Moore said in a tired tone. Spruce bent down next to one of the bodies, staring at it for a moment. “How long ago was it called in?” Spruce inquired nonchalantly, as if the two were discussing what they had for dinner. “Well,” Moore began, “the neighbors heard some screaming, and called the sheriff. That was about four hours ago. I only got them to leave the crime scene about an hour ago. I know how you like to work in peace”. “I’d like it,” Spruce says, “if they wouldn’t dirty up my crime scenes.”

Moore watches the man for a moment, enjoying the silence, and chill of the night. “Tell me about them”, Spruce says with disinterest. One of the more unsettling aspects, about the private investigator, has to be his preference to be given the background and history of the victim he’s inspecting. It is strange, and at one time would have made Moore question the man’s sanity, but he had been working with the private investigator for long enough at this point.

“John Williams, Twenty-Six years old.” Moore began, “John got the farm as an inheritance from his father, Mark. Frequently a member of the town softball team, and overall a decent member of the community. His wife, Mary, Twenty-Four years old. If word of mouth is to be believed, she was a sweetheart.” Spruce did not respond, flipping the body of John Williams over in a flash of movement. Spruce did the same thing to the body of Mary Williams, inspecting the backs of both bodies. Moore blew out another puff of smoke, waiting for Spruce to explain whatever theory he had constructed.

Spruce began, “There was a struggle. Mostly between John and the killer, but it seems Mary got involved at the end”. Spruce stands up, tilting his head. There was a time when Moore would have asked Spruce how he came to that conclusion, but he found it was better to let the man work. Quicker that way. Spruce turns around, smiling like a kid on Christmas. “It’s him. He always likes to tell a story with his kills” Spruce said, hiding none of his glee. “Two innocent people were just murdered in their barn; I’d appreciate it if you could keep your excitement to yourself” Moore said in annoyance. Spruce rolls his eyes, paying no attention to him.

“You immediately assume it has to be Ahab, based on what?” Moore asks. While they had never officially come across said man, it was a known fact that someone had taken an interest in Spruce. Moore had taken to calling their unseen enemy “Ahab”, his attempt at a lighthearted joke. Spruce had evidently never read Moby Dick, and therefore, never understood the reference. Still, Moore felt that Ahab was an apt name for their unseen enemy. “There’s nothing more to learn here.” Spruce said with disinterest. Moore sighed, puffing out more smoke. “What am I supposed to tell them? The killer is someone who may not even exist?” Moore retorted. Spruce shrugged, heading out of the barn. Moore shook his head, tossing his cigarette into the feeding trough, and making his way to the car. If he’s going to deal with the headache the morning will bring, he needs rest. And Aspirin….lots of Aspirin.