The scene is entered at the beginning of a white concrete sidewalk. Along the right are bushes with bright orange and pink blossoms, and along the left is a long and straight road. Ahead, past the flowers, a blue house with dark, ominous windows stands. In front of it, a crowd has formed. The faces within it are concerned; some are sad, but not many. Conversation is passing between the members of the group–various comments, such as “What a shame.” and “This is the second one this year!” are among the many statements made. People turn away as they are passed, leaning in towards their neighbors and whispering more quietly. There has been a murder.
Moving through the throng, one man makes eye contact. His hair is a dark shade of brown and partially covers his eyes, which are an intense blue-hazel. He shakes his head, as if asked “Who?” and points toward the entrance of the house, his hands gloved in black leather. Then, turning, he puts them in his coat pockets and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
The entrance to the house is genial, except for an old black dog which moves shiftlessly about the yard. White roses bloom on both sides of a cobblestone path, and emerald green vines crawl up the tresses at the side of the door, which is a dark polished wood with a myriad of colors twining together to form its stained glass window. The doorknob is bronze, round, and squeaks just slightly as it is turned. The hinges make no noise, and the door swings open easily.
The scene then changes drastically. A jade colored vase has been thrown to the floor; pieces of sharp glass have been strewn about the entryway. To the left, the door to a room has been broken in. Red droplets trail on the floor and pool outside of it.
Inside this room, the scene worsens. A green velvet chair has been tipped over—the wooden leg on the right front side has been cracked. One of the blue and green floral curtains has been torn off the rod and now lies in a heap upon the floor. A mahogany desk stands in the right corner of the room, its contents knocked about its surface. From it, an ink bottle has fallen, spilling its dark contents onto the wooden floor.
Within the disarray of the room, a shoe can be seen sticking out from behind the chair. The pants are grey, wrinkled; the brown sweater vest is wet with gore, but the monogram on the left breast still shines—the initials SB stand out in silver. Blood has spread out from around the victim’s head and chest and touched the edge of the ink spill, forming smoky red and black swirls. A slight draft ripples the surface of the pool, and it glistens as it clashes with the lighter, almond-colored ground.
The face of the victim contains an odd expression. The eyes are open—they are bright blue and hold a nebulous expression, unseeing. A smile is present but faded, as if the victim tried to ingratiate himself with Death before it took him but could not. The blonde pompadour is no longer perfect; stray locks have become encrusted with blood and frayed. The cause of death is explicable, a knife blow to the chest and neck.
Over the body, a breeze continues to blow into the room. About three feet above the floor, a large, rectangular window stands open. The killer escaped elusively through, jumping over the ledge and into the backyard.
The window swings gently back and forth, almost languid in its movements as each glass pane catches the sunlight. To the left, strands of dark brown hair blow softly, kept safe by a splinter in the windowpane.