The Hospital Murder

November 30, 2012
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Cindy pushed the bed towards the door, pushing her way through the hubbub of bodies. The noise o over thirty distressed voices assaulted her ears and Cindy was glad to finally shut the door on the crowd, shutting herself in a room with a dead body. Well not dead yet, not technically anyway. Cindy sighed as she slowly peeled off the white sheet exposing the pale body beneath it. She could plainly see that the man had lost too much blood; even now his breathing had become less frequent, more shuddering. Regardless she picked up her utensils and started a half-hearted attempt to save this man’s life. As she held the sharp knife above the grotesque stomach wound which would no doubt end this man’s life Cindy was seized with the sudden urge to laugh. It was ironic really; you’d think that a hospital would be the ideal place to be shot. Cindy composed herself before the laugh could break through onto her perfectly emotionless face, even though there was no way they could know, and no way they could find out, Cindy couldn’t help the sweat from breaking out over her hands, loosening her grip on the knife.
Cindy took a deep breath and wiped her hands on her coat, they would arrive any minute now, she thought, you need to be calm, collected, tranquil. No sooner had Cindy turned around then everything went quiet, far too quiet. Sure enough, firm footsteps echoed through the now silent hall, so distinct you could hear the rhythm, heel, toe, heel, and toe. Cindy’s mind raced as fast as a cheetah can run; the gun: disposed of; finger prints: wiped; witnesses: none; victim: Cindy looked down fleetingly, dead. Finally the footsteps stopped; there was a brief pause before the unavertable. Knock, knock, knock. Three times, clear and concise reverberating around the space. ‘Come in’ said Cindy, hoping that her voice was sharp, business-like, on the verge of being bored. The door open soundlessly and a man walked in. He wore a typical business suit with a typical briefcase, his ebony hair was gelled back while his eyes, no doubt scrutinising her just as closely, were hidden beneath tinted glasses.
‘Is the man dead?’ he asked without a hint of hesitation, there was going to be no beating around the bush with this man.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly, her eyes drifting absently over the body, over the cause of so much anger, spite and hate in her life. Under the glasses, Cindy could feel his eyes wandering over the body.
‘When did he die?’
‘He died at…’ Cindy faltered, when had he died, such a simple question, she was silently cursing herself over and over. The first thing an attentive doctor would do, would be to note down the time of death. Slowly the man’s eyebrow slid up.
‘Yes,’ he said impatiently, it did not make sense that such a simple question would stump her.
‘Twenty-three fifty.’ She said quickly, ‘he died at twenty-three fifty.’
‘I see, and the cause of death?’ the question were always the same, boring really.
‘He was shot in the stomach.’ Cindy answered clearly, ‘he died from blood-lose.’
The man nodded his head slowly. ‘Where were you when the crime took place?’
‘My office,’ she lied, ‘alone.’ In fact she had been in the basement, with the other man, he was breathing normally then, but he may as well have dead.
‘Do you have any other comments?’
Cindy wanted to scream out, yes! I know who murdered this man! ‘No.’ she said.
‘Another agent will be with you shortly to collect the body and ask any follow up questions, until then; do not leave this room.’

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