The Scent of Jasmine

The Scent of Jasmine

         Harry sat at the bar, turning his glass around and around.

         A shapely woman with long red hair sat down on the stool beside him. "Are you trying to decide which side to drink from?"

         He looked at her and then moved over one stool.

         The woman looked surprised. "What's a matter, Sweetie? Don't you like women?"

         "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. It's your perfume..."

         "Are you allergic?"

         "No, you're wearing Jasmine. My wife used to wear Jasmine."

         "Oh, you're married."

         "No, widowed, she died three years ago."

         "I'm sorry. You mean it makes you feel bad because it reminds you of her?"

         "Yes, she used to wear it when she wanted to..." He could feel his face becoming hot and red. "It was like a signal between us." He took off his coat and laid it across his lap.

         She moved to the stool he had just vacated.

         "Please, Miss, it's really bothering me." He swallowed his drink with one gulp and looked anxiously around the room.

         "You mean it makes you want to..." She didn't finish her statement; instead she put her hand on his knee and gave it a squeeze.

         He looked down at her hand and smiled. "I didn't come here looking for this. I can't help how the scent of Jasmine makes me feel but it acts like a trigger and I lose control."

         "Really?" she purred. "Would you like to go somewhere more private?"

         "I don't even know your name."

         "It's Andrea. Now what's yours?"

         "I'm Harry." He smiled back at her. "Where did you have in mind?"

         "I have a room here in the hotel. We could go there."

         He felt her hand move a little farther up his leg. "Would you like a drink?" he asked.

         "Sure, if you're having one. I'll have whatever you're having."

         He held up his glass and said to the bartender, "Two more of the same."

         They clicked their glasses together. After three or four more drinks, he wasn't sure how many, she took his hand and led him to the elevator. He knew this wasn't a good idea, but the scent of jasmine drew him onward.

         She unlocked the door to her room and he followed her in. He was startled when he heard the door lock behind him. What am I doing? He thought. I can't let this happen again. He looked at her; she had removed her dress and stood before him wearing only her pink lace bra and panties. He wanted to escape before it was too late.

         She put her arms around him and kissed him softly on the neck. When she started to unbutton his shirt, he tried to pull away. "Please, you don't understand. Your perfume, it makes me want to ~~"

         "~~That's all right, sweetie, you just come along with me." She led him to the bed.

         "I've told you the scent of jasmine makes me lose control."

         "That's all right," she purred into his ear.

         Suddenly he took her into his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. Her eyes opened wide with surprise, but the kiss muffled her scream.

         He released her and she fell onto the bed. He looked at the knife in his hands and then at her. A red stain was growing on the sheet beneath her.

         "I tried to warn you," he said. "My wife used to wear jasmine, until she wore it for another man. That was the day she died. And now I can't help myself. The scent of jasmine is like a trigger and I lose control."

         He went into the bathroom and washed off the knife and his hands. As he looked into the mirror, he shuddered. What have I become? How could I let this happen again? He took his handkerchief and wiped his prints off the sink.

         He used his handkerchief when he opened the door, went out into the hall and hung the ‘Do Not Disturb' sign on the knob. This should delay the discovery of the body, he thought. After looking around one more time, he got on the elevator and hurried to his room to get his things. He had to get as far away from this hotel as he could.

         He thought he had covered everything and then he remembered the bartender. All those drinks they had, he would be sure to remember Harry and the girl.

         Harry locked his things in the trunk of his car and then he went up the alley to the side door from the bar. He couldn't believe his luck, there was the bartender taking a smoke break. He put on his biggest smile and said, "Hey, buddy, can I bum a cigarette?"

         "Sure," the bartender replied. "How did it go with that redhead? She looked like she really wanted you."

         "Well you know what they say. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is."

         Both men laughed.

         The bartender said, "Better luck next time, pal. I've got to go now, see you around." He threw his cigarette butt into the dumpster then turned and reached for the doorknob.

         Moving quickly Harry dropped what was left of his cigarette and crushed it under his shoe. His knife found its mark, and the bartender fell to the ground without a sound. Harry ran to his car and made his getaway.

         A few minutes later a waitress came out looking for the bartender. She tripped over his body and screamed.


         The forensic team had already taped off the alley and was busy searching for clues when Detective George Malcolm arrived. He knelt over the body as the coroner, Doctor Jacobs said, "There's a single stab wound to the back, through his heart. Death was instantaneous. The killer was either very lucky or very skilled."

         Malcolm spied the stepped on cigarette inches away from the body. And told one of the forensic officers, "Bag this, I want it tested for DNA."

         The officer said, "That could have belonged to anyone."

         "I know. Humor me, I've got a hunch." He looked at the soles of the victim's shoes then asked the officer with the camera. "Do you think you can get a shot that will show those footprints?"

         The officer smiled. "I'll do my best."

         Malcolm's cell phone began to vibrate. "Malcolm here, tell me what you want." He listened for a moment and then turned to Dr. Jacobs. "You better come with me. We've got another body on the fifth floor, a woman."

         The two men went to the elevator.

         Detective Malcolm and Dr. Jacobs entered the hotel room and were greeted by Officer Peters. "The victim is Andrea Meyers." The office pointed to a couple standing by the window. The man was trying to comfort the sobbing woman. "That's her sister, Sandra Meyers and her boyfriend, Robert Phelps. They discovered the body when they returned to the room a little while ago. The two women were sharing the room while here on vacation."

         Malcolm spoke to the couple while the coroner examined the body on the bed.

         "Miss Meyers, I'm Detective Malcolm, I'm sorry for your loss, but I have to ask you a few questions. Did you say that the victim was your sister?"

         The woman turned and looked at him. She really didn't have to answer that question; she looked just like the woman on the bed.

         She smiled at the surprised look on his face. "She is my twin sister. I had a date tonight. We invited her to come along but she didn't want to be a third wheel. She told me not to worry; she would find her own fun for tonight. Bob and I went out to dinner and then went dancing."

         "Do you have any idea what she meant by find her own fun?"

         "I knew exactly what she meant. She was going to the bar and to pick up some man."

         "Did she do that a lot?"

         "Yes, I told her she'd never meet anyone decent that way." She reached over and took hold of her boyfriend's hand. "I kept telling her it was dangerous, with all the diseases and crazies in the world." She turned to her sister and screamed, "Why didn't you listen to me!" Her boyfriend put his arms around her and held her as she sobbed.

         Malcolm decided any more questions could wait until later. He went back to the bed to talk to Dr. Jacobs.

         "She was stabbed in the back and through the heart."

         "Just like the others," Malcolm said.

         "Are you saying you think they were all killed by the same man?"

         He stood up and took a deep breath through his nose. "Do you smell that?"

         "Smell what?" Dr. Jacobs asked.

         "Her perfume," the detective replied. "It's Jasmine. The other four all wore Jasmine. The only things they have in common, red hair and Jasmine perfume and they were all stabbed to death." He touched the wound with a gloved hand. "Can you compare the wounds of both of tonight's victims and tell if they were killed by the same weapon? And is it possible to see if the first four women were killed with the same knife?"

         "I thought there were only three before this one."

         "No, the first was three years ago. My partner and I built a case against the husband, Harold Emerson. She was stepping out on him and he killed her for it. He played the grieving widower and had a nervous breakdown during the trial. The jury felt sorry for him and found him not guilty. A year later when he got out of the psychiatric hospital, he disappeared and no one has seen him since. His wife had red hair and wore jasmine perfume."

         "And you think he's killing women who remind him of his wife?"

         "Detective," Robert Phelps tapped him on the shoulder. "I've given my address and phone numbers to the officer, and I'm taking Sandra home with me. The hotel has offered her another room but she can‘t stay here."

         Malcolm nodded. "Maybe Dr. Jacobs can give you a prescription to help her through this."

         Dr. Jacobs agreed. "There's a pharmacy across the street, I can call them." He went over to the woman to talk with her before deciding on what to prescribe.


         Meanwhile Harry sat in a run down motel room on the other side of town. The vodka bottle he was holding was nearly half empty. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and turned on the TV to watch the local news. There was nothing about either murder. He was about to turn the set off when the newscaster announced a breaking story, two murders at the Victoria Hotel. He froze when he saw the detective the reporters were asking questions.

         "Do you think these murders are linked?" one of them asked.

         "It's very likely," was the response as Malcolm tried to pass through the throng of reporters.

         "We've heard the woman has red hair. Do you think the killer is the same person who killed those other three women?"

         "Yes."

         "Do you know who the killer is?"

         "We have a good idea and hope to bring him in soon." Malcolm turned and looked directly into the camera. "But it'll go far better for him if he turns himself in."

         Harry turned off the TV. What am I going to do? He thought. I didn't want to kill those women. I couldn't help myself. It's not my fault. I can't go to jail. He took another drink from the bottle and passed out in the chair in front of the TV.


         The next morning the sunlight glaring through the open blinds woke him up. His head throbbed. He struggled to stand up and go into the bathroom. He had to clean up so he could go to the diner next door and get some coffee and something to eat. He took out his shaving kit. He held the razor in his hand but he couldn't bear looking at himself in the mirror. He thought. I've become a monster. I don't deserve to live. He dropped the razor on the floor and stumbled back to the chair. He had to decide what to do.


         Malcolm sat at his desk looking over the evidence that had been collected the night before. He had his proof that the murders were all connected. The DNA on the cigarette and the fingerprint on the Do Not Disturb sign belonged to Harold Emerson. He opened a folder and took out a picture; he would put out an APB and circulate the picture. If Harold Emerson was still in the city, they would find him.

         The phone on his desk rang and he picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end said, "Detective Malcolm, do you know who this is?"

         Malcolm quickly signaled to another detective to start a trace on the call. "Yes, Harry, I do. Where are you?"

         "Before I tell you that, can you help me?"

         "What do you expect me to do? You've killed five people not counting your wife. You killed her too, didn't you?"

         "Yes, I killed her, and for the reason you thought, but the others~~ I didn't want to kill them. It's not my fault. The doctors should have kept me in the hospital."

         Malcolm looked over to the other detective who said, "Keep him talking. We don't have the trace yet."

         Malcolm said, "Harry, why did you kill them?"

         "They were deceiving sluts, just like my wife."

         "Why did you kill the bartender?"

         "He would tell. He saw me with her."

         The other detective signaled to let Malcolm know they almost had the trace.

         Malcolm said, "Harry, why don't you tell me where you are so we can talk face to face. Maybe I can help you."

         After a moment of silence Harry said in a weak voice, "No, you can't help. I see that now. No one can help me. There's only one thing left for me to do."

         Malcolm heard a click and then the dial tone. "He's hung up. Did we get the trace?"

         "Yes, We've got it. He's in a motel on Delmonico Street."


         When Malcolm and the officers arrived at the motel, they showed the manager the photo of Harry and he directed them to Harry's room.

         His gun drawn and ready, Malcolm knocked on the door. "Harry, it's the police. Open up." When there was no response, he used the manager's key to unlocked the door and they entered. At first they didn't see Harry, but then one of the officers said, "He's in here."

         Harry was dead on the blood covered floor of the bathroom and beside him lay his knife and a note written on paper stained with tears and blood. It read, I'm so very sorry. I cannot live with what I've become.

2,495 words