Before the cock crows

There was a murder in Newtown, Monday last. Neighbours of ours purchased a large and loud rooster. He roamed around freely, annoying the citizens with his early morning hullaballoo. Kate heard him, Juliette's children were terrified by him and I had my exam preparations severely hindered by his incessant pronouncements on impending dawn. And then all was quiet. Jim Higgins found the body, one dead rooster by the side of the road and a multitude of suspects. The Newtown code of silence is strict in its observance, the investigation has hit a brick wall. Oldtown is usually where incidents of this kind occur. That's where Ned Furey had his vegetable plot savaged by rampant cattle not six months past. Nobody saw anything then either. I cannot pretend to miss the wretched bird and yet I feel uneasy as I watch the crime scene incident room packed away and the media circus leave to circle some fresh kill. Will there be further outrages? Have we in our silence opened the door to vigilanteism or worse?