Stained in Red - Writer's Cramp - 11/20

After six deaths within five months, the detective needs a clue-no matter how small.

Stained in Red

          The chipped Formica of the kitchen table felt cold beneath Beverly Squires' fingertips. Another victim. Another cup of lukewarm coffee, untouched. Six now. Six unconnected people were found posed like guests awaiting conversation, but undeniably, tragically, dead. Five months had evaporated into the vast, grey emptiness of the North Dakota winter, leaving behind only the chilling quiet.

          "Synthetic," Gregor Hilliman murmured, his breath fogging the small plastic evidence bag he held.

          Beverly didn't look up, focusing instead on the latest piece of evidence: a thin, wilted scrap of deep red fabric that the County Coroner had nearly dismissed as lint. It was the lead they had been waiting for: the tiny, artificial lapel flower petal Gregor had painstakingly retrieved from beneath the cracked leather shoe of the sixth victim.

          Beverly reached for her trusted toolkit. The brass casing opened, revealing the powerful lens. She positioned the petal under the focused beam and leaned in, her eye filling the circle. The magnifying glass transformed the cheap plastic fibers into grotesque, tangled ropes. It wasn't a rose petal; it was a mass-produced carnation, the kind worn by service workers or sold at cheap highway diners.

          "It connects to the fiber," Beverly stated, running her finger over a corresponding evidence photo. Five months ago, at the first scene, she had found a single, distinctive fiber snagged on the back door jam, a brilliant, unmistakable scarlet thread. It was fine, synthetic, and entirely out of place in a dusty farmhouse.

          "The thread was their introduction," Beverly realized, her voice low. "It wasn't lock-picking that got them in; it was trust. They came to the back door, someone the victims knew, someone wearing this uniform, this cheap flower. They were invited in, offered coffee, and killed in their kitchens, the place where social formalities are observed."

          The motive solidified instantly. The victims were all isolated, elderly pensioners. They weren't targeted for cash, but for things that didn't show up in quick searches: decades-old war bonds, hidden coin collections, overlooked inherited jewelry; valuables that nobody would miss immediately, stored deep in the heart of the home.

          "A service worker, Gregor. Someone with scheduled access to private homes, deliveries, repairs, utility checks," Beverly whispered, tracing the perimeter of the room. "And they wear red or work where red is common."

          Gregor nodded, consulting his files. "I cross-referenced known utility routes and regional service calls coinciding with the time of death. One name keeps popping up: Arthur Finch, a meter reader with an erratic schedule. He was always reporting 'no answer' at these addresses shortly before they turned up dead."

          They drove east, following the setting sun as it bled weak orange light onto the desolate fields. Finch's last registered address was a dilapidated workshop on the edge of Pembina. The isolation here was profound; if Finch was the killer, he operated with near impunity.

          As they approached the rusting metal shed, a sharp, angry bark pierced the silence.

          "Hold up," Beverly ordered.

          Tethered precariously to a broken drainpipe was a small, wire-haired dog, shivering violently in the cold. It was a sturdy, Black Scottish terrier, its dark eyes filled with terror and aggression.

          "That dog doesn't look like it belongs to Finch," Gregor noted, drawing his weapon.

          Beverly used her magnifying glass one last time, squinting at the worn leather collar. Engraved on the tag, barely legible, were two initials: H.M.

          "That's Harold Miller's dog, Gregor," Beverly breathed, recognizing the name of the third victim. "Finch didn't just kill them; he took sentimental things. He must have taken the dog, too, as a twisted trophy or because it was a witness.

          The terrier, sensing their intent, strained against its rope and let out a frantic series of barks, pointing its snout towards the shed door.

          Beverly pushed the door open, the hinges screaming in protest. Inside, the chill was immediate, but the air was thick with the scent of oil and something metallic and sweet. They found Arthur Finch in the corner, not actively working, but frantically sorting through a pile of tarnished silver frames. He wore grubby work trousers and a faded, red-piped utility jacket, the source of the scarlet thread.

          Finch bolted, knocking over a shelf of greasy tools. He reached for a heavy wrench.

          "Freeze, Finch!" Gregor commanded, stepping forward.

Finch didn't hesitate. He swung the wrench directly at Beverly's head.

          In a split second of selfless reaction, Gregor threw himself in front of her. The heavy steel struck Gregor's temple with a sickening thud. He collapsed without a sound.

          Beverly, stunned but fueled by white-hot rage, tackled Finch low. The ensuing struggle was swift and brutal.

          Hours later, as the local sheriff cuffed the shell-shocked Finch, Beverly knelt beside Gregor's still form. The bleak sky overhead felt heavier than ever.

          She had found the truth: the killer, the motive (petty theft under the guise of service), and the method (the scarlet thread of the uniform used to gain kitchen-table trust). But the victory was dust in her mouth, purchased at the highest possible cost, leaving her alone under the colossal, uncaring silence of the North Dakota night. The Scottish terrier whimpered softly, a final, sorrowful witness to the ultimate sacrifice.

Total Word Count: 867
Prompts: A scarlet thread, a magnifying glass, and a Scottish terrier.