The Reckoning

Detective Constable Kathryn O’Hara rolled up her sleeves, pulled on her ponytail and took another sip of her coffee. Her fatigued eyes drifted listlessly across her laptop screen for the hundredth time to no avail.

She placed the cup on the desk at which she was sat, her thumb and forefinger pinching the arch of her nose. She had scrutinised Robert Smith’s social media pages, personal and professional, with a fine tooth comb. The same approach had been adopted by herself and her colleagues in studying the profiles of Mr Smith’s friends, family and associates. Furthermore, questions had been put to and statements taken from these individuals as well. Everything drew a blank.

Robert Smith appeared to have been respected and well liked; no potential suspects had been identified nor any possible motives for murder. Yet from the moment Mr. Smith’s body had been found something was amiss. The note which was found and the inexplicable fall which led to his death compounded to the gnawing feeling that there had been some foul play. It was a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces could not be assembled.

When still an officer, Kathryn had always thought that as a Constable, with less interaction with victims’ bereaved families, the job would get easier. She had been wrong. It just made it harder; not seeing the families yet knowing how the deaths had ripped asunder their whole world. Robert Smith had left behind a wife and three children. Kathryn owed it to them to reach a definitive conclusion in this case.

She gathered the vestiges of her faltering resolve, opened the yellow folder and reread the note.

It read:

‘From the committal of the deed,

the secret is hidden,

Life continued,

Success found,

No consequences borne,

But that oft-recounted night,

Lies vivid in the memory,

Justice not fulfilled.’

The mystifying note was the crux of the case. Once this was solved the pieces could then be assembled. Kathryn held the note between her hands. As she dropped it on the desk, her elbow brushed the mousepad of her laptop. The mouse scrolled down the page on the screen. Kathryn glanced at the screen as she shifted her elbow.

The University of Belgram. Her brow furrowed. Her eyes narrowed as she read the words from Mr Smith’s professional social media. None of those who had been questioned were from the University. Could this be a lead?

She minimised the page on her laptop, opened up a new browser window and entered the search’s engine’s URL. Determinedly, Kathryn typed away, traversing the web for news articles concerning the University of Belgram. Her eyes swept across the screen as she rapidly scanned the articles, sipping the coffee. She cross-referenced the articles with the dates that Mr Smith studied at the University.

It was at that moment that she noticed the headline. It summarised the declaration of Salim Akhtar’s death and the closing of the investigation into his disappearance. Underneath the headline was a large photo of a number of individuals at the funeral. Amongst those stood in the frame was a young Robert Smith. Kathryn glanced from the screen to the note. Maybe…

Kathryn picked up her phone and dialled his number. He answered in 2 rings. ‘Hi Frank, meet me at the station. I think I may have found a lead,’ she explained. With that, she ended the call and stood up, her intent renewed.

As she pulled on her jacket, Kathryn blinked to dispel her drowsiness and headed for the door. The next steps in the investigation had to be taken.