Murders in Five Acts

2017/11/13

The kid looked small. Timid. He fidgeted in his seat, pushed his big round glasses several times. He didn’t look guilty, only scared, nervous. Either he wasn’t comfortable with the police (honestly, who is?) Or he knew why he was here. Anyone would be uncomfortable if they knew what the investigation was about, whether they were guilty or not.

I walked into the room casually, a smile on my face, all meant to instigate that this would over in an hour, nothing to worry about. I sat down in front of him, and put the files on the table, closed. He smiled at me uneasily.

I was, of course, the first to speak. “Alright then, let’s just get started. It’s Horace, isn’t it? I’m Detective Brads.” Seeing him nodding, I continued. “We just want to know where you were on Saturday. Can you tell me about it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His eyes darted to the dark windows on one side of the room.

I decided to let him be for a bit, before prodding him again, “Horace?”

He took a deep breath. “This is about Harry, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t expecting a kid so timid to get right to the point, but it was a huge relief. I was scared I might have to drag this on. “Do you know what happened?”

“He’s dead. His entire family’s dead. And you think I did it. Is that right?”

I smiled, trying to keep my face neutral. “Well, we’re still investigating. We’re not going to arrest anyone until we’re sure, of course.”

“Just, just out with it,” he said, and the firmness in his voice surprised me. He wouldn’t look at me in the eye, but his fist was clenched, ready for battle. “You found four people dead, one gun, a bloody knife, and only my fingerprints all over the place. Is that right?”

Was he confessing? If he did it and wanted to hide it he wouldn’t have said it all out loud, unless he was smarter than he looks. If he didn’t do it, well, wouldn’t that be grand? “You seem to know more about this case than we do,” I quipped. “Mind telling us about it?”

It took a while, but then he shook his head. “I didn’t do it.”

“We’re not accusing you of anything, Horace. We just want to know what happened.”

He shook his head again. “I don’t know how much I can tell you. I want to forget all of this ever happened.”

The kid was, I realised, a lot more distraught than he looked. “It’s alright, Horace,” I said, trying to sound soothing. “Just tell us what you know.”

His eyes darted. He took a deep breath, then looked down at the table and the file in front of me. “I…” He paused, looked away. “Harry told me to tell the truth, at the end, before he died.”

“Before he died? So you were there when he died?”

“I…” He closed his eyes, his fist clenched. “I was there when they all died.”

“So they all died at the same time?” I made a mental note of the fact. It was consistent with the autopsy.

“No. Harry’s mother died first. Lance, he…” Horace shook his head. “Before he died, Lance told us Mr. Peere meant the poison to kill Harry, but his mother drank it by accident.”

“He, what? Mr. Peere was going to kill Harry?”

“Yeah, that’s what Lance told us. And…” He looked as if he was going to say more, but then he closed his mouth and looked away.

“Lance know about this? How?”

“He was in on it. He wanted to kill Harry too.” He shuffled his feet. “I think you know why he did it.”

We did have some suspicion that Lance Stein had grudges with Harry Peere, that it might have something to do with both their deaths, but it was just hypotheses thrown about in the office. “We don’t, actually. Do you?”

“Yes,” he said, a bit too quickly. “Lance blamed him for Ophelia’s death.”

Ophelia? I had to look back to remember that one. Ophelia was Lance’s sister and Harry’s girlfriend. Of course, it was the only way they were linked. I nodded. “Ophelia drowned last week, but we were sure it was a suicide. You know about this, of course?”

“Of course I do. It was horrible, for Harry, I mean. He’d just returned from overseas. Nobody told him about Ophelia. He just stumbled on her funeral on his way home. They wouldn’t let him see her body. He nearly lost his mind…”

His words trailed off into a long quiet. Realising he wasn’t going to continue, I went on, “So, Lance thought Ophelia died because of him? We had thought she killed herself because of her grief over her father’s death.”

There was a pause. “You haven’t figured it out?” Horace asked, and this time he was looking at me.

“Figured what out?”

“Harry killed Ophelia’s father.”

There was a tense pause. I wondered what my colleagues on the other side of the dark glass looked like after hearing this news. “Harry… killed Ophelia’s father?” I repeated.

“Yes.” Horace looked down on the table. “I shouldn’t have… No, I think Harry would want you to know that too. Yes, he told me himself he killed Ophelia’s father.”

“Well, that’s.” We had spent so many hours looking over that case, interrogated so many people. When Harry came up we didn’t think he was even slightly suspisious. “That certainly saved us a lot of trouble,” I said truthfully. “You wouldn’t mind if we ask you more about this later, would you? We’re trying to focus on one case at a time.”

“I don’t think you should,” Horace said, his fist tightening. “They’re related to the current case.”

“Oh?”

“Harry killed him because he thought he was his stepfather.”

“.… What?”

“It was a mistake. Harry was going to kill Mr. Peere, but Mr. Stein was there instead.” Horace closed his eyes, looked away from me. “He felt awful about it all the time. Couldn’t bring himself to talk to Ophelia about it. You can’t just say these kind of things to somebody you love.”

“Harry was going to kill his stepfather? What… whyever for?”

This time Horace’s voice was confident. “Because he killed Harry’s real father.”

There was a pause. I reaally wanted to see the faces of those watching from the other side of the glass. That was another difficult case we had thought would just be left unsolved, all done in an evening. “Okay. Alright. So, if I get this right. Claude Peere killed Harrison Peere Senior, then proceed to marry Harrison’s wife. And Harry Junior know about this, which is why he wanted to kill his stepfather. Is that right?”

Horace wouldn’t answer for several seconds. When he next spoke it was reproachful. “It tormented Harry for months. Do you know how that feels? He couldn’t speak about it to anyone.”

“Why not? The police would have caught him, and then he wouldn’t have to to kill Claude himself.”

“His mother,” Horace said, his voice like the lid of a boiling kettle he was trying to keep closed. “It would have ruined his family. The scandal would destroy his father’s company. Harry wouldn’t want his mother to have to live on the streets.”

The Peere family owned a hugely succesful banking company, it was true. Harrison built it himself, and it fell to Claude’s lap when he married his cousin’s wife after he died. It was convenient. The public didn’t see it as a coup. They saw it as a competent second cousin to the dead CEO comforting a grieving wife. It was unconventional, yes, but the public ate it up. “A second murder would have sullied the company anyway, wouldn’t it?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It might. I don’t think Harry was thinking straight when he decided to do it.”

“Alright. Alright.” I circled the conversation back. “So Harry was going to avenge his father by killing Claude Peere. But he ended up killing Paul Stein instead? Do you know how that happened?”

“Harry didn’t tell me the details… Or maybe he did, and I couldn’t caught it. He was… I can’t imagine what it was like for him. He only mention something about curtains, and not being able to see.”

Paul Stein was found in the Peere’ bedroom, and one of the curtains was missing. Stein was one of Peere’s most trusted assistant. I could see how it happened. “So it was Harry who killed Stein. And Lance Stein know about this?”

“I don’t know. He might just be guessing. I never talk to him… until, until he was about to die.”

I rung around the facts in my head. “Right. So it would explain why Lance wanted to kill Harry, and if Claude Peere know about this plot against himself, he would have a reason to want to kill Harry too. But then, how did they all end up dead in the same room, at almost the same time?”

Horace looked uncertain. He glanced at the glass windown, then at the camera above, then at the table. He took a deep breath. “I might as well just, say it. The gun was Harry’s.”

“Interesing. So. Harry killed everyone?”

He shot me a look, and it was so sudden, so viscious and full of contempt, I didn’t know how to react to it. “You don’t understand a single thing, do you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When Harry died, he told me to tell the world of what happened. That melodramatic idiot. That there was only emptiness left for him or whatever, that the world should judge him for what happened. Not… Harry was a good friend. I wouldn’t have told you any of this if his last message wasn’t for me to tell you.”

“I’m… sorry?”

He took a deep breath. “It was Lance who invited him there. Harry told me he wanted to settle things as men. The gun was Harry’s father. He thought he’d need it, but I don’t think he was going to kill anyone with it. He asked me to come with him because he needed someone on his back.”

His sudden rapid-fire explanation surprised me, but it pleased me as well. “So you came? You were there?”

He glared at me, but continued, "I saw everything. We met at Lance’s house. We sat and Lance told us he held no grievances at Harry over what happened to Ophelia, and wanted to make it up with him. I knew Harry thought he was full of shit.

“And then suddenly there was Mrs. Peere. Harry’s mother. She came with a tray of drinks. Lance must’ve known their plan was ruined then, because he looked surprised.”

“Ruined? How so?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she’s supposed to be there. She sat down, and let gave the drinks to us. Said she was glad the two were settling, finally. Then she proposed a toast, and drank.”

“It was poisoned.”

Horace looked away. “None of us drank it. I wouldn’t if Harry didn’t, and he didn’t. When Mrs. Peere fainted, they all must know that the curtain’s up. Lance pulled out a knife and…”

“He stabbed Harry.”

But Horace shook his head. “He, they… I just stood there. I should have done something, but I just stood there. Harry tried to take the knife away, and there was a fight, and at the end it was Lance who…”

I flipped open the case file in front of me, showed him the photo. “Lance was stabbed in the heart. It was Harry who did it?”

He wouldn’t even look at it, but he nodded.

“There were some wounds on Harry too. On his stomach. It would have been slow, and fatal. Why-”

Without warning, Horace’s hand shot and took the files from my hand. He shut it closed, practically slammed it on the table without taking even one look at it. I decided that taking it back now would be futile. He took a deep breath, then spoke quietly, “Would the knife wound kill him anyway?”

“He…Yes. If it’s left untreated.”

There was silence for a while, I was about to ask him something else, but then Horace asked, “Could I have saved him, if he didn’t die first…?”

“You might. I don’t know. I can’t say for sure.”

He closed his eyes, took a breath, then opened them again. “The bullet’s the one that killed Harry, though. Did it?”

“Yes. Clean through the head. No way anyone can survive that.”

Horace sighed. “Harry, you melodramatic idiot.”

I gave him a moment before asking the question, “Do you know who shot the bullet?”

“Yes.” His voice was firm. “Himself.”’

“Ah… We were afraid of that.” The position of the bullet was strange, I remember. Forensic did say it’s likely a suicide. “How about Mr. Peere, though? Was he there?”

“After Lance died, he came out of the kitchen. Harry, he still had the gun. He must’ve known, even without Lance telling us, because he was ready.”

“Lance told you… what? The plot To murder Harry? When exactly?”

“Yeah. It was right when, when Harry stabbed him. When he was dying. I don’t know Lance. I don’t know why he did that.”

I reached towards the file on the table in front of Horace. He didn’t stop me. “Harry shot his stepfather when he saw him, before he could react. And then he shot himself?”

Horace smiled without humour. “He might’ve taken the poison instead, but his mother drank it all. Melodramatic idiot.”

I nodded. That was the entirety of the case cleared up, all in a single interview. Only one thing wasn’t clear. “So, what about you, Horace?”

He looked down, put his face in his hands. "Nothing. Nothing. I should’ve done something, should? But I didn’t. I just stood there. Harry told me he was going to do it, looking over his mother’s body. I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve taken the body away, taken the poison away, something. I did nothing.

“I left the house. I closed the door. I went home. I tried to forget all of this happened. But Harry, he haunted me. His last message keep repeating itself over and over again.” He stared straight at my eyes. “If he didn’t say that I would have taken his place, you know. I would’ve said I did it all. I would have saved him his grace, but he’s a melodramatic bastard. Last rites or whatever. I can’t not honour it, can I?”

I nodded along, tying the facts up in my head. Everything fits, however absurd it was. The dead killed the dead, over the death of the dead. There was nobody left now but the one telling the story.

“So,” I begun. “Harry killed himself after killing his stepfather and his lover’s brother, who themselves were going to kill him, but ended up killing his mother instead. And they did it because his lover commited suicide after Harry killed her father, which he did because he was going to kill his stepfather, who killed his father.” I gulped. “That’s quite something.”

Horace glared at me, his face so full of hate and comtempt. I couldn’t fathom why he was giving me that now. He looked away, and spat out his words at me, “Do whatever you like with that information, Detective Brads. I’m only fulfilling a promise.”

“Of course.” I stood up, then gestured at the people behind the dark glass. “Thank you for your cooperation, Horace. Truly, thank you.”

He wouldn’t look at me again as he was led out of the room.

“This would clear everything up, wouldn’t it?”

“Brads… you really believe everything he say?”

“Why not? It all fits.”

“Please. Do you even listen to yourself? The kid shot himself after killing two people? His mother died by poison that wasn’t even in the room? And what’s with this drama about his girlfriend and his stepdad’s plot? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense!”

“Yeah, sure, if this is, what, a film? It’s not. And we don’t have any evidence except for the kid’s words. Bet you he’s lying.”

“What reason does he have for lying?”

“What reason does he have for leaving a crime scene without telling a single soul? And then why tell us now? The kid’s a grand storyteller, you can just tell from the way he tells you the story. Don’t believe every word he says.”

“So he’s lying?”

“What do you think is more likely? The convoluted triple-drama tragedy, or that there’s a serial killer on the loose? Think for yourself, Brads. Think for yourself.”

Comments: The original story is Hamlet, a play by Shakespeare, which is a wild ride of people dying and killing each other. We need a crime thriller based on it, really.