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The mist hangs like a truculent blanket over the dark water, it shields from whence you come and where you go, but in this transition area between life and death, vision is not needed. The boat carries a cargo of souls, some may be saved and some will be lost. The crew is a blind sailor, a ferryman with the name of Charon. It is he who knows the secret passage and crosses this river that has no memory. He expects a small fare of an Obol as payment for the one-way trip. He accepts nothing less and nothing more.
He never could get used to walking into a murder scene. Yet he had nearly 22 years of absorbing what man did to his fellow men. After handling murders for years he had become not immune to it, but hardened to it. Each time he found another poor victim his screamed inside and your impression of civilization dropped a further notch. Scott McPherson was a specialist in homicide. He had success and caught most of those who solved their family disputes through murder. It was only those that were done by professionals that really made it difficult. Those by family members or friends, lovers, or mistresses could usually be discovered. Someone would trip up in an interview or in an interrogation or the facts didn't gibe in a detail or two. This one was in a posh office at the center of British economy at Canary Wharf.
The victim was the President of Whole World Investments. To have an office here was proof enough that you were in the big time. Big time indeed! The body was spread out like someone arranged it in a Druid ritual. Perhaps that's why it was not a usual, humdrum murder, if murder could be considered humdrum.
He wished he had another drink of coffee fortified with a weebit of whiskey. Mornings were never his best time and morning was often the time that bodies were found.
"All right what's the background so far?" he asked the police sergeant.
He had worked with Sergeant Laing before. He was a good-peeler, from the old school and had worked his way up from the street.
"We are still trying to piece this all together. The victim is Archibald Meter. He's one of those entrepreneurs who could milk a farthing from a blind man. He and his staff were into investments, big time. Their list of clients is now being put together. It was his secretary who found him like that. She's not in very good shape so when you see her sir remember that she may have been more than just his secretary."
"Oh well, it's like that is it. Has the Forensic team been here yet?"
"No sir, they should be here at any moment. No one has disturbed anything. It's like it was when I arrived. The poor bugger looks like an undertaker had already arranged the body. That struck me as strange."
McPherson looked around. Yes it was significantly unusual and that oddness made him feel vulnerable. Something told him that this was not an ordinary murder.
"Right check with security. Surely the entrance blokes might have noticed something?"
"Sir I'm working on that. The shift changed so I've got a car out to pick up the two building's security staff who were on in this building."
The remark by the sergeant about it being odd and arranged bothered him. That's exactly how he felt as he looked at the body. Everything was neat. There was no confusion of papers on the mahogany desk. No signs of struggle. This place smelled of success or if it was a façade, it was carefully hidden. The rich mahogany desk with the plush carpeting oozed wealth. Even the paintings on the wall were not imitations and were if he could decipher the signatures these were no amateur artist paintings. That too would be investigated. You never assumed anything and what appeared to be on the surface as normal often had a hidden more damning information beneath. Murder was never illogical. You just had to have a mind that dealt with the illogical thought processes of people who solved a problem perceived or real with murder.