West Haven, 16th March, 501.
The small town of West Haven is swallowed by the spring rain that won't quit. The early morning air carries the smell of flowers and dirt. The sun's faint light from behind the grey clouds illuminates the town enough for the watchmen around the town to switch off the streetlamp.
Most people? Head still struck to their pillow, wrapped tightly by their warm blankets. But there are still some people who come out of their comfort zone at home in the rain. They walk on the street with their open umbrellas on their heads or wearing their raincoats or a large plastic sheet to cover them from the rain.
And one of them is Silas, who moves with a practice rhythm, covered by an old olive-green plastic sheet, a dark silhouette against the pre-dawn gloom. He pulls a sturdy, two-wheel cart, its content protected from the rain by a tarp of worn-out black plastic, secured with frayed ropes.
The squeak of the wheels mixes with the dull patter of the rain. His route is familiar; this is his everyday routine, a pilgrimage through the town's quiet alleys and back streets, stopping at each dumpster in this part of the town.
He turns his cart to enter an alley between the town's park and a bookstore. At the end of the alley, he halts in front of a dumpster. With a grunt, he lifts the heavy lids of the dumpster and starts searching inside with his black plastic glove on his hand for anything that he deems useful.
After a few minutes, he comes out of the alley pulling his cart. He sighs in disappointment as he finds a broken table fan inside the dumpster that could be sold for some money. He wouldn't have come out to salvage in this weather if it were three months ago.
But now he is in urgent need of money as his daughter was born two months and 21 days ago. He hadn't known raising a baby would need so much money. If he had known... then his daughter's face flashes in his memory and the train of thought fades away.
Today, like any morning, the shutters of early breakfast eateries and bakeries start to open. The aroma of brewing coffee mingles faintly with the damp air as he passes the eateries and bakeries. Silas searches one dumpster after another and takes out what he deems useful and moves on.
Silas stops in front of another alley. he doesn't turn to enter but puts his cart by the footpath and walks to the bakery on one side of the alley's mouth. The baker is trying to lift the shutter of her bakery.
Hearing footsteps behind her, Elara turns around to find a man wrapped in olive-green plastic sheet. Before her heart can grip in fear, she notices the man is Silas.
Silas looks at the petite, blond beauty who smells of cream and bread. Which makes his mouth water." Elara, do you need help?"
Elara nods, hearing Silas, and is going to say yes. But first she greets him. " Good morning, Silas." She turns to face her shut bakery. "I don't know why the shutter is struck."
Silas walks forward." Let me try." He sits, grips the handle of the shutter, and with a grunt, he pulls. The shutter squeaks and slowly lifts by Silas.
Elara smiles with happiness." Thank you, Thank you."
Silas nods while stepping back. "The damp air may have been the reason why it was struck. You should let Lane take a look."
Elara smiling nods. "I will keep it in my mind."
Elara stands, watches Silas return to his cart, and pulls it inside the alley beside her bakery. A thought comes to her mind. She knows Silas's family situation and decides to thank him by gifting him a loaf of bread for his help. She walks to her car and opens the back door to retrieve a loaf of bread from a box and return to her shop to quickly pack it.
Silas stops in front of the dumpster and pushes the heavy lid open. He peeks inside the dumpster to see if there is anything useful. The first thing to draw his attention is a bundle wrapped tightly in glossy black plastic. He reaches in, his gloved hand close around the slick plastic.
It feels heavier than he expected, and strangely soft. He pulls it out, while thinking that even if there is anything useful, he can take the glossy black plastic sheet. It looks new. He puts it in the dry concrete ground. The alley is slightly higher than the street it connects to, and above is covered by a roof. So, no rain falls in the alley.
His glove fingers, with some difficulty, unwrap the plastic. The discovery makes him step back and sit on the ground while a guttural, primal sound tears from his throat- a sound that rips through the quiet morning, echoing off the brick walls of the alley. Dogs, sleeping inside the alley, are shocked by his scream and begin to bark frantically.
At the alley's entrance, Elara was waiting with a plastic bag, waiting for Silas to return. She is shocked and startled by the scream. She puts her palm over her heart and takes a deep breath. She looks inside the alley and finds Silas's outline on the ground.
She wonders, "What happened?" While she walks inside the alley to check. She stops standing beside Silas's cart, her eyes wide with alarm, and stops dead. Silas sits on the ground frozen, his face ashen while he stares at the contents of the black plastic. A single, pale, clean human arm, severed cleanly near the elbow, lay starkly against the black plastic.
Elara's hand flew to her mouth, a desperate attempt to stifle the rising gorge in her throat. Her eyes, fixed on the gruesome sight, swam with sudden tears.
Silas, coming to his senses, his breath coming in ragged gasps, slowly stands up. With his eyes unable to move from the horrifying scene. His trembling hand reaches into his pocket, fumbling for his phone. His fingers fumble as the shock and fear are still there. He struggles with the buttons but manages to dial.
"1-1-1." He hears the voice of a female." Hello, what can I do for your emergency?"
Silas croaks, his voice barely a whisper." I… I found a hand."
-----
Sometime later, the spring drizzle began to relent, softening into a fine mist. A hesitant, watery sun, a pale disc behind the thinning clouds, cast a faint, ethereal glow over West Haven.
The alley's entrance, once a quiet passage, is now a hive of subdued activity. A growing crowd of townspeople who are out for their business, or living nearby, or come here from a distance, drawn by the flashing blue and red lights of the police cars. They stare inside the alley to find out why police are here, but the view is blocked by two patrolmen guarding the alley's entrance.
The crowd whispers among themselves, a low hum of speculation and unease. Each person cranes or bends their neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what the police have to come. And the patrolmen remain silent when asked about the reason.
The crowd's eyes, or at least furtive glances, keep returning to Silas and Elara. They sit together inside Elara's bakery on the side of a table while an inspector sits opposite. The police inspector is wearing the same uniform as the patrolmen, but what tells them apart is that the material of the police inspector's uniform looks expensive and bears a distinguishing mark: a silver insignia of a roaring lion embroidered on the arm, a silent declaration of his rank.
The crowd could see the mouths of the three people move as they spoke with each other. Silas sits, visibly shaken, clutching his thighs, as he speaks. Elara was too pale and drawn, with smudge eyes, her hands clasping tightly in front of her. While speaking, they glance at each other and the inspector writes in his notebook after they finish answering his questions.
A sudden, piercing wail of a siren breaks the hushed atmosphere, cutting through the murmuring crowd. Head turns, the patrolmen stand straight as a black SUV, its window tinted, the blue and red lights flash on its roof, pulls up slowly behind one of the police cruisers.
Two men emerge from the black SUV, wearing day-to-day clothes- dark, unassuming jackets and trousers- but carry themselves with an unmistakable air of purpose and confidence. They are grim; their eyes scan the crowd. They glance at Elara and Silas from outside the bakery while walking the street. The crowd parts instinctively for the two men to pass. The patrolmen at the alley's mouth, seeing them approach, step aside without a word, granting them the passage.
The crowd, who were silent because of the arrival of the detectives, started murmuring again, and some understanding dawned on them because of the detectives' arrival. Their town is a small town and they know almost everyone in the town. The two detectives may not work in the West Haven police station, but they call this place their home. Their home is by the pier by Lake Haven.
The detectives are major crimes detectives from the outbound station, like murder and kidnapping. This situation doesn't look like kidnapping; then the only thing likely to happen is murder. The crowd erupts in whispers. Some take their phone out to spread the news, and in a matter of minutes, the whole town knows.
Inside the narrow confines of the alley, the scene was now meticulously controlled. The dumpster, Silas's cart, and the gruesome black plastic bundle with its horrific contents, silent witnesses to the morning's grim discovery.
Three individuals in pristine white forensic suits move with quiet efficiency, their gloved hands meticulously retrieving clues from the dry concrete ground, their movements precise and unhurried. One of them rummages through the dumpster for the rest of the body or another part.
A patrolman stands nearby, with a torch in his hand to light up the crime scene as the bulbs on the ceiling are not enough to reveal clues. While the Inspector, his back to the alley's entrance, watches the forensic team work.
The inspector turns to look back and finds two men entering the alley. His expression shifts from focus intensity to a formal greeting. "Good morning, Detective Thorne, Detective Vance," he states.
Detective Thorne, a man with sharp, observant black eyes, doesn't immediately respond to the greeting. His gaze is fixed on the pale hand, a small frown deepening the lines on his forehead. From the hand, he can tell that the crime is a murder, but even before they can find the murderer, they would have to find the rest of the victim's body parts and his or her identity.
Then, only the search for the murderer can start. "What good is this morning?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble, the question hanging heavy in the damp spring air.