From hell’s heart, I stab at thee.
Victor knocked over the first domino, the one he knew would lead to his death.
But his death didn’t matter.
Victor’s life was but a means to an end, the end of him.
It was all meticulously planned down to the last detail.
His hanging body would be discovered the next day.
It would, of course, appear to be a suicide, but the vibices wouldn’t look quite right.
The lividity wouldn’t add up, and this clue would lead them, the detectives, all the way down the trap.
There would be tell-tale would be signs of the faint shadow of livor mortis on his back.
Meaning, of course, he had been lying face up after he died
Around his neck was the rope, the same rope he had bought.
The rope he bought to affix all that which seemed to move and topple during the night
Fibers from his carpet would cling to the jacket adorning Victor’s bloated corpse.
Hair from his dog, with Victor’s hair fibers expertly planted on the trunk of his car
The subtle machinations that lead to this point, the long lonely rueful nights.
Affixing his helium-filled suicide bag, he laughed for revenge would finally be his.
Two hours after his soul had fled his decaying flesh, enough of the alcohol should have evaporated.
The board will fall, the alcohol with it, and the counterweight will drop, suspending his corpse by the neck.
The same action flinging the bag into a corner, the corner filled with bags
Victor’s final thought as he faded into an asphyxiated eternal slumber
Be seeing you in hell, Maxwell.
From one bastard to another, from hell’s heart, I stab at thee.
Precisely two hours, twenty-one minutes, and eleven seconds of uninterrupted silence later.
A board fell, a bag flew, and a corpse was hung.
Detectives Reese and Welsh came in the next day.
“Male, 28, Victor Reaving, estimated time of death 5 p.m yesterday the 30th, estimated cause suicide by hanging,” Welsh said.
Reese flipped through his notebook. “That’d be the second anniversary of his wife’s murder.”
Welsh points to the white bands on either side of the rope
A keen eye could tell they were not as pronounced as they should be
Welsh looks at Reese, and they both nod
“Well,” Welsh said. “Seems pretty open and shut, suicide by hanging. Maybe now the poor bastard can get some rest.”
“Where do you want to get lunch?”
“I’ve got a hankering for Italian.”