Chapter 4: The Method of Elimination

Detective Lorian stood silently in the middle of the room, eyes scanning every detail as if reading an invisible language written in blood and dust.

Coroner's reports hadn't arrived yet, but Lorian didn't need them. The smell of congealed blood, the angle of the wound, the stiffness of the corpse—it all told him more than any paperwork could.

He crouched beside the body again, fingertips hovering just above the cold skin.

"Don't get too close," Officer Vincent warned from behind him. "That's still an active crime scene."

"I'm aware," Lorian replied without turning. "It's also the most honest witness."

He touched the corpse again, and immediately, it responded—not with movement, but with a sensation, a murmur in the back of his mind.

Pain... so much pain... the head...

The whispers weren't audible to anyone else. He was sure of that now. They were tied to the mark on his wrist—the crimson sigil shaped like a weeping eye. Ever since he'd awakened in this body, turned by blood and shadow, his senses had stretched beyond the realm of the living.

This corpse wasn't quiet. Something about it still lingered, like an echo trapped between life and death.

"You okay?" Officer Vinnie asked. She had been observing him closely, her notebook clutched tightly in her hand.

Lorian withdrew his hand. "Just thinking."

He stood and walked toward the small writing desk in the corner, where a folded letter lay undisturbed under a paperweight.

"The suicide note?" he asked.

"Yeah," Vinnie confirmed. "It matches the victim's handwriting, at least according to a few older documents."

"Superficially, maybe." Lorian studied the letter with a critical eye. "But it's too neat. Too... composed. Suicides aren't elegant. They're messy, rushed, full of panic and desperation. This letter reads like a polished farewell speech."

"So, a forgery?"

"A poor one," he said, placing the note back. "And one done by someone who's seen enough of Arnold's handwriting to imitate it—badly."

Vincent scratched his chin. "You're saying someone tried to stage this?"

"Exactly."

"Any idea who?"

Lorian didn't answer. Instead, he walked to the other side of the room and knelt by a scuff mark barely visible on the wooden floor.

"He fell before dying," Lorian murmured. "Probably tried to resist. See this drag pattern? Someone moved him."

"That could've been the medics," Vincent offered.

"No," Lorian replied. "They haven't touched the scene yet."

He straightened up and turned to the two officers. "This wasn't suicide. It was murder, staged by someone without much experience but a lot of desperation."

Vinnie's eyes widened. "Then the killer is still in the manor."

"Most likely."

The three of them exchanged glances, the weight of that statement settling in the room like dust.

Lorian stepped back into the hallway. "We need to talk to the staff."

The Suspects

They gathered in the adjacent room—seven individuals who worked and lived in the manor: two maids, a cook, and four male servants. Jack Arnold had once been one of them. Now, one among them was his killer.

Lorian paced the room slowly. Each face told a story. Most were anxious, confused, scared—but one, he noticed, was particularly quiet. Staring at the ground. Avoiding his gaze.

"Louisa," Rudolph the butler called out, "please explain what you saw earlier today."

Louisa, a nervous young maid, stood up, her hands wringing each other. "I... I was cleaning near Mr. Arnold's quarters. I noticed his door was slightly ajar. I called his name, but there was no answer. When I peeked in… he was lying there. There was so much blood... I screamed and ran."

She raised her arm, showing a bruise on her elbow. "I fell while running to tell the butler."

"Thank you," Lorian said gently. He didn't think she was lying—at least not about that.

Next, he turned to the others. "Did anyone see or hear anything unusual this afternoon?"

Murmurs. Headshakes. A few nervous glances.

Lorian let the silence stretch before walking over to one of the seated male staff.

"You," he said quietly. "Stand up."

The man hesitated.

"You're Evan Smith, aren't you?" Lorian continued. "I read your file. You've worked here for three years. You were passed over for promotion when Arnold became head valet."

Evan slowly stood, eyes flicking to Rudolph and then the officers.

"I had nothing to do with it," he muttered.

"You forged the letter," Lorian said. "You stole the knife from the kitchen. You thought if you made it look like suicide, no one would question it."

"That's crazy!"

Lorian tilted his head. "Is it? You're wearing boots with dried mud. The same kind found at the threshold of Arnold's door. You're left-handed, just like the cut angle. And you've been staring at that same floorboard since we walked in. Guilty men look down. Innocent men look others in the eye."

The room went dead silent.

Finally, Evan cracked.

"I didn't mean to!" he cried out. "I just—he took everything. The promotion, the money, the praise. I thought if he was out of the picture—if it looked like suicide—maybe... maybe I'd get my chance!"

Vincent and Vinnie moved quickly, restraining Evan and escorting him out of the room.

"Impressive work," Vinnie whispered to Lorian as they walked him out. "How did you see it all so clearly?"

Lorian gave a crooked smile.

"Let's just say... I have a unique perspective."