Ch. 0 – Duncan Strauss Mysteries
A Shadow at Dawn
"It's a terrible business I'm afraid," he said standing. "But I'm not sure you've much to say." The victim groaned. "There's not a terrible lot you've done to earn this, you could say you've won a lottery - of sorts. I'm sure you want to speak, for I'm the last you'll ever see. But I'm just not very interested in anything you have to say. It's nothing personal. Even with all of the technology I can possibly want, there's nothing as elegant as a simple gag; oh the silence, the magnificent silence."
He glanced down admiring his handiwork. A rope would have been easier, but the chains offered a sort of permanence, hopelessness, a sense of gravity. It had taken him several months to get the mechanism just right - sixteen individual cogs below the table, perfectly centered - each operated individually with their respective wheels, or altogether with a master lever. The chains about the cogs looped around the table - the table with its very unusual shadow. A thick and sturdy oak slab, about human size, bolted to a steel frame. The chains made the shadow round, but with a certain fringing that almost made it look like fire. The LED burned overhead with an unforgettable luminance, perfectly neutral, one they could never forget.
He had spared no detail. There were no windows in this place. No light, bar the intimidating LED. In fact, there wasn't even a door. No furniture, besides the table and the intimidating master lever. No draft, just still and stagnant air. The floor was made of a kind of hospital tile, every corner, every edge, perfectly aligned, perfectly flush. The tiles themselves were an even white, smooth to the touch. The floor was slanted, an exact 2 degrees; with an exception of the floor holding the table's legs - perfectly distinct from the slant, and perfectly level. The far end of the square room, at its lowest point featured a drain; with colors that matched that of the iron chains - it ran the full length of the room. He always appreciated the size of the room - it struck a nice balance between concise and cramped.
He glanced at the wallet he held in his hand, and opened it up to observe the victim's ID. The ID was one granted by Terrier - a fairly well established identification company. The ID bore the victim's photo, and the victim's name - it was Cane. Cane's photo was a typical photo, slightly blurry, and certainly not flattering. Terrier was consistent enough with their services, but their photos were far from acceptable. He glanced at Cane. He liked to bask in their emotions just through their eyes. Cane was a rather attractive man, although a bit too old for his taste. Cane's medium blue eyes, almost like a dark cobalt, although striking, were particularly common. "Rather drab," he noted. Cane was about average height, a boring 5' 11" - too short to make use of every chain, but just long enough for fourteen; "a shame," he admitted.
In all of his experience, Cane's expression was one too seldom observed. He expected fear, not the fear of a bear, or the fear of heights - the fear of mortality - the fear of loss. No one knew what came next - and everybody feared it. The universal, ultimate, and inevitable end, and yet unilaterally terrifying. He expected the typical desperate stare. The stare one makes clinging desperately to a handhold over a dark chasm. But he didn't receive either of these. Cane was confident. Cane was accepting. Cane never broke eye contact. He stepped back. "I've always admired your zealotry. A respite amidst tribulation. But I'm sorry to say there's nothing waiting for you. Just a dark nothingness." Looking straight forward, he grasped the lever; and carefully shoved it forward.
Although this is the pinnacle of the experience, he enjoyed the effect alone. The crimson stains on the impeccably kept room, the spray of the warm tinge on his flesh, the gurgling of the drain. It happened quickly; it must happen quickly; so much to restore the room back to its acceptable condition. The cogs began to turn, tightening its iron grip on Cane. Bones cracked, skin severed, blood spilled. The machine began to whine as it had completed its task. He moved the lever back to its upright position.
He stepped outside, fresh. He glanced at the horizon. The light was just peaking up over the blue ridge of the Cantors. A crimson sunrise.