Fifty Two Weeks of Murder by Owen Nichols

spurting upwards to the ceiling. First blow, centre of floor. James Smith was five seven, slightly below average. Length of axe showed killer to be roughly the same height or more to get a clear hit on top. Weight of axe, five kilo’s. Average person could lift the axe, but it would take a little time. No suspects were above average size. Means blow likely came from behind if Smith wasn’t to dodge such a perfect strike.
    Next page. Autopsy. Nothing from toxicology. Stomach analysis showed he’d eaten at around seven the previous night, as indicated by his wife. No alcohol or drugs. Nothing unusual outside of the pulped skull, no defensive wounds. Caught unawares, or too shocked at what was happening. Either hit from behind or knew suspect well. Blood spatter inconclusive.
    Witnesses. Nothing seen. One reported a noise at roughly midnight and some shouting or cheering. Security cameras in store hadn’t been switched on for years and none of the local cameras showed anything useful.
    Prints. Three sets. The wife, the son, Mitch and the shop assistant, Beth. All happy to have their prints taken to discount them from analysis. No other prints. Fibres on body. Hairs, same length and colour as wife, one on shoulder matching Mitch’s colour. Beth’s hair everywhere. Peroxide blonde with green tips. Spectrometer still in action at the lab.
    Stocktaking report. Nothing missing. No evidence of theft.
    Smith’s background. No friends to speak of. Spent most of his time at the store. Well regarded in his field. Medical records show no major illnesses. Autopsy found no underlying ailments. A healthy fifty year old. Anders scanned the pictures of the family and Beth, committing them to memory and placing them in her construct. 
    The process took hours and she was mentally exhausted by the time she was done. She’d had but a few hours’ sleep in the last two days. Taking her first sip of wine since she had sat down, Anders put the music back on and slowed her breathing. Closing her eyes, she focused on the movements of her chest as it rose steadily with every breath. Slowing it down further, she used the music to return her to the scene of the crime. This time, she removed the police presence, the flashing lights and the noise created by the mass of people at a crime scene. 
    Walking slowly across the street, she stepped into the shop. The image in her mind was crystal clear, every detail committed to memory. Where there were gaps in her knowledge, a blur shaded across that area, a trinket on a shelf she had forgotten, blurry and indistinct. James Smith, now alive and well, stood in the middle of the floor staring at her mutely. She had no voice for him, but she would give him chance to tell his story.
    She walked behind him, holding the axe in her hands and swung it in a looping arc, her full strength behind the blow. Both hands held the end of the long wooden handle as her body arched forward. The blow was sickening, the splintering crunch of bone as the back of the axe head made contact, the length of the handle and speed of the blow giving it tremendous force and momentum. Blood lanced out at shocking speed, bright in the dim light, and splattered over Anders.
    She didn’t flinch.
    She would stare hard into the abyss and dare it to return the challenge. She was not afraid of the worst humanity had to offer. She’d endured it, the pain manifest on her body. She saw the darkness reflected in her own image each day and knew herself the embodiment of humanity, capable of both good and evil. She fought for those who had suffered and died because she was touched by darkness yet laced through with light. Just as we are capable of the foulest of deeds, we are capable of the greatest compassion. Anders chose compassion. Had been forged in fire and brimstone, been torn asunder and suffered redemption through transformation. She turned from darkness willingly and so stared hard at the evils of men knowing that she could not be tainted