This is where Martin Ramirez makes his appearance and I step back into the limelight. We had been forgotten as well.
Martin was a retired policeman, a man with an impeccable record who nonetheless seemed, if you were to ever read his performance appraisals and annual evaluations, to be too unimpeachable, too clean. The police have a mandate to sully themselves in the line of duty, just a bit, in order to ensure that the truly bad can be apprehended. Ramirez had none of this, his record was an unbroken line of courteous behaviour, consider attitude towards others, and an unfailing sense of service to the state.
I smelled a rat.
He came to my home one summer evening, many years after Rasputin had moved on and the town had begun to forget. The kettle boiled while he told me softly about what he had thus far uncovered. Bob Massie, dead of infarction. Lisa Quark, dead of an overdose. Todd Wilkins, a suicide. Emily Cotter, dead from leukaemia, and Laura Cotter another suicide. Jason Lemn, killed in a car accident. And then there is Dr. Yusef, Martin said, pleasant enough as he blew at the rising steam from the mug of tea I had handed to him. Dr. Yusef is dead, too, but his case is a little different. He was found in his office in Paris, the doors of which were locked and bolted. He was unmistakeably dead, though the immediate cause of death was not clear. And he had been completely drained of blood.
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The above piece of writing comprises part of my fragments project, some of which are available on this website. I intend to add new fragments piecemeal, not in any particular order, and as the occasion take me.