not watched the background when letting loose with a heat blast, or had crash landed on some poor unfortunate passerby squashing him flat.
But, he had to admit this probably a new low.
Standing in this bedroom, watching the blood drip from the ceiling, hearing the screams and moans from downstairs were bearable.
He had seen blood before, heard the screams of the dead, dying and their killers before, the noise no longer reached his soul.
The beautiful woman, lying naked and dead on the bed, her stomach ripped open, the contorted look of terror on her face, was bearable as well. It was nothing new, it brought no new nightmares, and he had enough old ones to contend with to bother with replenishing the stock.
Even the sight which he knew awaited him in the child's bedroom, the sight which would bring most men to tears was bearable to Elroy Cockram, he’d seen so much that he doubted anything new would shock him.
What brought him to the edge of sanity, made him almost shake with anger, was the fact that he had forgotten to put on protective overshoes, and he knew that his $500 leather shoes were effectively ruined. He knew from years of experience that you could never get the blood out of the creases, or the smell out of the leather. His brand-new shoes would be going in the incinerator before the day was out.
“Shit,” he muttered again, and then to the Forensic Technician standing by the bed, “what have we got here?”
“The late Mrs Jean-Marie Windrow.” The technician, secure in his white coveralls and Elroy noticed, overshoes, spoke clearly and precisely, recording on a handheld data recorder as he went.
Jean-Marie lay on the bed, she was by anyone’s' reckoning a strikingly beautiful woman, long red hair, blue eyes, and a face that was almost perfectly proportioned.
It was a face that Elroy had seen on billboards and on the covers of magazines many times for the past few years. The naked body one he had seen, and he had to admit masturbated over, in various states of undress, in everything from Esquire to Playboy Magazine. Jean-Marie Windrow was possibly the first international supermodel. She had been seen on the arms of film stars and politicians, even once or twice with Powered Heroes.
She gave money to charity, cared for the poor, and somehow kept a wholesome girl next door image, despite the many tabloid stories about her highly energetic sex life.
Then four years ago she had married a complete nobody. Steven Windrow was a research scientist, as humble a man as you could hope to meet. It turned out, according to the gossip magazines at least; he had been her childhood sweetheart and had pursued her for years. He was skinny, plain looking, and not even that bright. No one at the time had understood what on earth she saw in him. But despite the occasional rumours of her straying, the marriage had lasted.
Lasted until last night anyway.
“The police were called to the scene at three am, so that makes it about 2 hours ago; when the neighbours reported that they heard screaming. They said that they had never heard anything like it. At first it was a woman’s' voice, then after a few minutes a man’s took over. This gives us I think a pretty accurate time of death, probably when she stopped screaming. The man’s screaming had stopped when the cops got here. Officers Byrne and Ditko,” the tech officer, whose name Elroy now remembered was Arthur Lister consulted his notes.
“Officer Ditko was the first to enter the house, he reports that they could no longer hear much noise, just the sound of moaning and gurgling from upstairs. He reckoned that worried him more than the screaming would have, it sounded so inhuman.”
“On entering the bedroom they found a young man, we now know to be Mr Windrow crouching in the corner of the bedroom, mumbling and groaning to himself, he was
But, he had to admit this probably a new low.
Standing in this bedroom, watching the blood drip from the ceiling, hearing the screams and moans from downstairs were bearable.
He had seen blood before, heard the screams of the dead, dying and their killers before, the noise no longer reached his soul.
The beautiful woman, lying naked and dead on the bed, her stomach ripped open, the contorted look of terror on her face, was bearable as well. It was nothing new, it brought no new nightmares, and he had enough old ones to contend with to bother with replenishing the stock.
Even the sight which he knew awaited him in the child's bedroom, the sight which would bring most men to tears was bearable to Elroy Cockram, he’d seen so much that he doubted anything new would shock him.
What brought him to the edge of sanity, made him almost shake with anger, was the fact that he had forgotten to put on protective overshoes, and he knew that his $500 leather shoes were effectively ruined. He knew from years of experience that you could never get the blood out of the creases, or the smell out of the leather. His brand-new shoes would be going in the incinerator before the day was out.
“Shit,” he muttered again, and then to the Forensic Technician standing by the bed, “what have we got here?”
“The late Mrs Jean-Marie Windrow.” The technician, secure in his white coveralls and Elroy noticed, overshoes, spoke clearly and precisely, recording on a handheld data recorder as he went.
Jean-Marie lay on the bed, she was by anyone’s' reckoning a strikingly beautiful woman, long red hair, blue eyes, and a face that was almost perfectly proportioned.
It was a face that Elroy had seen on billboards and on the covers of magazines many times for the past few years. The naked body one he had seen, and he had to admit masturbated over, in various states of undress, in everything from Esquire to Playboy Magazine. Jean-Marie Windrow was possibly the first international supermodel. She had been seen on the arms of film stars and politicians, even once or twice with Powered Heroes.
She gave money to charity, cared for the poor, and somehow kept a wholesome girl next door image, despite the many tabloid stories about her highly energetic sex life.
Then four years ago she had married a complete nobody. Steven Windrow was a research scientist, as humble a man as you could hope to meet. It turned out, according to the gossip magazines at least; he had been her childhood sweetheart and had pursued her for years. He was skinny, plain looking, and not even that bright. No one at the time had understood what on earth she saw in him. But despite the occasional rumours of her straying, the marriage had lasted.
Lasted until last night anyway.
“The police were called to the scene at three am, so that makes it about 2 hours ago; when the neighbours reported that they heard screaming. They said that they had never heard anything like it. At first it was a woman’s' voice, then after a few minutes a man’s took over. This gives us I think a pretty accurate time of death, probably when she stopped screaming. The man’s screaming had stopped when the cops got here. Officers Byrne and Ditko,” the tech officer, whose name Elroy now remembered was Arthur Lister consulted his notes.
“Officer Ditko was the first to enter the house, he reports that they could no longer hear much noise, just the sound of moaning and gurgling from upstairs. He reckoned that worried him more than the screaming would have, it sounded so inhuman.”
“On entering the bedroom they found a young man, we now know to be Mr Windrow crouching in the corner of the bedroom, mumbling and groaning to himself, he was
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