Just as I was about to break the seal on the report, its contents already whispered their mystery to me: an account of the strange liquid hourglass, an ornamentation whose swirling colors seemed alive, with the red cutting through the chaos like a sharp cry in the dark.
Samuel burst into the office, precariously balancing two coffees with the kind of clumsy determination only the truly exhausted could muster. My gaze drifted to the cups, lingering just long enough to wonder if one was meant for me—or if he was buttering me up for a favor he hadn't yet worked up the nerve to ask.
8
"Didn't know Sasha would be here," he muttered, handing me one of the cups before glancing over at her. His tone made it sound like he'd been caught unprepared, as though Sasha's presence required some kind of special preparation.
"She's my assistant, Samuel," I replied dryly, setting the coffee down without taking a sip. "I don't know why that's such a revelation."
Samuel rolled his eyes. "It's not a revelation, Hoffman. Just a logistical oversight."
"You can give that to Sasha," I said, waving off the coffee. "I've already had three cups. Any more, and I might not make it through the day. If that happens, this case will be yours—and trust me, Samuel, Cassandra Cottingham will haunt you for the rest of your life."
He groaned at the mention of her name. "Relax, this case has nothing to do with her. Just your run-of-the-mill homicide. Guy stabbed in his living room. Wife says she was out for a walk. Simple enough."
"Simple enough for you to dump it on me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Simple enough for me to know when something feels off," he shot back, dropping the evidence folder on my desk. His face had that distinct Samuel look: tired, annoyed, and bracing for my inevitable dismantling of his theory.
I opened the folder, scanning the crime scene photos and statements. The living room was immaculate, almost unnervingly so. The murder weapon was a kitchen knife, with the wife's fingerprints all over it. Her alibi, conveniently vague. "Her story doesn't hold up," I said after a moment.
Samuel crossed his arms. "You always jump to conclusions this fast, or is that just for me?"
"It's not a conclusion. It's an observation," I corrected. "The murder weapon came from their kitchen. No sign of forced entry. No struggle. The victim either didn't see it coming or trusted the killer."
"So, you think it's her?" Sasha asked, her tone curious but measured.
"I think she's worth a closer look," I said. "Her alibi is flimsy. Walking during a storm? Alone? And then there's the argument earlier that night. Neighbors heard yelling. That's motive, or at least enough to warrant suspicion."
Samuel sighed, sinking into a chair. "Okay, let's say you're right. How do we prove it?"
"Check her financials," I said, closing the folder. "Life insurance policies, debts, anything that might suggest she had something to gain. And, Samuel, re-interview the neighbors. Someone might've seen her during this so-called walk."
"Right," he muttered, standing. "Anything else, Detective Genius?"
"Just one thing," I said, smirking. "If I'm right, you're buying coffee for the rest of the week."
Samuel groaned, grabbing his coat. "If you're wrong, you're handling my paperwork for a month."
"Fair enough," I replied, already turning back to the file. Some cases practically solved themselves; this one just needed a nudge in the right direction.
Samuel was somewhat impressed with my deduction skills. I had an untarnishable reputation of being the best detective. I couldn't help but make him awestruck.
Samuel sat there, pleased with my theory. His eyes finally travelled to the sealed report.
"What's that report now?," he asked.
"A strange report of a strange stuff.," I said casually I didn't want Samuel to have any jumpscares. He was too dramatic.
Hourglass report:
Physical Description:
The hourglass is composed of quartz glass, flawless in its construction, with no visible cracks or imperfections. Its multicolored contents are striking, with red as the most prominent hue, suggesting a deliberate arrangement.
Odor Analysis:
A sharp, acrid odor emanates from the object, indicative of chemical preservatives. Preliminary olfactory assessment points to acetone or formaldehyde, both commonly employed for preservation, though further testing is required for confirmation.
Chemical Composition of Contents:
Red Layer: Analysis revealed this to be blood, consisting of multiple ABO blood groups. The presence of distinct clumps and signs of hemolysis suggest transfusion reactions, implying that blood from more than one donor was mixed intentionally. This process likely induced agglutination, a phenomenon where incompatible blood cells clump together.
Indigo Layer: Identified as ink, likely of synthetic origin, contributing to the layered aesthetic.
Yellow Layer: Composed of vegetable oil, specifically mustard oil, which forms an immiscible layer with the aqueous components.
Additional Colors: Presence of food-grade dyes, designed to enhance the visual impact.
Preservation Indicators:
The chemical treatment appears to have been carefully chosen to maintain the integrity of both the organic and inorganic materials. Acetone and formaldehyde, if present, serve as dual-purpose agents for dehydration and microbial suppression. The Presence of haemoglobin was found in the sample and the DNA report further confirmed that there were the blood of random people.
""The report is quite scientific. Don't you think?" Samuel said, his brow puckered in mock surprise.
"I agree for the first time," Sasha replied, her tone dry.
Samuel leaned closer, pointing at the report. "I caught something strange—the liquid in that hourglass? It's got blood from random individuals."
"Yeah, and the vegetable oil and food coloring? Just added to make it look decorative," Hoffman remarked, his voice cutting through the room with authority. "Any normal person would find it weird as a home decor piece."
"Rich people must've thought it was some random collection from an auction or something," Samuel suggested, half-laughing.
"But it's strange, even for the wealthy," Hoffman said, his gaze sharp. "Especially in Cassandra's white marble castle."
"Quite the woman, isn't she?" Samuel said with a crooked grin, though his words didn't quite make sense.
I glanced at the evidence. It was solid enough to push for another search warrant higher up. But what to do with it? I still wasn't sure.
Samuel grinned slyly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. I knew that grin. He had something up his sleeve—useful or foolish, it was always a gamble with him.
"Why not ask Cassandra Cottingham, 'What's your body count?'" he said, the sarcasm thick in his voice.
I couldn't help but smirk. He was right. It was time to ask her.