The Murder of Maya Menon

Chapter II

For a moment, I don't think I hear him correctly. But then he repeats it. Slowly, and takes a breath between the words.

'Maya Menon died seven years ago.'

I wait, trying to piece the information together. So much for an easy first case back.

'Detective?'

"Go on doctor."

'Alright.' He proceeds to tell me the details of the wounds. There are three lacerations of unknown depth on either side of her thighs. The edges are irregular and are really jagged which means they were not made by a usual weapon such as a knife. Apart from those lacerations, there's a similar one above her bellybutton with the same edges and margins. Only this one is longer. It is deeper, extending until her ribs.

And finally, besides her skin and wounds, there is a chemical called dihydrofomaledhyde that's been painted over her body. In other words, it is the same chemical used to preserve dead tissue. But the chemical lasts for only two years at most, so for it to last this long can only mean one thing—whoever did this to her, kept repainting her body with the chemical every two years.

I spent the rest of the night awake, or at least most of it. My mind constantly wanders to the mandatory rehabilitation I had after the Kaitlyn Becker trial. I remembered the sunsets, the gardening and the smell of the ocean breeze. A part of me wishes I had stayed there longer, but I couldn't. I know the effects luxury has on a human mind, it drains them. It civilises them. And I can't afford to be civilised, because if I were, then Kaitlyn Becker would still be alive.
I wake up suddenly, the sound of my alarm leaps me to my feet. It's quarter past two, I don't remember when I slept or ever sleeping. I take the coffee that's seated over the fridge and sit back down at my laptop.

I suppose I have to address the most obvious question first. If Maya Menon died seven years ago, then who the fuck called and asked for help?

I write down whatever I remember from the call. The hesitancy in the woman's voice, the way she said that the men were trying to kill her and how quickly she disguised as though she was calling for a pizza. Surely, this can't be another Kaitlyn Becker. Psychopaths like that are seen once in a lifetime.

The phone rings.

There is no caller id.

I pick up, and don't say a word.

"Detective, this is Maya Menon."

I stare at my reflection in the monitor. My eyes are well worn down, my hair loose and untidy. There is sweat in my armpits between my shirt and skin. I look like absolute shit.

"I know you must be having questions detective."

I lash out.

"For fuck's sake, listen here. I'm not in the mood for your riddles, or your games. If I find out that you're the one who killed her, I swear I will rip your—"

"They killed me. They killed me, detective."

I freeze. 'That's not possible.'

"It is. I'm not lying. This is Maya Menon. And I promise I'm telling the truth. They did things to me that I can not describe. They agonised me."

'The dead can't speak.' I mutter. I sound like a child and I hate it.

"But they can detective, in fact, they can speak even louder than the living."

And with that, the call disconnects. I call the number back, but it says I'm not allowed to call that number. I'm infuriated.

I just wanted a simple fucking case on my first fucking day back.

I change, and go to the station. The night shift lieutenant asks me what I'm doing here, and I give him my phone and tell them to track down the number.

'Can't it wait until morning?'

I don't even dignify his question with an answer. His team take my phone and begin to search for the number. It takes them longer than usual, and I spend the time drinking warm coffee for a change.

Forty minutes after they identify the number, they call me.

'We got a track of the number,' they say, but their eyes don't seem convinced.

"Go on, who is it registered to."

'It's registered to a thirty three year old woman named Maya Menon.'

I'm about to leave but I can see that he wants to say something else. "What is it, spit it out."

'It was last used one hour ago at Number 3, Wisconsin Avenue, Miami 41.'

I freeze. Everyone in the station turns to look at me.

That is my address.