Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 1--- "Introductions", 953 words.....

** Just a quick note before I post my first story-- I'm hoping to post a month of serial mysteries "à la the style of Sherlock Holmes". Not so much fanfic as just a bit of fun :-)**

Introductions

               Shall I relate to you how I first met my friend, Donaghey Cross, and the extraordinary circumstances that brought us together?

               It was during our last year at University, two weeks before finals, two weeks before the end of term, when a tragic event unsettled our academic security and threatened to break apart our fragile, naïve view of the world.

                Thinking back on the days leading up to the tragedy, I am struck by the ominous atmosphere that hung over the college. Black storm clouds draped our world, bringing torrential downpours. It wasn’t bleak enough already with impending exams, but the sky mirrored the moods of every struggling student, and perhaps, even the not-so-struggling student—as exams do have a way of propagating dread.

                The news spread through campus the way such news always spreads, with stifled whispers and fevered expressions. By the time it reached our ears in the Science Building, the campus had already gathered at the grizzly scene.

                Behind the Humanities Building, crumpled into himself, cradling a smooth, dark pistol in his limp hand, Corbet Adams, Honors Senior with his pick of prospective futures ahead of him, lay dead. His back to the gathering crowd of shameless gawkers, an oozing pool of his life’s blood spread from his head.

                As the rippling breaths of suicide reached contagious proportions, a single sigh behind my head shook me from my tragic trance.

                “Honestly,” an exasperated tone droned behind me. “Could they be more blind?”

                I did all within my powers to ignore the voice. But, by the third sigh and as many exasperated statements of disbelief, I turned to face the only figure who stood in opposition to the popular opinion. “You seem to believe that, contrary to appearances, that this was no suicide.” I barked, less to challenge his opinion and more to cease his annoying sighs.

                “Of course I do!” He barked back. Standing a head taller than myself, his dark blonde hair tousled in his sleepy eyes.

                “And, would you care to elaborate as to why you believe as such?”

                My exasperated sigher released one final breath before dropping his shoulders and turning his gaze to me. “Well, it’s obvious, of course. Corbet Adams was the school’s foremost narcissist. No one held a higher opinion of himself than Corbet Adams did. No, no, no… this was a man who was far too fond of himself to have even entertained the idea of suicide.”

                As he finished speaking, his sleepy eyes suddenly sharpened, his focus piercing through the cloud of distraught whimpers. “No! If they have sense enough to consider the facts in front of them, they will know there is more to this incident than a casual suicide.”

                “I don’t think there’s anything casual about suicide!”

                His sharp eyes resumed a measure of their initial drowsiness. “Perhaps not.”

 *****

                Once the body of poor Corbet Adams had been removed and a day given to the mourning of his loss, our minds returned once more to the task of our impending finals. And, I’m afraid, I must admit, I didn’t give another thought to my impertinent sighing man. I gave no thought, that is, until a week following finals, as we prepared to leave campus, when the coroner’s report on Corbet Adam’s case was released.

                An excited knock at my door brought me face to face with the blonde-haired stranger from the crowd. “Ha! See… see as proof! Corbet Adams did not die from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

                “What?” The shock of seeing the stranger at my doorstep, three weeks after the tragic event, speaking in a manner a familiarity which we did not, at the time, share, sent my mind spinning. The shirt I had been in the process of folding, was now clenched in my trembling fist, my patience waning.

                “Here, my dear fellow,” his long finger, drew along the news article. “Upon examination of the body of Corbet Adam, it is clear the victim perished from a rare poisoning of the African Milk Plant—a small piece of the suspect plant having been found in the pocket of the victim. Also, it is the opinion of this coroner that the convulsed contortion of the victim’s frame, which is a characterized symptom of ingesting the plant’s poison, is further evidence of the method of death.”

                He pushed the paper into my empty hand and leaned against the doorframe, a smug grin crossing his thin lips, his sleepy eyes fixed on my face. “I didn’t think the coroner would listen to me, as he seemed quite comfortable with giving the cause of death as the obvious suicide. I give him more credit now than originally, as his corpulent frame spoke of one that would prefer to accept the obvious answer, however erroneous it might be, rather than expend the effort to search out the truth.”

                “But, if he died from the poisonous sap of this, this … African Milk Plant, then why was he shot and by whom? And, why did they go to the trouble of making it look like a suicide?”

                “Ah, for that, we would need more information. My guess, it was probably some foolish prank or dare gone awry and rather than admit their guilt, in what might have been an accident, they chose to try and cover it up.”

                Without another word, my unknown guest turned to leave.  “Wait, please ... your name?”

                He spun on the toe of his shoes and with a quick, sly grin, he presented his hand to me. “Donaghey Cross, and you are Dylan Martin. Pleased to meet you!”