So the man finished his letter. The most meaningful place where his limping foot worked was the limp like himself, one foot shorter than the other, and the stand fixed when he leaned his limping leg on it. It was time to leave now. Now the only thing that would bring the limping coffee table to balance in the absence of the man was this last letter to be written. He folded the letter on the short foot of the coffee table and made it a buttress. He left the room he had left behind, glancing at one last time and saying "I hope".
Towards the evening, sirens sounded a few blocks from the penthouse. Curious crowd, jammed traffic, police officers empowering traffic from a single lane, an unidentified corpse with no claim yet. On the corpse, there were a few seagulls clustering screaming on the scene, and a few pieces of newspaper covering the still fresh dead. Near the nose of the body, a handful of noodles clustered neatly, and a sack full of dirty towels that have fallen to the tip of their feet, some of them scattered on the floor, this is now the scene.
The phone of the homicide bureau chief rang three times at short intervals. Employees of the office, which had been silent for about three months, did not find it odd. It was probably about another invitation from the prosecutor's office, which was tied to a routine in the expert files. The voice of the telephone that rang for the fourth time this time rang in a fast, bitter tone, like a seagull cry; this melody only appeared on outside line calls. At the time, the attention of the woman, who was solving the puzzle of the local newspaper to which she had subscribed for almost twenty years, suddenly turned to the phone.
Local police on the phone are reporting details from the scene; barley noodles, seagulls gathered next to the corpse, and Hostel Freya letterheaded cherry rot towels were listed as striking details. In the last detail, when he said that the corpse had an envelope in the left palm curled towards the wrist and stuck into the artery, and the letter F481 scratched with a knife-like hard metal on it, it did not take the woman half an hour to jump from the table and arrive at the scene.
- Who was this man? And why now?
With all its aesthetics and irresistible charm, this scene was like a painting created by Caravaggio. The detective woman wanted to delay the setting of the sun a little longer, and to embroider the taste of the scene with Handel - Giulio Cesare into a memory that will never be erased. She could not stand it, she succumbed to her passion. With Handel on the headset, he is re-depicting the scene, and the possible scenario is counting down all the moves.
In the first analysis, what was reflected in his report was that the man may have been in his late thirties, a faintly purple pink on his face and an alcohol addict, possibly in the grip of an ailment ranging from liver failure. While Handel wrapped her head for the third time, the woman, who proceeded in her report, noted that the man had a permanent injury to his left foot, significant swelling on the tips of his fingers and wrinkles caused by exposure to water. With these wrinkles, it was easy to answer the suspicion that the man was a dishwasher or a cleaning unit with dirty towels in the overturned sack. What is unusual at this hour when the day ends at night; Although he thinks that this man, who is sleepless at night from the oily layer on his eyelids and has a distinct slippage in one eye, is working as a tailor until late after work, he does not have a needle thimble on his left hand, middle finger or index finger - it is obvious that the strong hand is his right hand - when he cannot see a mark of him he understood that he was a man who spends his nights reading.
And what a reading!
For, although his death at first glance gave the impression of a murder, it was now completely obvious that it was a suicide with blood loss from the end of a letter. Only a passionate reader or writer could have chosen such a suicide route. The body was taken into a body bag to be sent to the forensic medicine.
There were two question marks at the end of the report; The first was the semi-humid noodle cluster with bird scent?
The second question mark was, why did he appear in a view directly opposite his hotel room? This is the story that has happened and whose questions have not ended yet?
At that moment his eyes caught the F481 scratched envelope opener. This day was 08.04.2021. This is also in the Freya hotel. -Can't? It can't be a woman, and she repeated the blessings in her a few times, and when she looked up at the windows of her hotel room, - Could it be? she said. Own room number 481? Could the Freya hotel be room 481? She was horrified.
His dismay was awakened by the cries of the seagulls that clustered on the noodle grains as the body left the scene. The interesting thing was that the seven seagulls he counted did not swallow the noodle grains in their beaks. The seagulls were lined up with the discipline of a squad soldier, filling their beaks and landing on the roof of an old building that could count up to eight floors, just a few blocks away from the front, and they were returning, almost unloading their loads. This go-and-go continued with the same order and care until the last grain of noodle was finished. The woman was now in the middle of it, where one could easily observe from a roof on the eighth floor, and on the opposite side, Freya hotel was a place where her room no 481 on the fourth floor could be watched with the naked eye.
This is the scene! New questions now arise here. Identification through the corpse, etc. a document was not issued. The identity of the man could be discovered with fingerprints and DNA findings after autopsy, but the quicker answer would be found with a few simple questions from the hotel management, such as to whom the towels were washed.
The fact that the address of the now identified man, whose autopsy had not yet been completed, lived in the attic of the eight-story building, terrified the woman again and her mind was going to a manga seagull at the crime scene. Who was this man whose identity was deciphered really? It took about seven or eight minutes to get to the penthouse for answers.
It was in the attic of the building called Prometheus now. The view that appears when the door of the room is opened, A clothesline separating the interior of the room, towels left to dry with Freya letterhead on the rope. There was a Renaissance-era cabinet from the end of the outer door to the bathroom and a half-steamed mirror with a hot water system running over it, with one edge cracked diagonally. In front of the mirror, there was a green telephone with no rotary dial next to the divine comedy and the King Oedipus books. In the bathroom was a yellowed tub and a rinsed saucepan lined with plates and cutlery. In the place where the roof was curled with the roar of the wind, there was a whistle-like rustling noises coming from a hollow, in the direction of the sound, a makeshift shelf crashed into the roof, and on it, pulses and noodle rice packages were visible. The day was evening, the woman sat on the corner seat opposite the whatnot to rest for a little while trying to take a look at the divine comedy she was holding, while the book slipping from her hand with fatigue first hit the coffee table in front of the sofa, and then its pages were opened and it collapsed face down on the floor. When she leaned over to get the book, she found a paper tucked under the foot of the coffee table, picked it up, and leaned back. She stretched her left foot to the coffee table, the coffee table was fixed, the woman plunged into the letter.
In the letter, he was confronted with a manifesto describing the seven murders, seven layers of heaven, seven layers of heaven and hell, the Goddess Freya and the "forethought" Prometheus and more, which were committed as examples of the seven major sins and whose file was not closed. By the end of the letter, he realized that the unsolved cases he had spent the last eight years were actually punishing a lover who was despised for his limping foot by a woman dedicated to excellence. The last death was the eighth death, not murder, but suicide, the most headed sin, and it was the eight lying in that place with eternal torment.
Eight's letter ended with a poem. The woman, who lifted her head at the end of the poem, was startled by the smile of the man who was freed from her glitch in the misty mirror, at that moment she abandoned her badge, gun, and notebook in the dirty towel basket next to the door. A pair of peaceful and sinful eyes in the cracked, misty mirror were like an infinite eight on its side.
