“Detective, these children have been murdered with the same weapon. Just like the previous ones, they were brought here and left to bleed. The incision marks are the same,” said the forensics officer.
Detective Octa nodded his head and stood there silently, staring at the dead bodies. He had solved many cases before, and had even earned recognition for some of them, but this was the first time he had been assigned to such a gruesome case. This was the fifth murder of the week. All the victims were children – twelve children in six days.
The murders started six days ago. The first two victims, a small boy and a little girl, were stabbed repeatedly and hung from a tree in a national park in Florida. The only fact that was clear was that the murders took place at the crime scene itself with a knife that was still missing. The only other clue Detective Octa found was a teapot, half-filled with the victims’ blood. How did this teapot fit in? He wasn’t sure.
One more murder took place in the following ten days. Octa was extremely passionate about his work. He would miss meals and a lot of sleep; he preferred spending every minute he could trying to solve the case. However, he seemed to hit a dead end every day. His supervisors were beginning to panic and give up on him.
One day, when Octa was going through the case files, his boss called him to his office.
“The case has been transferred to the FBI,” his boss said. “It has become much more than we can handle.”
“I just need more time,” said Octa. “Please sir, don’t give away the case.”
“No detective, you know very well where this is heading. You were at the crime scenes yourself; you saw with your own eyes how ghastly they were. More time will only result in more dead bodies. Let those bodies be on them and not on us. I have been instructed to keep our numbers in check. I will follow my orders and so will you. Do not go near those files again detective. If you disobey my orders, the consequences will be harsh,” Octa’s boss warned.
Octa nodded his head reluctantly and left the office. Octa had never given up on an unsolved case. He picked up the files and the teapot and headed home. Later that night, when he sat down with the case files, his mind drifted to another unsolved case – a more personal one. He was twenty three years old at the time, returning home to give his father the good news that he had passed the test and become a policeman. Instead of finding his father in the drawing room, however, he found his mother murdered in the kitchen. His father was nowhere to be found, and since then, he had never learned what happened that day. However, Octa still searched for his father during his spare time.
Just then, he heard a sound in the next room. He got up to check it out. As soon as he opened the door, someone rushed him and started punching him.
Octa managed to free himself from the man’s hold and began fighting back. Octa went for his gun, but before he could draw, something hard hit his head. His strength left him as he fainted.
Octa came to his senses at noon the next day. Still feeling weak, he slowly got up and looked around in his apartment. All of his valuables were stolen, including the teapot. The robbers even found the safe, in which he had stored a large amount of money, and managed to break it open. He also found the case files in his trash can, shredded to pieces. Still in a lot of pain, he laid down on the floor helplessly.
Octa had now lost everything. Mentally disturbed, he went to visit his old house. On his way, he began thinking about his mother’s murder. His eyes filled with sparks again when he remembered a teapot was found on his mother’s tomb. When he reached the house, he started to feel a bit dizzy due to his wounds. To his surprise, the front door of the house was unlocked.
As soon as Octa entered, he saw the stolen teapot placed in the middle of the hallway. It was filled with blood. He moved past the teapot and saw a dead body lying in the drawing room. The dead body looked familiar. “I’ve been waiting for you,” a voice said. “Come into the kitchen.”
Octa, anxious and angered, moved toward the kitchen with his gun in his hand. When he saw the killer in the kitchen, he stood still at the doorway, shocked and terrified.
“I’ve always wondered if a father and son can hunt each other,” the killer said as he brandished his knife.
Octa dropped his firearm. “Father,” he said.
Octa was filled with a hollow depression. He was in extreme pain. Octa’s father jumped on him, stabbing him in the abdomen.
When he woke up in the hospital, the last thing Octa remembered was the sound of a gunshot.