The Book That Kills.

- 18 -

The city hall was the heart of the city. Alabaster, crimson, gold, and cerulean blue, the hall boasted the personality of a palace -- all domes, and arches, and large windows, and heavy doors, and polished floors, and towers, and perfect peaks. Situated in the center of the city, it was a multifunctional public property that was large enough to hold most of the city's population. It was nearly always pulsing with activity, being the preferred venue to host celebratory occasions -- happy days like graduation and weddings.

Today, it wasn't being used for a happy occasion.

Today, the occasion was grim.

The atmosphere seemed to reflect it: humid, holding back angry tears.

News reporters were already seated. Pens poised over papers. Cameras flashed. Security instilled order, ensured no one got within arm's length of the podium.

The Chief entered from the back door that led directly to the stage. He walked to the podium - full uniform, as always; expression stoic, as always - and gripped the edges with both hands. Sergeant, Commandor, Lieutenant, and Inspector appeared in order of their rank, standing stiff-backed and attentive on the far right of the stage. Dawud, followed by Jamal, stood with their hands clasped behind them on the far left.

The Chief stared into the faces of the crowd. The whisperings stopped; the murmurs ceased. Without saying a word, the Chief had directed all attention towards him.

"I wish I could tell you we gathered here today, on such short notice, for the celebration of a ceremonious occasion," the Chief spoke. Every word perfectly annunciated. Deep voice, amplified, reverberating off the walls. "I wish I could deliver good news so when those in mourning look beyond their veil of darkness, they would see a beacon of hope. I wish many things but, alas, our wishes are not always meant to come true."

"It is not my intention to come across as inconsiderate," the Chief continued. "It is not my intention to take away the deceased souls' right to be mourned for three days. Every death in this city is a death of my own. Let us take this moment to pray for the forgiveness of the departed, pray for the wellbeing of those they left behind, and pray for the souls to be reunited in Paradise."

Heads bowed in respect, hands opened, palms facing upwards, in silent prayer. Most were secretly hoping the press conference would bring good news to uplift the clouds of gloom that had seemed to permanently hover over the city. Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be the case. The clouds grew closer, suffocating.

"I am aware that the timing is sensitive," the Chief spoke. "Emotional, mental wounds are still fresh. It is not my intention to reopen them and cause more pain. However, due to recent events, it has become necessary to hold this press conference. I wish it wasn't the case. But, it is something that cannot be delayed any longer; circumstances necessitate immediate action."

The Chief half-turned towards the left of the stage and gestured for Jamal to step forward, saying: "Officer Jamal will take it from here."

Jamal was a mess of anxious nerves. He had never spoken in public before; he had never been broadcasted, live, across all the city's channels. He had never stood before such an audience, center stage, focus of attention. He wasn't important enough. He was only an officer -- the lowest in rank. To make things worse, he was standing up here about to confess that he had a part in the deaths that had taken place. He gulped; his collar suddenly seemed too tight.

As he passed the Chief to take over the podium, he glanced at him for reassurance or encouragement. He only received a blank stare. The Chief determined it appropriate for Jamal to address the purpose of the press conference because he had been the one assigned to the case. It wasn't something officers did, but this was an exception. The burden lay on Jamal's shoulders; he would pay the price.