Birdhood, a modern murder mystery (Camp NaNoWriMo July 2014)

Sixth Chapter - in which a murder is committed, and an alibi is formed

It was not midnight at Carroll House when Vogel lie awake in bed, in typical nightmarish fashion. It wasn't that she usually had difficult trouble sleeping, or her mind was racing with the details of today, or she was focused on every facet of the documents she was supposed to be studying. In actuality, she was on her phone.

The notes were not received with a great deal of interest. He read over them – the edited version, on her phone, after telling him how to scroll down – with little readable emotion.

"Quite comprehensive," he admitted, after a painful minute in which she attempted to read his expressions (there were none). "Admittedly biased. Try to be more objective."

"Yes, sir."

He gave a sharp glance in her direction, after which she wiped the smirk off her face. He went back to studying her notes.

"Although I would say that 'pretty normal, actually' does not count as an in-depth analysis."

"Debateable, sir."

After which look she felt so shamed she left with all due haste to her bedroom. Playing smart-aleck games with Detective Jacobs required a lot of energy and nerve. The only way to improve, she guessed, was through practice. Experience, the currency of teenagers.

So, what was she doing on her phone at nearing midnight? As usual, it was hard to say. The activities she spend the late hours doing merged into one, culminating in a mixture of nightly responsibilities that were little indistinguishable. She guessed Facebook; every time she saw the statuses, she felt a small hole open up, somewhere within her. But she read through them anyway. It was a matter of routine.

As the time glowed 23:37 on her phone, she heard a knock on the door.

The sound shocked her so much in the silence of night that she felt a shout rise in her throat; she suppressed it, and aware that she was still fully clothed in bed, swung her legs to the side and listened carefully.

The knock sounded, again, and she thought she detected a trace of greater urgency.

The first night! She thought, using the light of her phone to search for her chewing gum. You are not telling me there's a murder on the first night I'm here. That doesn't happen.

The knocking on the door repeated itself. Mumbling, she stumbled across the pale carpet, glowing ghostly in the thin screen light.

Ear to the door, she was struck with the sudden notion that she did not know what to say. It seemed ridiculous. How many variations are there of the phrase 'who's there'? Do you have to assume it's a murderer? There was no safety latch.

Come to think of it, there wasn't even a key.

Terrified that the knocking would resume at any moment and startle her, she burst out a whispered question. "Who is that?"

"Clarisse, we are not playing twenty questions. Open the door."

If he calls me Clarisse again, I swear... Immediately she swung open the door, standing in t-shirt, jeans and knotted hair before Detective Samuel Jacobs, who was meticulously dressed.

She could hardly believe it. Did everyone else in this house sleep in their suits?

The gravitas held in his expression preceded his message. "Clarisse, there has been –"

" – a murder." She reached for her jacket, then realised it was not in her possession.

His face was thunder. "McClellan, not everything in detective work is murder!"