The Mystery of Martha Munch

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He finds remnants of her in the apartment. His black and white toned saddle shoes crunch over candy wrappers and torn out pages of books. There's a putrid smell, a confluence of urine and mold. He sniffs. Definitely urine and mold. The detective wanders through the suite. He wonders where the girl is now. Will she come back?

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The detective blinks twice. He always does that when he's not quite sure of what he's seeing. In front of him, is a little girl with a swollen closed eye that must be coffee and puffed up plum lip.

Hi, she says, calm. Why is she so calm? Does she know who he is? Does she know why he's here?

Hello. He holds a hand out to shake it.

She obliges. Martha Munch.

I know.

She sighs. It's a boring name, the name Martha. A simple name for a simple girl who does simple things. Martha's in the Bible too. She's the sister of Lazarus, the man who was raised from the dead by Christ Jesus. Martha, she paused, was a killjoy. Wouldn't let her better sister, Mary, have a good time with Jesus.

The detective nods.

Do you believe in God?

Yes. Do you?

I suppose I do. He seems quite real, after all.

Does he?

I don't much like questions. She takes a seat on the floor and clears her throat. Please excuse my weird speech. It's a product of my upbringing and too much Emily Brontë.

His eyes go to the bed-bug ridden couch. The small, thin, brown creatures creep all over the stained brown furnishing.

Do you have a badge?

He flashes it.

And you're a detective?

Yes.

Okay.

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They became friends of sorts.

He tracks her down. He buys food. They talk and eat.

It's different.

The detective likes her. She's a question he needs to answer.

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He rents an apartment.

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Martha Munch is gone again. The detective doesn't know how he let her slip. Holding onto a spirit like hers is like trying to catch a salamander in a stream with one's hands. The sliminess of such an action being with her. Martha's abrasive to say the least, he's found. Her words cut like paper, small but powerful, stinging.

He had been expecting someone different. The detective had been expecting a sweet fourteen-year-old with eyes one couldn't help but drink. He'd been right on the latter.

Martha? he asks. I brought some food.

The detective, she drawls, peeking out of the hallway of the new apartment. Her face is painted pretty (Not that she, on her own, already isn't plenty pretty): red lips, sparkly green eyelids. An emerald green dress hugs her slender figure, revealing a heavenly bodice that his eyes have never graced.