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Massacre at Grimson’s Court.

We drove to a slouching halt before the old edifice

It was an immense building possessing an imperial impression. The facade was made up of bricks, a dozen casement windows, and a massive terrace that was covered by a green awning that had not been maintained for quite some time.

The adverse effects of the elements were conspicuous on the building – a reminder of the lost glory of the Grimson court.

The story building had a roof that towered more than ten feet along with a turret that made the massive structure an imposing grandiose of royalty.

We disembarked from the car. The scorching effect of the blazing February sun further exacerbated the tension that clouded our fleeting wits.

The distress call we got from a supposed member of the Grimson court was too sinister to recall. It sent an icy chill down our spine as the hysterical female voice spurted through the receiver:

‘Help….help…help…we are under attack….’

There was a piercing scream, ostensibly by the lady who had the voice before the line was disengaged with an ominous buzz.

We drove to the quiet neighborhood and the reception we got was cold.

I requested backup from the precinct. Flicking out my gun from the holster,
I waved at my partner, Patrick, who had his gun drawn. He flanked me as I gingerly moved towards the ten feet high door. I made three raps on the door with my bare knuckles.

We waited.

No response.

I knocked again, slowly this time.

No response.

Taking a few paces back, I lunged at the door. It did not budge.

I made another firm charge. The door squeaked, a sign that further use of force would enable us to gain entry into the building.

Two curt lunges and the door ripped off its rusty hinges.

Soon we were in a relatively dark hallway having a staircase that led to the upper tier of the building.

I barked out: ‘Anybody in..?’

No response…

We, slowly made our way eastwards to an arched opening leading to a massive living room.

The furnishing within the interior was quaint. The fenestration the living room offered was the only source of lightning. A dozen or more old paintings hung on the wall.

We slowly threaded to the door situated in the dining area of the sitting room. I reached for the knob and opened it

It led to a grimy kitchen with direct cabinets that were all in shambles. Lying on the floor was the gory sight of an inert middle-aged lady. Her left wrist had been slit with a pocket knife which was firmly clasped in her right hand. Blood was seeping copiously from the self-inflicted wound. I placed my gun in my holster and slid fresh hand gloves on to prevent any likely contamination of the crime scene. A note was evident in her bloody right hand.

I managed to withdraw the note from her. From the grip, I conjectured she had just died some ten minutes ago. Rigor mortis had not fully set in.

The note read:

‘I am Anne Marie Grimson. It’s a shame I had to end it this way. Life was becoming unbearable. Having a prominent family as the Grimson, and as the only child of wealthy parents, I had lived a life of extravagance and debauchery.

‘In the course of my earthly sojourn, I was married twice and had three issues from both unions.

‘With an addiction to cocaine, I virtually destroyed everything around me. I have been arrested a couple of times; I have prostituted and even have been involved in countless robberies and murder.

‘The latter regrettably was my father whom I killed in order to steal his money. My mum could not stand the situation, hence she died of heartbreak.

‘Now all alone and watching my three daughters also following the path I took to destruction, I killed them all and I’m too ending my life to stop this vicious cycle of evil I started.

‘I poisoned my babies and you can find their bodies in the penthouse of this building.

‘I pray God forgives me.’

I muttered a sigh of disdain and simply walked out of the house in anticipation of the local paramedics that were roaring from the end of the road with the shriek of wailing sirens.

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