Chapter 3: Evidence of Crime
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My gaze locked onto it like it was magnetized, fixed on those gnarled branches. It hung at least fifteen feet up, with no way anyone could have climbed there. As the wind gusted, one corner lifted slightly—a crimson flag waving in silent distress.
No human had placed it there. Anyone trying would have left footprints or evidence of a ladder—but there was nothing. And the wind couldn't have done it either—a heavy, snow-soaked wool scarf wouldn't just fly up and perfectly wrap itself around a branch.
It looked... as if it had caught there while falling from somewhere much higher.
The realization cut through my mental chaos like a scalpel, exposing a truth so clear it chilled me to the bone. This wasn't just a murder and body dump. The primary crime scene wasn't here at all.
I rose slowly, the pain in my skull pulsing in time with the frigid air. My muscles remained locked with cold and fear, but my brain kicked into overdrive. I turned my back on the corpse and scarf, walking to another corner of the park.
From here, I could see everything at once. To my left stood the towering off-white apartment complex, about fifteen stories of smooth walls and glass-enclosed balconies—a modern beehive. To my right squatted the older gray building, six or seven stories of weathered walls and simpler design. Before me was the tree with its red flag, and nearby, the corpse in its matching coat.
Tall building, short building, tree, corpse.
Four points forming a model I could analyze. My eyes darted between them as my mind raced through possibilities, discarding each until—
A hypothesis so bold it bordered on madness hit me like lightning. Despite the freezing cold, sweat beaded on my forehead.
The killer never meant to leave the body in the park.
They meant to throw it from a window in the high-rise, aiming for the roof of the shorter building!
Damn, the perfect crime. A body on another building's roof—especially an abandoned one—might not be found for months. By then, weather would destroy evidence and obscure time of death. Better yet, it would look like suicide or an accidental fall. Police would focus entirely on the wrong building, searching for the victim's room there, looking for suicide notes or signs of struggle. Meanwhile, the real crime scene—the high-rise—wouldn't even be on their radar. A brilliant Trajectory Transfer Trick that could fool cops for weeks.
The idea was so brilliant, so vicious, that it sent ice down my spine.
I paced through the snow, reassessing everything with obsessive precision. My steps measured distance, my eyes calculated angles. The body's position, the tree's location, the gap between buildings, their height difference—all the data formed a physical model in my head.
A parabola.
What path would a body take when thrown from a tall building?
I stopped, closed my eyes, and played the scene in my mind. A red-coated body, heavy as a sandbag, pushed from a high window. Arcing through the air, over the park, aimed perfectly at the shorter building's roof...
No. That's not right.
It never reached its destination.
My eyes snapped open, fixing on that old tree.
The tree. This damn tree had completely wrecked the killer's perfect plan.
It hit me like a thunderbolt: during its fall, the body had slammed into one of the thick branches. The scarf caught in the violent collision, and the body—knocked off course—dropped straight down into the park like a puppet with cut strings.
Everything clicked. The scarf's position, the body's location, why the killer hadn't cleaned up—they couldn't! They'd stood at that high window, watching helplessly as their perfect plan was ruined by a goddamn tree. Too risky to dash into a public park to retrieve a body and scarf.
Another realization struck me like venom in my veins.
A conclusion that turned my blood to ice.
If the body hit the branches during its fall, then dropped into the park...
And I, who happened to be passing by at that exact moment...
The wound on my head... the excruciating pain... my amnesia...
All the pieces formed a nightmarish picture.
The falling body had struck me as I walked through the park.
I wasn't the killer or a bystander. I was the most unfortunate, most innocent, and potentially most dangerous... second victim in this murder.
The killer was in that high-rise.
They must have seen everything—the body veering off course, striking me down, my unconscious form in the snow. They now knew an unintended witness existed—alive and breathing.
The realization sent fear crawling up my spine, shattering my analytical calm.
They. Are. Watching. Me. Right. Now.
Summoning all my courage, I slowly raised my head and stared at the towering off-white building.
Snow and wind danced across my vision, but the building had never looked clearer. Those uniform windows weren't glass anymore—they were eyes. Hundreds of cold, cruel eyes studying me with predatory intent.
And one of them belonged to the killer.
They stood there behind curtains, watching me in the snow like a god observing an ant that had wandered onto their chessboard.
