The Killer is at the Funeral

The killer was at the funeral, and Detective Sergeant Omar Redding had five minutes to figure out whose tears were fake before it was all over. He shifted in his seat, his suit cutting into his flesh like physical manifestations of his wife’s eye-rolls when he reached for a second biscuit. 

It’s always the wife in situations like this. Right?

Redding squinted at the widow. She was a fine boned woman wedged between her two burly children. Her shoulders shook under shrouds of onyx lace but Redding couldn’t help wondering if there was a little too much exaggeration in her sobs. 

He looked over to the curly-haired man he’d glimpsed earlier. There had to be a reason why his face had made an impression. Was it just the large beak-like nose similar to the one Redding’s own face had lugged begrudgingly around for forty years? Who was he again? The best friend? The brother? 

“He was a good man.” The priest made a kissing shape with his lips whenever he made an ‘m’ sound. Redding thought back to his introduction with the priest. Hadn’t someone said he was an old family friend? Priests hadn’t had a good run lately as far as the law was concerned. If it was the priest, they’d have to be very, very careful with how it was all handled. 

That only left the children. But why would they want their father dead? It wasn’t a question of inheritance, they’d have to off their mother before they saw a dime of that. A glint of ruby caught Redding’s eye from under the seat of the quarterback-statured daughter. A little boy with wide set shoulders scooped up a red car and snuggled back into the quarterback’s lap. Why would they let the grandson bring a toy to a funeral? Redding would never understand this new obsession with blinding children from ugliness. He doubted the race car would be sufficient enough to disguise the stench of his grandfather’s murder from…

Wait. The boy. He was the only one unaccounted for. Redding’s heart started to squeeze against his ribcage.  He was so close, it was all sifting together, his thoughts trickling into a cohesive mound like sand in a timer. 

“Redding! Turn that shit off, we got a call.” The door to the police-lounge burst open, Redding’s partner Detective Michael Meadows glared at the screen. Then at Redding. 

 “Bones? Seriously? You’re still watching that shit? I gave up after season six. I hate it when they keep making more seasons after the main characters hook up.”

Redding sighed, adjusting his collar as he hit ‘pause’. The funeral scene froze on a frame with the widow’s mouth gaping open like a wound. He hadn’t realised he’d been sweating. 

“What’s happened?”

“Naked guy down on fifty-seven. Singing Beyonce’s Single Ladies at the top of his lungs. Lots of residents complaining. Could turn ugly.”

Redding sighed, his heart was back to thumping at a normal, boring pace. “Sounds urgent, let’s go.”