Young Writers Society

Officer Binley should’ve retired a long time ago. He was nearing seventy-eight, almost as old as his father was when he died.

No, Officer Binley couldn’t stop now, not after all that glory and satisfaction. He was a top officer, one of the most respected in town. People claim he’s highly responsible for the clean, crime-free streets this place, the reason why our community takes such pride in its perfect streets.

Officer Binley had been a handsome man. Like his vigilance and excellent instinct, some of that charm and sway still resided in his tired old body. The older townswomen were quite taken with this handsome widower who kept their neighborhood safe.

Officer Binley couldn’t lay it to rest. It was his job, his destiny to protect those who couldn’t fend for themselves and bring justice to his world, even if it was small. He still raved the streets at night, looking for anything out of place. He settled disputes and ended fights without as much as a sentence.

Fate was sweet to Frank Binley.

At least for now.

It was a Saturday when they found it. The first one.

I remember it as though I was still standing there, watching them haul it out of the lake.

I was one of the bystanders, invisible to the inspectors and coroners running around the bank. It was greenish, dripping with a few weeds hanging off it. I remember some of the little girls beginning to cry. But I didn’t cry. I’ve seen it long before it was green.

Even some grown ups wiped off a tear. But they haven’t seen the worst of it. They wouldn’t let any bystanders near enough to see the face and other injuries.

But I’ve seen it though, and I knew tears wouldn’t be the only liquid leaking from them.

No. Some people would’ve thrown up too, had they seen the two punctures dug into the cheeks. The blood lined mouth, and worst of all, the hole that replaced the nose.

He was still in the clown costume, weighed down with water.

He was the first victim. The first harlequin.

One of the younger officers came up to the crowd standing near the bank. He looked tired and sad, having known the victim personally.

“Dear god Nathan, who is it?” A portly woman asked fearfully. She was dressed in a flowing, flowery pink dress, but her mousy hair was messed up and her eye make-up smeared.

It was still early, nine-o-clock or something, which was kind of too early for the inhabitants of Silverlake. Usually they’d still be in their beds, or at least in their houses. It was cold too, or rather, the wind was cold. The sun was hidden behind a bank of dark grey clouds.

“Frank Binley,” Nathan said with a sad sigh.

“Frank?!”

People’s hands clapped to their mouths. The sobs grew louder.

I could tell they were scared. Frank had been one of us. He had been the peacekeeper.

Now he’s in a body bag, the first victim in Silverlake’s first serial crime.