Yellow Roses: An Ian MacKenzie Mystery

Like the relentless heartbeat of some neon god, the red light pulsed over and over again, through the open window in this low rent hotel.  Three stories down, the occasional night traffic could be heard splashing through the remains of a just ended downpour.  Blocks away came the scream of an ambulance siren, on the way to bad news I was sure. But in this darkened room, there were only the whispers of the two uniformed officers standing guard in the hallway outside the half-opened door and the sound of the lace window curtains flapping in the breeze. 

The officers were but backlit silhouettes, shadowed shapes ignoring me; knowing that this was always my time to be alone with what I called the remains of the crime.  They knew it would be awhile before the others would be allowed to do their necessary duties, those unnamed souls whose unmentioned work it is to wash away the traces of our human horror.

So here I sit in the shadows of room 312 of the...