The warden peered through the bars of the cell, raising his tanked to the prostrated man on the straw scattered floor. He held no illusions that the murderer was lying face down for any spiritual reasons, more likely the murder was so hung over he couldn't care less. In fact he was sure of it. The notorious Gerald Manson was a man you could only detain when drunk. His startling intellect and romantic tendencies had in one way or another created an adapt escape artist. His voice was said to lull his captors, promising in a soothing voice he wouldn't dare hurt anyone, he loved women with all his heart. As black as it was.
The sociopath was dubbed "The Deadly Valentine," drawing out lonely young women with charm, a charm turned foul when he strangled them.
And so, Manson was detained with the steady diet of alcohol. The warden would have preferred pills - but the deadly romantic has a strange immunity to most substances. Clever bastard.
"Could you compare thee to a summers day?" Warden Brian Chadwick drawled, "are those your words Manny?"
"It is 'Shall I compare thee to a summers day?,' you wobbling twit!" A sentence which would have been condensing - if he didn't spit out straw inbetween words. 'Nothing has been proven, you have no witnesses.' He sighed, turning his head to the side, 'could you refrain from calling me Manny? Mr Manson would suit."
"I don't give respect to killers."
'You well should,' Manson murmured, 'he, or she of course, could very well be your last face, your last voice and your last thought.'
Chadwick shook his head groggily, turning a finger in his ear to dislodge a rather large splodge of earwax, 'whatever you say manic Manson, you would know I s'pose.'
The door leading to a corridor (to where Manson could only guess) slowly opened, as though it was pondering whether to admit the birdeyed man slinking into the room.
'Ah, detector,' Manson purred, 'I was wondering when you would arrive.'
Robert Mortain strode confidently into the room, though small, he had dark eyes that shone bare the deepest of secrets. He was something of a legend within the old police station, a quiet, yet intense man that listened more than he spoke.
'Will you tell me how you did it?' Mortain asked, pulling a chair from the Warden's table and sitting on it, feet planted firmly on the stone floor.
'My mind trails along the cognitive path like a scarf fallen from a woman's shoulders.' Manson smiled smugly, 'I am drunk Sir, if you wish to make sense of drunken slurs you are a poor detective.'
'Or a very good one.'
It didn't seem to bother the detective that his murder culprit was lying belly down on the floor, head turned askew to stare at him with surprisingly gentle green eyes.
The Warden fiddled with the doorknob, his thick fingers sliding off the knob as he turned it. He flicked a last look at the two silently aggressive men behind him and lurched out of the door, bouncing from one side of the hallway to the other in an attempt to move his intoxicated body off duty. When he had joined the force, he had no idea he would be needed to get drunk.
The silence continued, drawn out like an invisible gas to hover over the two
'Very well,' Manson hissed, much unlike his previous charisma, 'I shall tell you.'
'The truth.' The detective demanded, 'I do not want any embellishment or ridiculous poetical quotes.'
Manson hauled himself up from the floor, crawling slowly towards his audience, every movement filled with malice.
"Is there anything more blissful then the truth?" he crooned sickeningly. At Detective Mortain's silence he grinned, pressing his face against the cold bars to ease his headache.
"When you come across my beauties, my lovers, my pretties you see her as she should be. Clothed in finery with a rose pressed to her breast. She is my sleeping beauty.' he laughed, a sound like Christmas bells. 'You can never save her from her tower."
Mortain frowned, however made no comment as he stared at the murderer.
"You can't make it out can you?" Mason smirked, "they all look so different don't they, I am not weighed down by stereotypes Morty. My blissful truth is this: I love many women and many love me. But none can have my beautiful angels."
"Let me tell you what I know,' Mortain said slowly, 'you strangle them with a cord concealed in your tie, you dress them in a while gown and leave them lying on a recliner - wherever that may be. In someone's house, in a museum, hotels, on a park bench. Fourteen women in all over two years."
Manson curled his feet under him on the floor, a pleasant smile on his face
"Correct," he said, his eyes like green diamonds, "you wish to know - how did I get them there? How did little Lottie Limesword lie sleeping in the mayor's bedroom? How did Clarissa Denford find her dreams in the art gallery? I shall tell you Sir - it pleases me that I have stumped you."
Robert Mortain leaned forward, a captive audience at his suspects confession.
"Mirrors Detective, I used mirrors. Simple tricks for simple games."
The detective clapped, standing from his chair to applaud the man within the cage.
"I needed a confession Mr Manson,' he said, 'we had no concrete proof it was you - thankyou for your confession."
"I am drunk - you cannot use my drunken words as evidence."
"I am going to play my last card Sir, my ace - if you care to see it."
"Throw your cards down Detective!' Manson crowed, 'I dare you to use my words as evidence within the trial!"
"The truth my drunken friend, my blissful truth will keep you locked up for sure."
He walked towards the door and opened it, revealing a dark haired woman on the other side. She glanced nervously around the room, stepping in to cling to the back wall. Gerald Manson's eyes widened into dinner plates, his mouth opening to pronounce a silent "oh".
"She was your last. One you thought you killed - saw dead on the bed, but she fell unconscious just as the police came," Mortain said, "she is our witness, she can stand as sober as the Pope and provide what we need. But we needed more. One Witness would not do." Now that the detective had won, he gazed eagerly at Manson, grey eyes alight.
"Our profilers named you a 'theatrical killer,' and so I set the stage. I know your voice is like devils silk, so I charmed your charm. I made you drunk, a gave you a cell complete with its own sloshed Warden and straw covered floor. I presented you the setting in which you thrive in, a stage to perform on. And you did sir, you preformed the last act perfectly. Though your cell looks to be straight from the 19th century I assure you cameras lie in wait to churn out footage."
Killer and detective stared silently at eachother through the bars until Manson turned a dashing smile to the girl, a smile that lit up his face, "you are very beautiful Elizabeth, do not forget that. After all-' Gerald Manson turned his eyes back to the small man that had thwarted him.
"Is there anything more blissful then the truth?"
'
ns 15.158.61.41da2
