Flash Fiction by Kurt Sanders

Paul Monroe, a well-seasoned 55-year-old detective, examined the young man’s body lying on the floor. He appeared to be around twenty-four or five years old. He is sprawled out on the living room floor, on his stomach, one leg bent, the other straight. No shirt, a pair of shorts around his waist. His head twisted sideways, a smile on his face.
“Any ideas yet, Sergeant? How did he die? He looks to be in excellent physical condition. I don’t see any blood or signs of trauma.”
“At this point, we are leaning toward an overdose, sir.”
“What drugs did you find?”
“We didn’t find any.”
“What makes you think it was an overdose?”
“Honestly, we’re not sure yet. If you come to this side, you’ll see he has foam coming out of his mouth.”

The detective moves to the other side for a closer look.
“Poison, maybe?” he mutters. “What’s his name? Who is he?”
“We don’t know that either. There’s no ID on him, and we haven’t found any in the apartment. There’s really not much here. The only thing we’ve found is this picture and a key.”

The detective picks up the picture, which shows the victim lying on a beach alongside a bikini-clad older woman, her face scratched out. He then examines the key.
“Any idea what this key opens?”
“No, sir.”
The key looks familiar to the detective.

“I’m taking this key; I have an idea.”
Later, he drives to a vacation cabin he and his wife own. The key fits the door lock, and he opens the door. Inside, he finds the bedroom in disarray, with sheets pulled back and rumpled. On the nightstand, there are a couple of unused condoms. On the dresser lay the same bikini that the woman in the picture wore.

Text © Kurt Sanders