The Post About A Drunkard and a Murder.

Prompt:  POV - third person (limited) / mystery / cooking

        An unknown man was wandering down a side street in the wee hours of the morning one sunday, in the restaurant district. He was wobbling along with no real destination. A hiccup escaped through his lips and he leaned against the side of a bakery to steady himself. That little hiccup and take quite a bit out of him and the world began to spin a bit. He righted himself and then continued on his way, wandering about.

 The people had yet began to stir, so though he was having trouble sorting through his muddled thoughts, the fact that three cars were sitting outside of the famous Cafe' La Roux drew his attention. He figured if they were open this early he might as well have a cup of tea and try to shake the drunken state he found himself in. He walked to the front and pulled on the door, it didn't give. He walked around to the back, still yet to be fully clearheaded he was dead set on that cup of tea. Walking around back hoping to find some sign of life he felt a sudden strange sensation, a little sobered by the feeling of unwelcomeness he made his way back towards the front of the building. Stumbling some, the portly man was shocked to see that only one car was left at the front of the building and the door which had previously been bolted shut was now gaping open. Curiosity got the best of him and he walked forward and peered into the dark room.

 Large and filled with tables and chairs he could see through the light of the morning that not a soul was in sight. A timid hello floated from his mouth and cautiously stepped around the front of the room. He cursed under his breath, upset at himself for feeling a bit coward. Deep breath in and another much louder Hello boomed from his chest and paraded around the room seeking every nook and cranny for an ear to catch. That large echoing hello found it's mark and a deep groan replied back to the empty room. The man stepped through the entrance, the bright light piercing the dim room was bothersome to his unsteady state. He went directly for, it bracing his eyes. Looking at the scene before him, dizziness swept through his body. A nauseous wave rose inside of him and he released his stomachs contents into the side sink next to the swinging doors of the kitchen.

Lying in a pool of blood was a young woman in a chef's uniform. The man knelt next to her, hoping against hope she was still alive. Slight movement of her head nearly catapulted the man out the door, but he held his place refusing to leave this woman on her own. He pulled out his mobile, hands shaking he called for an ambulance.

Once again he knelt next to the woman and tried to sooth her by telling her help was coming. After about the third mumbled reassurance she turned her head up towards him. That's when he got a full view of the slit across her throat. His stomach threatened to turn on him again, but instead of giving in to the impulse he leapt into action. Grabbing the nearest washcloth he pressed it firmly to her throat. The woman gargled a little and blood pooled out of her mouth. She gasped one last breath and her eyes fell closed. The man knew she was gone, but he pressed the cloth to her wound nevertheless. He didn't know what else to do. When the ambulance arrived they found the man weeping over the woman's body putting pressure on the wound. They gently removed him from the scene and took the body away. He seemed to not notice the tears or be aware of the fact he kept muttering who would do this? who would do something like this? 

That was the question running through detective Blaire Dockett's mind as she left the scene having gathered all the information on the victim and taken the only witnesses statement. Not that there was much to go on. Drunks didn't tend to give the most accurate testimonies. It was probably best he didn't see much, his testimony would do little in a court room anyway. But still, murders were uncommon in this area of town, who would want to harm a 26 year old soux chef at 4 o'clock on a sleepy sunday morning. Not a crime of passion. A slit throat was more like a job. A professional. She probably didn't even see it coming, poor thing.

Someone wanted this young woman dead, and Dockett was going to find out who. The youngest female on the police force she was smart, dedicated, married to the job. A little cliche' but it's what she loved. Solving puzzles and figuring people out. This was no exception.