The Jolly Man

Detective Elana Dawson settled onto the wide windowsill of her Old Towne historic bungalow windowsill, watching the late fall’s first snowstorm of the year, pulling a heavy knitted blanket up to her chin. The residence was quiet, a small lamp emitting a dim beam of light that only glowed in a small area, the warm inside smelling faintly of the vanilla candle she’d blown out minutes ago. Outside, the city sounds—a distant beg for money, the rumble of a bus struggling to make its way up snow covered roads—seemed muffled, absorbed by the new stillness in the evening.

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, her reflection staring back at her on the over cleaned glass, frustrated that the city’s seventh homicide in the past three months had the strangest of clues to go off of to solve any of the crimes. The only clues herself and the others back at the station could gather was seeing what looked like millions of balloons floating into the air right before hearing sirens blazing to the crime scene moments later. To her this sounded like a ridiculous way for a killer to plot murders.

Before long neighborhood guests would be coming over for light refreshments to begin early holiday seasonal traditions. But she was too relaxed to go into the kitchen and start assembling paper plates, plastic cups, an ice bucket, and start pouring sweetened and unsweetened drinks to get things kicked off.

Dawson joined the force as soon as she graduated with a master’s in criminal justice at the top of her class. The city was in search of new hires, as three-fourths of its staff was either at retirement age or would be soon. In just a few months she was already promoted to the force’s second level of being a detective. She had seen and heard it all, at least that’s what she thought, but nothing like this. She was the one who gave the killer his name before the local paper had a chance to do so themselves; The Jolly Man. The name seemed to fit in her mind because of the act performed before committing the murders. She prayed that no one wanted to be impressive and start imitating this killer and perform a police station’s worst nightmare; performing copycat crimes.

The snow had started subtly, a tentative dust of white against the indigo sky. Now, it was a proper snow. Fat, lazy flakes spiraled down from the overhead darkness, catching the glow of the single street lamp below her window like tiny temporary jewels; the flakes seemed more magical than real. They didn’t fall fast; they drifted, each one seemingly taking its own meandering, silent route to the sidewalks and asphalt roads.

The scenery changed as slow as the snow fell. The cars softened power white, the dark branches of mature maple trees etching themselves in white against the night, the surroundings redrawn to a winter wonderland, perfect for the upcoming holiday season.

How could someone get away with so many murders in just a short period of time using a simple trick like releasing a large quantity of balloons just before they commit murders, she contemplated to herself. It seems criminals will always find a way to be creative to perform some devilish act. Or the balloons were just used as a trick to distract the police.

A single flake landed on the windowpane right in front of her eyes, a large six-pointed star, slowing melting into a thin, shiny droplet, insisting that the snow was offering many surprises since it first started an hour ago. The flake mesmerized her into sleepiness, her views now a blur of whiteness. The footprints on the sidewalk, the single handprint on the window, and the smell of gas through the living room chimney were now unnoticed. Outside her window, as the snow increased downward, an array of dark colored balloons drifted upward into the sky.

A shadow long enough to cover her body stretched from the light outside as someone turned the single lamp off, a coolness from outside seeping through the residence’s front door that was slightly ajar. An armed raised high into the air with what resembled a long object enclosed in its right hand, extending the shadow even more over her body. Through the crack in the door the living room filled with balloons that were as dark as the ones that flowed upward outside just moments ago. When that arm came down a balloon that flowed over the body popped so loud that it sounded like a shotgun blast more than a release of suppressed air.

Detective Dawson looked to be dead already as the gas was doing its job. But with the door now blowing all the way open fresh cold air inside would give her a chance to come back her normal self, as long as the intruder standing over her didn’t kill her first.

A knock on the front door changed the game for not only Detective Dawson, but for whoever was standing over her.

“Elana, are you okay in there?” A voice from outside questioned.

Her first next door neighbor had arrived.

Inside the bungalow heavy footprints raced for the back door, knocking over two chairs circling a table in the dining room. The back door was nearly ripped off as the escaped was halted because of an upper lock that was stuck from being unused the past few months.

“I’m calling the police!” That same voice as before yelled out loud, a few of the balloons drifting outside just over their head.

Detective Dawson was on the news after each one of the murders performed in this silly style of fashion. Whoever was standing over her must’ve wanted to silence her to continue a job undone. Now she was on the news again, this time with two others detectives by her side as she lay on a hospital bed. She looked harshly into the camera and spoke directly to the Jolly Man; “That’s all you got?”