18 Murders (1/2)

Father Obistano gave me the address to Romy Felizar's home. I learn his name through the mentioning of it from one of his Sacristans. He went through the archives of the church and gave me the address from the document stating his wedding to one named April. It is quite odd of him to do this. He never says one word about Emma's confessions but he dares give someone's home address. I suppose he is a great friend of this Romy as he is the confessor of every devout Catholic near this church. Still, I find him quite odd. In fact, almost everyone involved in this entwining mystery is odd.

Attorney Guevarra is too odd to help us easily. This priest is too easy to give one's home address. Professor Diwa is just too unusual in his ways that I cannot predict if he actually takes the murderer's side or mine. My foolish sister, Emma, is too odd to even keep everything a secret from me. They must think me stupid not to understand it all.

I follow the home address Father Obistano gave me. It was a few blocks walk away from the church. When I arrive at the location, I find myself thinking if I made a wrong turn or if the priest gave the wrong address. It is not a home a member of the elite would have. In fact, I find it too modest. It is a Modern Bungalow with a rectangular design and a little yard like a little running place for a child this couple might have. I look into the mailbox and it specifically states the surname, Felizar, with the address confirming the accuracy of the priest's description. I ring the doorbell but no one answers. I ring it about 10 times with a minute's interval. Once I realize that no one's answering, I thought that the couple must be away.

But, I cannot think that. I tried knocking through the gate, but I found it open as if someone is indeed home. Out of sheer curiosity, I find myself walking through the gate and into the unlocked main door. I do not even consider if I will be charged with trespassing. I just go in for I think that there is must be something wrong.

Then there is indeed something wrong. I smell burning eggs in the kitchen. I walk into the kitchen and I see the most horrifying thing a young investigative journalist can see. I saw a corpse before me. I drop my notepad and pen out of shock to the point I had to stoop to pick it up. I saw a woman I suspect to be April lying on the floor lifeless while holding a spatula. I see that she has been stabbed with a kitchen knife lying near her as if to imply that she committed suicide while cooking their breakfast.

Where is Romy? He might have gone away to report this to the police. I walk around the home looking for other possible evidence. I soon arrive at their master bedroom and I see the young man whom I suspect to be Romy. I see that he might be on his way to work as he is wearing a suit. I suspect that he has been strangled to death with his tie leaving no evidence of any physical harm done to his body. I find myself too shocked. I document all of these by taking photos of the scene using my camera. After that's done, I call the police to report what happened, like any good citizen would do.

The police arrive quickly and they were quick to wrap the house in police tape and plastic. They mark the floor with chalk and all the police take note of the visible evidence around the two corpses. Soon, the chief of the operation soon talks to me.

”So you are saying you walked in here and you saw this mess,” he says after I explain to him what I saw and observed. ”Why are you even here?”

”I am a journalist, sir,” I answer smoothly. ”I have come to interview him, but I never expected to see this.”

”Well, you certainly have a story to publish now,” he observes. ”We'll take it from here, miss. Thank you.”

I felt a huge relief that a party of policemen will actually investigate the matter. It is not going to be like Rex de la Rama's death where all the media and police were silenced. This will go through a true justice system and shall not be silenced by everyone. Suddenly, the chief receives a call of what I suppose an instruction from his betters. He turns his face to me after the talk and informs me of what I shall do.

”Miss, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to request your silence on the matter,” he says.

”We would like to investigate this crime without attracting public attention. Do you understand?”

”Yes, of course,” I say, cooperating with him.

Of course, I trust the police, not!