The night was silent in Eastwood. The streets were deserted, the lamps flickering faintly against the moist ground. In his room, Rustam sat hunched over the desk once again, the light of the small table lamp casting long shadows across his face. Before him lay the paper with the name Richard M. pinned high above everything else on his evidence board.
Richard.
The name had began to claw at Rustam's mind like an unanswered riddle.
He pulled open a drawer and retrieved an old tape recorder. Inside were dusty cassettes from witness interviews carried out during the time of the killings. One cassette was labeled simply: "Unfiled- Richard M" Rustam's heart skipped.
He inserted the tape and pressed play. At first, there was only static, then a voice. Not Richard's, but that of a nurse giving a testimony.
"He was unpredictable. One moment calm, the next violent. Broken a chair in half during an argument with a doctor. Kept muttering about debts, people owing him respect. Some nights he didn't sleep, just laughed to himself. We thought it was illness, but I was scared of him"
Rustam paused the tape, brows furrowed. The words matched Patrick's description: violent tendencies, deep frustrations. But there was something in the nurse's tone that made it sound more than just illness.
He pressed play again.
"He had this habit… of carving the letter R into tables, walls, even into his own arm once. Said it was his 'mark', a reminder that no one could forget him. The doctors dismissed it as delusion. But I don't think it was."
Rustam shut the recorder off. The room fell back into silence, but now his pulse quickened. Richard had left his mark long before the killings began. The letter "R" was no random taunt. It was his obsession.
---
Meanwhile, across town, Eda sat in the living room with her grandmother, Rosy. The fireplace crackled softly, casting a warm glow on Rosy's lined face. Evan was upstairs, asleep after another long day.
Eda noticed her grandmother staring at an old wooden box she kept on the shelf. Rosy's fingers traced the lid absentmindedly, her expression distant
"What's in there, Grandma?"
Eda asked softly.
Rosy blinked and gave a faint smile before answering:
"Just old things, Dear. Memories better left untouched"
But when she rose to put the box away, the lid slipped. A faded photograph slid to the floor. Eda bent and picked it up before her grandmother could.
It was a picture of a young man. Tall, sharp-eyed, a crooked grin on his face. His arm around a much younger Rosy.
"Who's this?"
Eda asked curiously
For a moment, Rosy's face froze. The warmth drained from her smile. She reached out, almost snatching the photo from Eda's hand
"That's...Richard. My son."
Rosy whispered.
"You...you..had another son?"
Eda asks.
Rosy sank into the armchair, clutching the photograph as if it was some fragile glass.
"Yes. He was troubled, but he was mine. The town doesn't know, no one does. I never spoke of him after his...illness. People gossip, twist stories, I couldn't let them"
Rosy said.There was pain in her voice, but also shame. Eda felt a knot tighten in her chest. Her grandmother had kept a whole part of their family hidden.
"Grandma, what happened to him?"
Eda asks. Rosy stared into the fire burning in fireplace.
"He fell ill. Wasted away before his time. He was buried quietly, without any fuss. That's all."
Eda studied her grandmother's trembling hands. Something in her words felt unfinished, as though Richard's shadow still clung to her, refusing to let go.
---
Back in his room, Rustam leaned back in his chair, the photograph of Richard M. he had dug up from the archives now pinned right at the center of the board. His eyes fixed on it.
The man in the photo had sharp eyes. A crooked grin. The same one Eda had just seen in her grandmother's photo.
Rustam muttered under his breath:
"Richard...why do you still linger?"
The clock struck midnight. Somewhere in Eastwood, a dog barked into the empty night, and the town's long-forgotten terror stirred once more in whispers.
____________________________
End of chp 04