The Murder Chronicles (Online & Print)

By Liang Yaosheng

Liang Yaosheng lives in Singapore and is the author of several short stories. This is a short-story compilation of three thrillers: What is Necessary, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,and KIRA. If you enjoy murder, intrigue and suspense, then this is the right book for you!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312283909

Liang Yaosheng

Liang Yaosheng lives in Singapore and is the author of several short stories. He has a Bachelor of Arts from the University of New South Wales, and has read widely on the thriller genre. This book, THE MURDER CHRONICLES, is a compilation of three of his mini-thrillers: WHAT IS NECESSARY, SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES and KIRA. The book has also been published since at www.lulu.comThe first story, WHAT IS NECESSARY, is about of series of water-related murders, with a romantic blitz which ties in closely with the motive for murder.The second, SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES, starts off with romance, catapults towards vengeance, and ends with a twist.The third, KIRA, unfolds slowly with a series of killings, and ends with a gripping conclusion about who the murderer really is.Visit these sites to purchase the book:1) Barnes and Noblehttp://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-murder-chronicles-liang-yaosheng/1119846733?ean=29400460223912) Scribdhttp://www.scribd.com/read/230506934/The-Murder-Chronicles3) Kobohttp://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/The-Murder-Chronicles/book-VgPd0XkMvkWKj4a_QYJt0A/page1.html?s=4_Tgc61y_UeXwov06VnDJQ&r=14) txtrhttps://txtr.com/catalog/document/shycdz9/the-murder-chronicles--liang-yaosheng/5) Bliohttps://www.blio.com/blio/actions/searchHandler.do?userType=MLB&tabID=BOOKS&itemNum=ITEM%3a1&key=0015223222&nextPage=booksDetails&parentNum=128486) Inktera (Page Foundry)http://www.inktera.com/store/title/0686782a-9e89-4aa7-ad1f-d87dbdd99daf7) Oyster Bookshttps://www.oysterbooks.com/book/tgmFXq43kz7tj6MbeqjDmb/the-murder-chronicles8) Flipkart Bookshttp://www.flipkart.com/the-murder-chronicles/p/itmdy43ggmu3j6bm?pid=DGBDY43G3WPZFKZQ&otracker=from-search&srno=t_1&query=Liang+Yaosheng&ref=c10c6fe2-3384-402c-9ac4-311f5b143967

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The Murder Chronicles (Online & Print)

The Murder Chronicles

A Compilation of 3 short stories of the thriller genre

BY

LIANG YAOSHENG

The Murder Chronicles

By Liang Yaosheng

Published by Liang Yaosheng

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher (author) except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2014

ISBN: 978-1-312-28390-9

Ordering Information:

Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, educators, and others. For details, contact the publisher at [e-mail].

Copyright © 2014 by Liang Yaosheng

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

What Is Necessary

Chapter 1

2013 1 JUNE 8 A.M.

THE necklace that hung limply on the body of Deppenie Lee was an unneeded embellishment, almost as though it had been added as an afterthought. It was a garish, ornate – almost beautiful – piece of ornament that wrapped itself in tight embrace around the neck of the cold, lifeless body that the life guard found floating in the waters of Yio Chu Kang Swimming Complex one early morning, in 2013.  The night before, there had been a swimming lesson that stretched late into the evening, and apparently Deppenie, a young girl of 6, was one of its incumbents – proud as she was of her swimming abilities that won her a gold medal in the recent Nationals.

There were no signs of forced struggle, like scabs or bullet holes, and the implication of this was seemingly straightforward. The girl had drowned. Cardiac arrest, followed by flailing limbs, as the girl struggled to seek the attention of someone nearby. Or, perhaps, a nasty cramp that threatened to dislocate, followed by a furious struggle in the water, and then the death knoll that accompanied the effervescent, sinking feeling of being dragged down by one’s own body weight.

Of course, the girl would have shouted if she could, and anyone within ear’s reach would have heard. But, the matter of the fact, according to the security guard before he switched off the swimming pool lights, checked the swimming pool and left for home, was that he heard and saw nothing. The swimming pool had been empty for the last half-hour before closure, quintessentially sublime under the pale moonlight.

No leads on the CCTVs at the entrance of the Complex either, except that the images were a tad shaky and blur. The reason for this, according to the security guard, was that the lenses had not been cleaned or serviced since the start of the haze a few days ago. Of course, it was June, heralding a dry season in which shifting cultivators from Sumatra cleared and burned the land, with the resulting forest fire, which in turn resurrected huge plumes of smoke and ash-filled particles that blew across the teeming landmasses of Johore until it reached Singapore.

But there was the question – the burning question of the necklace. Why was it found on the girl?

As I stood at my desk in an office thirty levels above sea level, pondering over the case, the news had already spread across the island like a tsunami over a beach. The evening 7pm broadcast on television was awash with the spoils of war: namely, images of a hundred cameras encircling the sobbing, bereaved parents on their way out from the mortuary as they wailed and raised a ruckus.

Pausing over a cup of aromatic tea, I could not help feeling sad for the malevolence that the media unleashed for the public offing, as though television ratings was the only thing that mattered, or genuinely deserved attention. I shook my head complacently, and reached yet again at the usurious part of my scalp, finally satisfying the itch that had held my attention for the past five minutes while watching the gruesome news on television.

Feverishly, I closed my eyes, trying to focus, trying to recall - trying to find the missing link. I thought about the first case of the week, the body that I found in the swimming complex near the deserted alley less than two days ago. I thought about her small chin, the frizz of her hair, and the strong smell of detergent ironically surrounding her that reeked of obsessiveness – an underlying compulsion for cleanliness that hinted at a conscious penance for a murderous impulse. The body had been methodically slit open just like all the other cadavers prior to Deppenie, emptied of all its organic components, and conveniently dislodged in the swimming pool, whereupon it lay floating until the next morning when the security guard informed the police.

There was a necklace on the body’s neck, added almost like an afterthought.

As head of the Forensic Science department in the CID, I had been roped in to do the necessary investigation, to examine the detritus and comment on the murder scene.

Again, the footage from the CCTV failed to detect anything suspicious or criminal. I watched the video again and again, playing it back and forth – once, twice, three times. Like in Depp’s case, the footage was a bit blurred and unforthcoming. There was no sign of a break-in, or for that matter, anybody trying to enter the complex after the security guard pulled the complex’s shutters at around 9pm.

I realized that there was nothing I could do now other than wait for the results of the blood sample and DNA analysis. Sitting comfortably on a settee at the thirty-third level of the Police HQ at Cantonment, I shut my eyes, forcing myself to rest. But my thoughts drifted, and I settled into an uneasy silence.

And then my thoughts shifted to Lisa, how she, too was mercilessly slit open, emptied, and left floating, two years ago. How Lisa, my fiancée-to-be, was murdered on the night that I was supposed to propose to her.

Then, shaking my head, again, I fell asleep on the sofa, blissfully unaware that the front door was unbolted and still wide open. A sudden draft entered the room, setting the atmosphere for slumber.

2013, 2 JUNE 11 P.M.

SHE ran, and ran, as fast as her feet would carry her through the bounds of space, under the constraints of time, her heart racing, faster and faster until she could feel the dull throbbing of a starting headache. She sped past the Orchard Road crowds, unmoved by the bling of the vehicle headlights from the cars that chugged and plied through the bustling roads, pushing through rambunctious crowds.

The beads were within the grasp of her hands and she counted them meticulously, uttering vacantly to herself each time she paused to catch her breath: one, two, three, four, and five. The chain, of course, was a prized possession, broken from her earlier tussle, her earlier skirmish. Yet, even in the perspicuity of the earlier struggle, and her reason for doing it, she could not help feeling a twinge of remorse for the victim behind the counter at the pawnshop – the innocent, blameless, self-sacrificing hero of the drama that unfolded as she held him at gun-point and fired, making herself the unnecessary villain.

Of course, there were far more important things in this world than money, but her vision was hitherto unclouded by all the excuses that her mind reflexively churned out to dull her conscience. She was interested in hard facts, and the fact of the matter was that there was cash to be collected, money up for grabs.

She would soon have money to pay for her sister’s University semester fees, with much more to spare. She and her sister were orphans, and she had single-handedly raised Rebecca for the past ten years, always finding ways and means to bring in the wads of cash to feed the face of capitalism that was boundless in a city where the rich were getting richer, and the poor poorer.

Over the past five years, however, the country had hit a recession, and jobs were becoming hard to find. Prior to the economic meltdown, she’d been freelancing as a songwriter, or taking up any of the numerous odd jobs that came her way through her contacts. But now, having been unemployed for the last five months, she had to find ways and means to survive by being street-smart. She told Rebecca that she would not let the both of them starve even if it meant that she had to resort to underhand means.

Tonight, as Ah Lee sailed through the darkened alley, her thoughts once again turned to Rebecca. How was she coping with school life? Did she have enough to have lunch today? Did she take the bus or walk 2KM home? For an instant, even as she was running, she saw a sweet smile creasing up the corners of her sister’s face, and suddenly she felt that all her efforts had been worth it. But Ah Lee told herself that for the sake of them both, this had to be the last time that she would jeopardize her safety for their mutual benefit.

Presently, Ah Lee cast a backward glance as she drifted further and further away from the policemen who, despite their fit selves, were unable to keep pace with her. Suddenly, Ah Lee felt like an Olympian, assured of her victory. She pommelled through the crowds, beating through the faceless throngs like a careless whisper, surging on and on