Seasonal Murder

The sun had just set on the last day of fall. Tomorrow was the winter solstice and what was normally a time for holiday cheer instead this year had a city filled with fear. Three seasons had passed, and each had started with a deadly murder.

The spring equinox found the city waking up to a female college coed laying in West Park. A wide stab wound had pierced her chest as in her hands she held a handful of fresh bluebells. The police had looked and searched but there was no evidence, no rhyme or reason as to why she had to die. As the days warmed up the trail went cold. It seemed as though this case would go unsolved and then, as the dog days of summer began, a new corpse appeared.

On the south beach just before noon a male in his thirties was seen sunbathing. Upon closer inspection a wide stab wound was once again found in his chest. At his side lay half a dozen sunflowers. With motive the same the police quickly connect this death to the previous. However even with this connection they were able to proceed no further. Not one thing linked the two together. Still for months the police followed every little lead they could find.

A new lead did unfortunately appear in the afternoon of the autumnal equinox. Amongst the everchanging trees of East Park eternally slept a mid-aged woman, a wide stab wound emanating from her chest. Two pots of chrysanthemums adorned her either side. While the crime was similar to the others no other connection could be found. Once again months passed, and fall was coming to a close. The entire city was feeling the stress of what tomorrow would surely bring. The pot was boiling over.

As the sun rose on that cold fateful day the tension in the air was palpable. People still had to live their lives though. The streets were filled as they rushed from here to there, last minute shopping or friends and family to visit. There was never anyone by themselves though. Regardless of how simple an errand might seem there were always two people doing it. And so, this is how the day passed, rushed and tense. Soon it was time for the sun to set and people began to relax. An old woman had thus decided to make a visit to North Graveyard on her own.

She had been a widow for five years to the day and every year she would come to pay her late husband a visit. A light snow had begun to fall when she arrived. As she made her way through the graves, she saw someone she knew. It was the florist. He had lost his wife just last year. Knowing herself how hard that first year can be she walked over to see if he wanted any company. He was kneeling over his wife’s grave, mumbling to himself, when she approached.

“Excuse me,” she said.

He looked up at her with dark circles under his eyes. “I was afraid they wouldn’t make it in time,” he said.

“What?” she asked.

“These,” he said as he moved out of the way. The grave was covered in budding crocuses.

“They’re beautiful,” said the woman.

“They were my wife’s favorites,” the man replied. “She loved the changing of the seasons. ‘A time for everything’ she would say. ‘A time to live…’” At this point he was standing up. A pair of pruning shears could be seen in his hand. “…and a time to die.” He raised the shears up high.

“WAIT!” cried the woman, but before she could do anything the man pointed the shears at himself and stabbed himself in the chest. He crumpled to the ground with a wide stab wound and surrounded by flowers.