Hewar paused for a second. He heard the people on the other side of the street talking. It was too dark to see them; the street light had been burnt out here for as long as he had been here, at least. But he could hear them, the sound of a foreign tongue, a few words at first. But he heard. Turkish? He crossed the street and began to follow them. His initial intuition was correct; it was Turkish. So these people were Turks. He growled, silently, and began to walk quickly, passing them. He turned his head quickly as he passed, to get their faces.
He had been watching them for about a month now. He had pictures of them, he knew where they worked, which building and room they lived in. He kept notes on a board in his apartment, figuring out their schedule. He looked over his notes. Dine out on Wednesdays- Woman stays at home all day- Man leaves for work at 7:30, arrives at 8:00, leaves at 5:00 at gets home ~7:30- Man stays at another woman’s house after work, affair? It would be easy to execute. He knocked at the door at 7:00. “Yes?” The woman had a heavy accent. Must have been a first generation immigrant. His response was a knife to the throat. She tumbled to the ground. He poured water where he had made contact with her. While he had gloves on, it was better to make sure there was no chance of fingerprints. He cleaned the wound, covered it up. He picked her up, and laid her on the couch. He closed her eyes. She would seem to be sleeping. He went into the closet, waiting. A few minutes later, the door opened. The man spoke in Turkish, calling for his wife. Hewar came out of the closet, and stabbed the man in the stomach. The man doubled over, beginning to shout from the pain. Hewar covered his mouth, and slashed at the man’s legs. Hewar put the man on the ground, and began to talk to him in Turkish. “The Kurds get their revenge,” The man's eyes opened wider, in his realization. He began to talk, but Hewar cut him off with a knife to the throat. He stripped down the man and his wife. He threw their clothes in the washing machine, and turned it on. He took the bodies and threw them in the shower. He turned on the water, knowing it would wash the traces of their contact off. He took a pen out of his pocket and scrawled a note on the note pad he had in his pocket.
Two days later, it was on the news. It was impossible to miss; it was on more or less every station. They hadn’t identified the suspect, but the police said they had a lead… Hewar turned to TV off, laughing. The officer was too nervous when he spoke to be telling the truth. More likely they had figured out the sequence of it all, but nothing leading to him specifically. So he waited, waiting to find more filth. It wasn’t too hard; the immigrant population here was high. But still, he waited, looking for the perfect target. But… He wanted them to take the hint. He had no idea as to whether they found it or not, so he decided to wait until they started asking around. He would bide his time. He already had his selection, long in advance.
It ended up being the family down the hall. He had known them to be arab, yes, but that alone did not warrant their deaths. But, finally, after a bit of observation, he found them to be Iraqi. It was a shame he had to learn such disgusting tongues, such as Iraqi Arabic and Turkish, but is was necessary for his work, of both kinds. He had his target. But, it was still time for him to wait.
Roughly a week after the murder, Hewar saw the police knocking at the Iraqis’ door. Asking them if they were ok, if they were safe. Hewar smiled. Oh yes, you’re quite safe. The officers seemed to be content with asking them a few questions, and they went on their way. Ah, the stupidity of law enforcement. This was much easier than he thought it would be. Not even an officer detached to their room. That night, Hewar decided to do it. Around two in the morning, he put on his protective clothing (to prevent fingerprint contamination). He snuck his way into the basement, cutting the power. There weren’t any guards in the apartment building, so he was more or less clear. He returned to his floor, and picked the lock into the Iraqis’ apartment. They were all asleep. This would be easy. He got to work, sealing all the windows and ventilation. Avoiding waking them was easy enough, they were all crammed into one room. Suddenly, he heard the door squeak. He stopped. His heart beat too loudly, it was difficult to hear where the footsteps fell. Carefully, he went up to the wall and pressed himself flat against it. His breathing a heartbeat calmed just enough for him to hear the footsteps properly. It was a young child; most likely the little boy who had just started school this year. Hewar felt a pang of guilt at first, but tried to brush it aside. He had something to do now, he could have his moral dilemmas later. The boy walked around the corner. Seeing Hewar, he froze. His eyes bulged, and his breathing stopped. Hewar grinned. As the boy began to open his mouth, Hewar’s hand shot out. He held his hand over the boy's mouth, and picked him up and brought him closer. Hewar, holding him still, brought him to the one window he hadn’t sealed yet. Opened it. It was certainly a drop, not enough to kill him, but it could knock him out if he went head first. Heward dropped the boy. The boy fell to the ground outside, and didn’t move. But… Hewar could see the boy’s chest moving. So he was alive. Hewar shut and sealed the window, and went outside the bedroom. No more children, it was the boy’s parents and grandmother. Hewar whispered a quick prayer, then dropped the canister close to the door crack. It began to open, and Hewar quickly left the apartment, and sealed the door on his way out. His work was done. He left a note on the door. This would be fun for them to decode. Let’s see… His note read in Georgian script (supplemented by IPA where there were no accurate Georgian characters), in Quechua. Oh, this will be quite interesting… And, well, interesting was right.
Hewar awoke the next morning, and turned on the news. As he suspected, it was all reported. The family, the boy. The boy was in the hospital, apparently, in critical condition. Apparently they doubted he was going to make it. Likely, they thought he would be fine, but the media wanted to grasp onto every straw they could. But… Even if they were exaggerating his risk for mortality, it was still a pretty big chance. And what would happen to him? Hewar sighed, and turned off the TV. I could be done, he thought. It was certainly an easy thing to arrange. He had a gun, he had rope, hell, there was a bridge over a road not too far away. Meh. All that required a concerted effort to kill himself; at the moment, his drive for suicide wasn’t strong enough for that. So he’d probably sit here and not do anything.
The kid was out of the hospital. He was in foster care, with some family in Brooklyn. Hewar did a bit of research, and found the address. He opened his wallet, pulling out a slip of paper and began filling it out. I’ll let this kid have a future. I took his away, so I have the responsibility to replace it. Hewar finished signing the check, and sent it off in the mail. That was taken care of. So he began his walk to the bridge. Nothing was on his mind, really. He had resolved everything by now, it was just his final march to his demise. Nothing special about it. Eventually he reached the bridge. He walked up to the center. He inhaled deeply before climbing over and sitting on the edge of the bridge. Traffic below began to slow, and grind to a halt. Hewar just sat their, mind blank, with a mixture of despair and calmness washing over him. What was probably minutes went by within seconds. Eventually the sirens came. The police approached him, pulled him off. He could live with that. This would be the best way to deal with it all.