Marshall lies on his back, his head resting against the door, his arms wide open, the collar of his buttoned shirt clenching on his swollen throat, his light blue tie lopsided and crusted with blood, looking like a dead snake on his stomach.

His knuckles are cut and heavily grazed. He did fight, but it was useless. He has been stabbed to death. His striped shirt is red with blood. Blood is crusted around his mouth, blood came out from his ears.

“Marshall…no, Marshall…”, I find myself whispering to him, knowing well how useless it is. Knowing well that he cannot answer to me anymore. That he’s not going to tease me, he’s not going to talk to me, he’s not going to laugh with me or poke me or wink at me anymore.

I rub my hand on my face, on my unshaven cheeks, frantically, getting up and walking around him, looking for evidence, looking for everything, and doing my best to detach myself from the sight of my friend lying there, murdered and decomposing, and it’s so hard. It’s so fucking hard.

I sniffle and when the stink hits me again, I start breathing through my mouth. And then I see it. A very small part of it comes out from Marshall pocket. The front pocket of his blazer.

I already know what it is but I take it anyway, careful not to touch him. It’s another Jack of Spades.

“Jesus Christ…”, I hiss silently, putting my hands on my hips, knowing well that this game is being going on for far too long, knowing even better that I am about to break down.

I turn my head to Marshall’s desk and there are the pictures. They have been purposefully, tidily displayed for us to see them.

Black and white takes, they are identical to the photographs we received this morning.
There is Marshall smoking a cigarette outside his office, his massive body standing up straight, his head tilted to a side like he’s observing something or someone.

There are Alice and Tasha on a Triumph motorcycle. Alice looks like she’s murmuring something into Tasha’s ear and she’s smiling. They both have their helmets off.