Homeless...

“Just two choices. Why? Or how?” asked the hooded man.

Alan Rickman was in a state of heavy confusion. What should he ask? What was more important to know? He had to use all the senses of his. Use all the instinctive skills that he had. All the experience that he had earned in his twenty-five years of experience as a police commissioner. 

It had all started before a year. The newspapers were flooded with two-sided reports. One, praising an unknown person, who had been donating the heavy amount to the homeless. The others were about increasing crimes. Two murders in a single month. Both billionaires, heavily engaged in the black market. The only weird thing about the crimes was that both of them occurred when the victim was alone, in a closed room and that, the murderer had not left any clue about his entry or exit. 

The murders increased as time passed. Alan was tired of the investigations every week. The patterns were the same everywhere. One more thing noticed by him was that a hooded figure, after murdering, the not-so-poor victim, went out of the CCTV camera’s range and, after a blackout was gone.

After a year of tedious investigation, Alan after one such “fine” day, decided to have a break. Hence, he went to the nearest café to get some coffee. That’s when the hooded figure emerged from nowhere in front of him. Before he could react, the man, in a flash was sitting with him on his table.

“I know you have many thoughts, many questions, but, I give you two choices. Why? Or how?.......”

Alan snapped to reality. He had to answer now, before the man once again flew out of his reach. He decided to outsmart the man, and hence, smartly clicked his transmitter to call his team. The man smirked as if he knew what Alan was up to.

“Why? Why are you doing all this?” asked Alan. Keeping in mind that he had to waste at least ten minutes so that his team would arrive and arrest the criminal. The café was slowly emptying. ‘Perfect’ thought Alan, ‘no public drama then’.  

“I used to live a life of poverty. ‘Homeless’ as your people call my society. Until that night when the car and the man driving it, took it all away from me,” said the man, a deep agony in his voice.

“To the point Mister,” said Alan firmly. 

“I am here to help you with your queries. Listen or I shall leave,” said the man in an equally firm tone.

“I don’t like a honest cop like you getting mentally tiered just because of me,” he then said in much calmer voice. 

“Ok. Go on.”

“I, with my family was sleeping in a tent, ‘constructed’ on a footpath by us. That was when a car rammed into our tent. If you remember officer, somewhat eighteen months from today, on first of January, a drunk man had hit a poor man’s dwelling and if your brain helps you to remember, the car was George Temple’s one of the richest men of our city and my first target. I had been there with my family that night…..I had been there with them, that night…….”

Alan was so lost in the man’s story that he never noticed his team members secretly sneaking in the, now empty, café. When the man stopped, he was already at the gunpoint. He without any trouble allowed the officer to handcuff him. They took him out of the café.

“Officer, it seems you have captured the wrong man,” said a pedestrian. “I used to be homeless. He has given me a home to live and has got me employed in a firm so that I can earn.” 

“Yes sir,” said several others, nodding.

Alan looked at the man. He had the same smirk on his face as before. 

“You never asked me “How?”,” said the man. All of a sudden, there was a blackout. Alan heard a ‘clink’ and when his vision returned, he saw a pair of empty handcuffs lying on the floor, still locked, as it were before. 

Before anyone could react, a newspaper came flying from the nearby newspaper stand. It was dated first January, and as his eyes read the headlines, a smaller part of it sank deep into his mind, ‘No homeless had survived George’s car crash….’