A man lumbers through the streets of Manhattan, with no apparent destination. In his hand, he holds a small, black briefcase. He wears a simple black suit with a red shirt and black tie. Blood red. He walks slowly and carefully; dignified. He looks like a young lawyer or doctor or banker, or a profession one would imagine for is dress. He walks slowly down West 86th Street towards Central Park. When he reaches the crossover to the East side, he is boards a bus that takes him to 84th Street and 5th Avenue. He gets off, and walks into the distance. No one saw his face, skin color, or even knew his name. All that was left behind him was a dead body - a body disfigured by the impact of a car - and a black rose, sprinkled with the man's blood.
"Inspector... why are you bringing this to my attention?" The police commissioner stared at the file which he knew contained a single piece of paper: the open-and-shut case of a man hit by a drunk driver. It seemed simple enough; the man had been heading to the corner of 85th and Madison - where he intended to hail a cab to Mt. Sinai to see to his dead mother. A tragic and sad story, having dies of Alzheimer's Disease at 67. He had a receipt for the purchase of a single black rose in his pocket. It was seen to have a single blurred spot, which they assumed had been from a tear. A terrible calamity. No foul play suspected, no drugs or alcohol in the driver's system, enough witnesses to prove the innocence of the driver. Just a relatively small cut on the victim's wrist, believed to have been caused befor the accident is the only "extraordinary thing" about the case. Most likely, it had been accidental.
The other man looked nervously over the police commissioner's large desk made of a dark wood. The room was small but furnished with many awards. It also had an eerie feel; a sense of impending doom for no apparent reason.
"Well, it was tragic. The lady at the front desk asked me to bring it to you. She also said she was going to leave early today - something about chest pain? - and asked me to give this to you. She also gave me this." He handed the commissioner a small key. "It opens the locker to the evidence from this case."
"Very well then. You are dismissed." The inspector left the room.
Why did she give this to me? he thought. He opened the file. Nothing of importance or interest. He decided to head down to the locker room and check out the evidence locker, though he already knew what it contained. A simple black rose found at the scene. He opened the locker. As he knew, only the rose was there, preserved in oil to prevent deterioration. The family wished to have it buried with him when the police were finished. He left the locker room, and returned to his desk.
Summary: A mysterious man is walking on the Upper East Side at the early hours of the morning while another man - less than a block away - is hit by a car. No one sees the mysterious man's face, or, for that matter, sees him at all. Is it a mere coincidence that the dead man was holding a black rose which was sprinkled in his own blood?
Post your opinion on this below. Continue? Ideas? Questions? Comments? Random rants? Death threats? Tell me in the comments section. I plan to continue. If you have a title idea, pitch it below.