THE LUCK STONE
The man from forensic prized the stiff fingers apart.
“It’s a stone, a pebble.” he said, “let’s see what we have got. Weight, about one gram. Size, six centimeters long; an elongated pear shape, three centimeters at the widest part. one at the tip. Thickness one point five. Colour; slatey grey near the base, blending into brown and beige near the tip. Just a touch of green in there somewhere. I’d say it was Serpentine at a guess. There is some in Australia, but I always associate it with Cornwall back in the old country. They’ve got cliffs of it back there.”
“But why?.” The chief inspector seemed puzzled. “What connection can it possibly have to this case?.” He took off his cap, heavy with silver braid, and ran his fingers through his greying hair. He was still apprehensive at being involved in a Case that promised to put the Hoddle Street and Queen Street massacres to shame. “This little bastard has just shot dead five males, twelve females, adults, and six children. He has terrorised a neighbourhood for twelve hours, and if Special operations hadn’t fluked a lucky shot we’d have been lucky not to have lost another dozen?.”
The man from forensic looked down at the rag doll body, its surplus store camouflage uniform looking garish in the sun- light. The blood made a reddish patch amongst the green and yellow and the SLR rifle lay out of reach of the clutching hand as though trying to disassociate itself from the affair. After all, it is people who shoot people, not guns!
“It was his “Luck Stone, I guess.” A fly crawled slowly across the unblinking eye. “We’d better move him if the photos are finished, The Doc’ll want the bodies in the morgue before
the sun get at ’em.”
“Luck Stone eh!” Said the Chief Inspector. So much for Superstition!”