The Lost Ring

Lost Ring

Open on a room. A policeman enters followed by a man who appears dry eyed but upset. The policeman points at the photographs and the man goes forward and touches them, fanning the images like a pack of cards. He picks the one of the woman’s upper body and places it on top.

Husband – Where is it?

Policeman – Where is what, sir?

Husband – The ring.

Policeman – Sir, was she wearing a ring?

Husband – Yes.

The husband breaks down and cries. His tears drop onto a picture of the victim’s upper body – she is wearing a blue morgue sheet. She has been cleaned up but cuts are obvious on her arms and face. One particularly vicious cut extends from the collar bone and disappears below the sheet.

Policeman – Sir, perhaps you need to sit down.

The husband is gently led away and the door closes on the small room. Two people enter, both in suits. Both are police investigators.

David – Well, I don’t think he did it.

Bruce – Yeah, either that or he’s a brilliant actor.

David – What about the ring?

Bruce – It wasn’t at the scene, and he seemed surprised it wasn’t there. If he did do it then at some point she must have lost it.

David – You still think he might have done it?

Bruce – Most murders are done by someone you know.

David – True. He did breakdown.

Bruce – Yeah, but he also touched the photos. That’s the first time I’ve seen any distraught relative touch the photos of their dead loved one.

David nods and looks toward the door. The faint crying can just be heard.

Bruce – A good actor.

David – Okay, let’s check his alibi and try to find that ring at the scene and the victim’s house.

Both men leave the room and the victim’s photos stare at the ceiling. The crying cuts off and a shout of indignation can be heard as the husband is detained.