The chief of forensics, Mr. S., slammed the door of the XXLK12 jeep and ran up the stairs of the three-story villa, where he had been informed the tragedy had taken place. He had given orders that nothing should be touched without his command.

He entered the large living room with wide windows and saw that everything was undisturbed: sheer curtains, tasteful and with carefully chosen colours. The house had three bedrooms, a large living room arched in the ancient Greek style, and a kitchen that stood out for its cleanliness, orderliness and the taste with which it had been designed.

He looked around and saw his escort, who directed him to one of the bedrooms. The corpse of the late L. lay stretched out beside the bed. Next to him stood an old woman in her eighties or more.

The chief cast his gaze over him. Next to the bed stood a desk. On it sat a latest-model computer. Everything he managed to observe convinced him that it did not give the impression of a crime committed from the outside, although his work had taught him to approach things with care and precision.

Recently, many dramas had occurred in this European country: murders, robberies, poisonings. Two days ago, in front of the parliament, a citizen had executed himself with a pistol.

The chief knew the person he had come for well. He had lived in a coastal town for 20 years. When he first arrived, Chief S. himself was on regular duty and had spoken with him several times, on the street, in cafes, or even on a few trips taken on the local tourist boat.

For a long time, no one had called him by his real name; everyone knew him by the nickname “The Poet”… others “The Writer”. The Poet was a cheerful man, possessed valuable qualities and a broad culture in several fields. He had published around 15 books in Greek, but it was said he had published many more in the language of the country he came from, as well as in other languages.

For as long as they had known him, no one could say he was an irritable man, someone who caused problems or had issues with himself. He lived alone with his mother. His mother was a well-kept lady who served her son with devotion; no one knew anything about his personal life.

He never talked about himself, though he often turned everything he learned from others into a drama, comedy, novel or novella, which were read with pleasure and had earned him a good name.

He took several photographs of the crime scene; then he ordered them to take the corpse away to carry out the necessary procedures. He turned on the computer and waited for a few moments. Once it had fully booted up, he saw that the screen was asking for his private code.

At this point, the chief paused and turned to the mother:

“Ma’am, do you happen to know the private code for the computer of the deceased, your son?”

The woman snapped out of her daze. She cast her gaze over Mr. S., but understood nothing.

“Excuse me, sir, could you repeat the question? I am not myself, I am in shock!”

The chief repeated the question, and then the lady replied:

“My son has three computers and he kept all three of them unlocked all the time, since, as you can see, only the two of us live in this house.”

The chief ordered the other computers to be turned on as well, but soon realized that none of the three could be unlocked. One of his escorts whispered something in his ear; the chief nodded and stepped away from the door a little, while they took the poet’s lifeless corpse from the bed.

He went over to the desk and picked up the letter written by him at the break of dawn. From his work experience, he understood that the letters had been written in a sad and anxious state of mind. There were numerous spelling mistakes, something impermissible for his work as a professional journalist and publicist. He read hastily through the lines…

1 April 2012

Today, indeed, is the day of lies, but I am writing only the truths of my life.

Knowing that I am in a hurry to leave, that they are waiting for me, I thought I would leave this explanatory letter for those people who are interested in my life, which will belong to the past, but which might also serve the future.

My life has been closed and monotonous; this is not because of my character, but as a result of my perspective on life, society and the conditions in which I have lived… I graduated from the University of Tirana, majoring in Albanian language and literature. I had grand dreams, but I was never able to realize them in life. Relying on my great desire, but also on my talent, I dedicated my life to art.

After the 90s I emigrated to the Greek state; I fought for my cultural, but also my professional, elevation. I enrolled at the University of Athens and graduated in Psychology. Afterwards, I also defended my postgraduate studies in Sexual Psychology.

Although there were many who came with problems pertaining to my profession, I always helped them, but I also always considered them spiritual problems. I never believed in love. I always saw it as a game of feelings and never as a factual and real state, in the things they told me; even though in their eyes I read sadness and the loss of hope for the future.

Everything changed and tumbled like a dream, and I found myself in the vortex of love.

From the very beginnings of my love until today… I have been nothing but a man in love, who sees nothing but his love and the eyes of his beloved… In the depths of her eyes, in her soul, I have seen only my happiness and joys… those joys I never felt in life, but only in this love.

But I made a mistake, which, like the current of a river, has carried me further and further down, without my realizing it, towards a sea of inevitable pain… Seeing my beloved’s distress, I always withdrew into myself, I stayed silent and never fought as I should have to clarify events.

During my withdrawals, in order not to lose the love and the joys she brought me, I forgot that I was losing my personality. All the while I never thought about personality, but only about love, about the beautiful dreams I wove for her…

This, among others, was perhaps my greatest mistake in this love, as I could not establish a law that would know how to separate our rights and duties. Thus I pushed myself towards an unknown, which devalued me more and more every day even as a human being…

I never thought that life is long, but I always thought that, without this love, I had no need for life either…

As for my beloved, or my “Light”, as I called her, I can say that, besides all that I have described in my diaries, she was and remains for me the dearest, most beautiful person, with a deep and pure love, but at the same time with a trait that cost me throughout the entire time of our love: her distrust towards me, towards love.

I do not know if this trait came from her deep feeling of love, which I am sincere about and acknowledge, or perhaps pushed by others, or by herself; but the struggle, which is repeated and documented even in the long and filmed conversations, which can be opened, listened to and watched only by court order and by my lawyer, Apostolos Kerkidhis… these have been kept in my personal safe, continuously, since the day I saw fit to document this love.

The same goes for my diaries, but also my poetry books, titled ………… and …………, which I have dedicated to my beloved, which I intended to publish, but which will be published after my death.

These books and other documentation will remain an irrefutable proof of my feelings for this love and for my “Light” herself…

Together we wove grand dreams, but the merciless knife cuts them in half, with the trial of injustice and of the freedom to enjoy these dreams and make them a reality. I do not know how my spiritual state can continue, how or for how long, but I know that everything will be detailed, accurate, clear, so that there is no doubt in my beloved, who, consciously, has no hand in the decision I have made regarding myself and my life — a decision for which I myself hold the signature, the seal, and the right of execution.

For any further clarification, on all three of my computers, which are filled with documentation about my love, the code to unlock them is...............................

The chief shook the letter in his hand, cast his gaze over it and focused on reading once again.

This code is at the same time the code to my personal safe. As for what I have written above, I have also written it in my diary today, in which there are other things that can be read by those who get their hands on it. This code, and the code to the truth of my life and my tragedy, is also held by my beloved. She is far away and, understandably, knows nothing about this decision that I am taking and making a reality.

This world, all my life, seemed like a lie to me, but on the day I felt the hand of love, I thought it would seem more beautiful, grander and more generous to its people, who come, stay and leave, and never understand that they are passersby, but try to impose their laws. With the opening of my documents, to find the truth, names, surnames, and contradictions will be read, which are exactly as I described them at the moment of the events, but also of the analyses made by my logic, the circumstances, conditions and interests when they occurred.

I ask that these names, these people, not be pressured to demand more than what I explain, as I myself have tried to make everything accurate, clear and very convincing.

To avoid trouble, I am choosing the most reasonable path. Years have no value; value is when a person comes into this world and leaves something behind. I came, I stayed and I could leave nothing else behind, except my 60 books, which hold within them my world (which I do not know if anyone understands), my feelings (which I do not know if anyone understands), my dreams (which I do not know if anyone believes).

I regret nothing in this world, except for my mother, who would have been better off not living through these difficult hours of my life for her. I wish my beloved to be happy in her life after this day. But, at the same time, I also wish the world to keep turning and to bring people more peace, love, sincerity and joys in their souls — these joys that I never drank from the spring of life...

Farewell…

Below was his full name and signature, accompanied by a great enigma that required a lot of work. Everything seemed to have been said, but also everything left unsaid.

The chief folded the letter, put it in a small plastic bag, and handed it to his escort to put in the file. Then he reached out and picked up the only other document lying on the desk.

It was a photograph. A colour photo.

The photo did not seem to belong to the area where the deceased lived, as the three-story dwelling in it was of a baroque style, with a pitched and peaked roof, from which two large dormers could be seen, letting in the light. Such dwellings are built in places with cold winters and heavy snow.

Next to the house, which had white windows and grey-coloured walls, a garden covered in greenery caught the eye on the right side, with a large plane tree in the middle, which covered a large area of the garden itself and gave the house a magnificent, almost luxurious appearance.

Outside its enclosure, a large church with three domes and a cross that could be clearly seen from afar was visible.

The chief turned it over to the back to look for any notes, but there was nothing. He shook his head, looked at the photograph one more time and whispered to himself:

“The winter of his life begins right here… this is the key to opening the door to his life, his computers and his personal safe!”

He handed the photograph to his escort, said goodbye to the mother of the deceased and went outside.

The day had not yet begun to dawn. In the distance, the waves pounded the shore, as if demanding an account for their eternal problems.

The chief took with him a sea of thoughts, which he had to pass through the distaff of his profession, spin them and weave them into cloth — in the form of a story — to find the truth of the incident that had been gifted to him that morning against his will.

To be continued

BY PILO ZYBA