Pourquoi les chiens des policiers n’ont-ils pas s
Pourquoi les chiens des policiers n’ont-ils pas senti le corps qui était enterré ! Un produit ?
The rain hammered against the grimy windows of the station, each drop a tiny, relentless hammer blow against the already frayed nerves of Detective Moreau. He was staring at the crime scene photos, the grainy images of the shallow grave in the overgrown backyard. The victim, a young woman named Claire, was found by her neighbor, her lifeless hand protruding from the muddy soil like a macabre flag.
Moreau couldn’t shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong. The evidence pointed to a brutal murder, yet the lack of any struggle, the absence of any signs of forced entry, and the almost…surgical precision of the burial left him with an unnerving unease.
And then there was the perplexing silence of the police dogs. Normally, their keen noses would be on the trail of the perpetrator, but they had been uncharacteristically mute. Not a whimper, not a bark, not even a twitch of their ears. As if the scent of death itself had been erased.
“Why didn’t they react, Moreau?” The voice belonged to his partner, Detective Durand, a man hardened by years on the force but whose voice held a tremor of unease.
Moreau sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “It’s not like they’ve ever failed us before. It’s like…like the dogs were intentionally prevented from detecting the scent.”
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn’t the usual murder, it was too clean, too calculated. It felt almost…ritualistic.
Days turned into weeks. The investigation yielded only dead ends. The victim’s friends and family remained elusive, offering no clues, their faces etched with a strange, terrified silence. Moreau began to feel as if he was chasing a ghost, an elusive entity that existed only on the fringes of reality.
One evening, while sifting through the evidence once more, Moreau noticed a small, almost invisible stain on one of the crime scene photos. It was a faint, almost iridescent shimmer, barely visible against the muddy backdrop. He zoomed in on the image, his breath catching in his throat. The stain emanated from the edge of the grave, directly beneath the spot where the victim’s hand had emerged.
“Durand, get down here!” He called out, his voice cracking with a newfound urgency. “I think I found something…”
Durand hurried into the office, his eyes following Moreau’s gaze towards the photo. He, too, gasped, his face paling with horror. The iridescent stain, now amplified by the zoom, resembled a pulsating, otherworldly aura, almost as if it were alive.
As Moreau stared at the image, his mind raced. Could this be the answer? The reason why the dogs hadn’t reacted? Could it be that Claire’s body had been treated with a substance, an unknown product, something that nullified the scent, something that made her death seem almost… supernatural?
The thought sent a cold wave of fear washing over him. If they were dealing with a product that could erase the very scent of death, what else was it capable of? And who was behind it?
The rain outside intensified, beating against the windows like a furious drum solo. Moreau felt a sudden chill, a feeling of being watched. He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the room, searching for any sign of movement. His heart hammered against his ribs as a faint, metallic scent drifted in from the hallway. It smelled like…blood.
And then, a low, guttural growl echoed through the room. It was the sound of a dog, but not the familiar bark of the station’s K-9 unit. It was a different sound, a growl that sent chills down his spine, a sound that was not of this world.
The picture on the screen flickered, the iridescent stain growing larger, brighter, more alive. And as the growl grew louder, Moreau knew he had been right to be afraid. He had stumbled onto something far more sinister, far more dangerous, something that promised to haunt him forever. Something that could erase the scent of death, and in doing so, erase the line between reality and the unimaginable.
