Death of a Prince | ✓

EP 01: TINY LITLE DEAD

EPISODE ONE

'tiny little dead'

"HER NAME WAS Frances Glessner Lee and she was from the United States. She got inspired by a classmate of her brother, George Burgers Macron whatever - can't remember his name - and he was studying medicine at Harvard and was particularly interested in death investigation. Anyway, she created it, the lady, not the man - 20 true crime scene dioramas recreated in minute detail at dollhouse scale. They still use 18 of them for teaching purposes by the Maryland Office of the Chief Medical Examiner and the dioramas are also considered works of art. She also became the first female police captain in the US and is known as the Mother of Forensic Science."

"... Honestly, she sounds incredibly fascinating." I inhaled deeply, brows furrowed, fingers numb and aching from holding a tweezer so rigidly to ensure a stability after four hours of working. "But I'm still not done with this one and you're taking all my concentration away."

What made it worse, of course, was that Leon Song - credentials: Charmer, Sleuth, Man who can Bend the Knees of Mortals with just One Smile - was lying down on the table I was working on, his arms and elbows over the top, chin on the middle of his knuckles, eyes up. An innocent smile plastered all across his face.

Good god.

"I believe in you," he whispered.

"Thanks," I said, pretending that didn't hit as much as it did. My dominant hand was shaking, holding on the tweezer, and I gritted my teeth and used my other hand to steady my other wrist. My last Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death box - an art piece that Leon had ready when I went to his house, well, his castle, Château L'étoile du Matin as part of my study to become a little more adept in investigations. Sleuthing.

It's been an odd month or so.

Never would've expected a simple day-to-day at an ice cream shop, barely making conversation, would lead me in all the ways, at the only piece of historics in my little town - a French castle built upon ruins, recently remade for its newest occupation, a downtrodden investigator, picking apart crime scenes to figure out the situation and taking out murder weapons barely the size of my pinky.

Honestly.

"Alright, so this - " Tongue out, I was barely breathing as it is. " - is the murder weapon. Stained with blood, hardened, perfect. Oh, well. Not perfect." Setting the candelabra out of the small four cornered diorama of a dining room with an almost perfect picture, save for the few cultries on the floor, the glove over the door, and the dead man - an artfully done doll - with his head on his soup, the back of him whammed with something, now figured as the only candelabra missing.

"... Of course to done it up to a perfect murder, they took out all the other candles and had to stuff it quickly - ah, bottom drawer of the cabinet. Makes a mess over the blood spilling, so the killer is an amateur. And most likely did it over the heat of the moment. A crime of passion." I checked the small notecard. "Wife done it... or son."

"Son," Leon answered and pointed to the rug. "Shoes are not heels behind him. Patterns of oxfords I'd assume. The mother helped clean the crime scene though. Her shoes are only obvious on everywhere but behind the body, where one pair is most distinct."

I finally put down my tweezers and stretched. "Thoughtful of her."

Leon grinned. "That's family for you. Also this was set in the 1950s by the obvious style of the wallpaper, the man's suit, and that awful cabinet. So not really a particular time when it came to cleaning up crime scenes."