Thread

The letter arrived today. Tuesday. A strange thing, I thought since our superstitious  postman rarely calls on days that begin with the letter T.

It had my name, but no address, no stamp and no postmark. Had it been delivered by hand?

I opened it slowly. It was handwritten, such a strange occurrence in this day and age. I recognized the handwriting immediately.

“I know now,” it began. “I doubted it before but now there is no more cause for doubt. You were the murderer. Perhaps you did not intend to kill him but now that is irrelevant. Soon the detectives will be knocking at your door. How ironic that you became the chief of police. Perhaps it was to be expected. But did you really think that you would escape judgement forever?

“It was the yellow scarf that gave you away. I was watching a football match on TV and suddenly remembered the evening that you wore it to game. Such a trivial thing. One yellow scarf. You should have burned it. But I suppose that you were so attached to it that you could not. I found it in the attic where you hid it, and am attaching a few of the threads here. The matching threads from the murder scene must still be somewhere in the archives. That scarf will prove to be your noose.

“When you come looking for me I will be gone. Another letter has been sent, this time to the Ministry. Two weeks ago. With more threads from your scarf.  It probably has already arrived by now

“You probably have assumed that I would never give you away. You are wrong. In the end, you turned out to be just the miserable man who sired you. They say that blood is thicker than water, but I have taken so many transfusions for my leukemia that I have no more blood of my own. I may survive for just a few more weeks, but will die with the knowledge that I have done the right thing.   At last.”

It was signed, “Your Mother”.

I took my gun and left the house.