The Silent Witness

The rain hammered against the pavement in rhythmic intensity, muting the hum of the city. Detective Claire Thompson stood outside the dilapidated apartment building, her trench coat slick with rain. The call had come in twenty minutes ago: a murder on the third floor. She clenched her jaw and entered, the air inside thick with the stench of mildew and despair.

The crime scene was a cluttered one-bedroom unit. The victim, a middle-aged man named Victor Delaney, lay sprawled on the faded carpet, a deep wound visible on his chest. Blood soaked into the rug, forming a dark halo around him. A shattered lamp lay nearby, its jagged edge glinting under the flickering light.

Claire’s partner, Detective Jake Morales, was already crouched beside the body, his gloved hands carefully inspecting the wound.

“Stabbed once, straight to the heart,” Jake muttered. “Quick and deliberate. This wasn’t a robbery.”

Claire’s eyes scanned the room. “Who called it in?”

Jake nodded toward the corner. “Neighbor. Said she heard yelling about an hour ago.”

Just then, a uniformed officer approached. “Detectives, you need to see this.”

They followed him to the kitchen, where a parrot sat in a cage, its feathers ruffled. It squawked as they approached.

“What’s the bird got to do with this?” Claire asked, raising an eyebrow.

The officer shrugged. “Listen to it.”

The parrot tilted its head, its beady eyes flicking between them. Then, in a clear, eerie mimicry of a human voice, it squawked, “Don’t do it! No, please!”

Claire froze. “Was that…?”

Jake nodded. “Sounds like our victim.”

The parrot repeated the phrase, its voice laced with panic. “Don’t do it! No, please!”

“That’s… unsettling,” Claire muttered. She turned to the officer. “Who owns the bird?”

“Belonged to the victim,” the officer replied. “Neighbors say he doted on it.”

Claire rubbed her temples. “Alright, bag it as evidence. The bird might’ve witnessed the murder.”

As the parrot was carefully removed, Claire returned to the living room. A framed photo on the mantle caught her eye. It showed Victor with another man, their arms slung around each other, laughing.

“Who’s this?” she asked, holding up the photo.

“His brother, Greg,” a neighbor volunteered from the doorway. “They used to be close, but they had a big falling out. Greg hasn’t been around for months.”

“Let’s find Greg,” Claire said, already dialing.

---

Later that evening, Greg Delaney sat in the interrogation room, his face pale under the harsh fluorescent light.

“I didn’t kill him,” Greg insisted, his voice trembling. “Yes, we argued, but I haven’t seen Victor in weeks.”

Jake entered with a file. “Funny, Greg. Your fingerprints are on the lamp. The same lamp used to kill your brother.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “What? No, that’s impossible. I… I—”

“You think the bird is lying too?” Claire interrupted. “Because it heard you. ‘Don’t do it, no, please.’ Sound familiar?”

Greg’s shoulders slumped as the weight of his guilt bore down. “He wouldn’t give me the money,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to… it just happened.”

Claire exchanged a glance with Jake. The parrot had been the silent witness they needed.