'I want to report a crime,' the lady said, stressing the urgency of her matter by pounding her fist on the wooden table. The brown locks of her hair fell off her shoulders and hung a few metres above the desk. Frustration was perceptible on her face because she had delivered the same sentence thrice and received no response.

The police officer finally decided to look up from the magazine he was reading. He eyed the lady standing in front of him. Dark eyes, but pale skin and soft. She was beautiful indeed, more beautiful than the models he was staring at in the magazine.

He tossed the magazine on his desk and stood up.

'You can report your crime at that desk,' he told her, pointing to the tiny table and chair in the corner of the police station where a lady police officer was sitting- knitting an abnormally large scarf.

'I want to meet the Inspector,' she demanded and looked the male officer right in the eye, probably in hopes of establishing some fear in his mind, but he wasn't scared.

Instead, he was busy admiring her looks and how good she looked in a beige trench coat with a red shirt peeking out from underneath it. The shirt was neatly tucked into her black trousers whose waistband accentuated her slim waist.

'All crimes against women are handled by her, ma'am,' he spoke, softly attempting to add some sweetness to his voice. Little did he know that he sounded like a fool when he spoke in a sugary tone.

'What about crimes committed by women?' the dark-eyed woman asked, leaning over the desk and the police officer did the same, 'What kind of crime could such a beautiful woman do.'

He tried to reach for a lock of her hair and tuck it behind her ear but she slapped his hand right away before it could be anywhere near her face.

'I murdered the Prime Minister,' she revealed and the whole room was plunged into silence.

***

'Maybe you could handle me with some respect?' the brown-haired woman spat the words at the lady cop who had dragged her into the Inspector's cabin and pushed her into a chair, opposite to him.

'She claims to have killed the Prime Minister,' the male officer from before, whispered in the ears of his superior but his voice was audible enough to reach the lady who was the subject of their short exchange.

The inspector whispered something back, discreetly which made the listener take a few steps back and straighten his posture.

'In the past hour, I don't recall the phone ringing to inform us of the death of our lovely Prime Minister. We would be the first ones to know since she is staying at the Imperial Hotel, close to our station. That phone would be ringing every second, like a maniac if it were ever to happen,' the Inspector said, pointing at the black telephone that lay undisturbed, in the corner of his desk.

'I wasn't talking about Madam Prime Minister. I was referring to the old one,' she said. She leaned against the wooden chair and lifted her right leg to cross over her left one, making her black ankle boots, gleam in the glow of the tube light.

The lady officer standing next to her was amazed by her extravagance and lustre but the Inspector was taking note of her every move, trying to decode the woman.

'Our former Prime Minister took his own life. There was no murderer involved,' the Inspector confidently placed the facts across the table but the lady wasn't willing to take it.

'Are you sure though?' she raised an eyebrow at the Inspector, trying to sow a seed of doubt in his mind.

'What's your name?'

'Medha Sanyal,' the lady replied and pulled out her ID to show it to the Inspector.

'You're 30 years old,' the Inspector chortled, 'That means you committed a murder at the age of 22?'

His laugh seemed to be contagious as it spread to the other two officers in the room but Medha seemed to be immune to it.

'Have you heard of Mary Bell? The serial killer who executed her first murder at the age of 10? She was half my age,' Medha spoke up and the laughter died down as quickly as it had begun.

'Okay. If you did commit the murder then tell me how you did it. I mean, it's the Prime Minister- the person with the highest level of security outside his home than any other citizen of Fascia,' the Inspector said as he took a sip of his tea.

***

The sun was about to set which cast hues of crimson and golden on the city of Forktson. Along with the darkness that had started to arise, came the mist that covered the capital in a blanket of dense fog—a perfect day for a criminal about to commit a crime.

The street lamps flickered on and people were rushing down the streets to snuggle up in their warm homes and escape from the cold. All except one.

I was hiding behind a coppice, several feet away from the Prime Minister's home, binoculars in hand observing the guards.

I had been keeping an eye on them for quite a few weeks. The most vulnerable point in the security line was the East Gate which was patrolled by only one guard, every 20 minutes.

There.

I spotted the security guard for the second time exactly 20 minutes after the first round. He walked around the gate and when he turned around the corner and disappeared, I ran towards the gate with my head low so that none of the CCTV cameras could capture my face.

On reaching the East Gate, I grasped the railing and locked my foot in a gap between the rusty iron rails to push myself up. I climbed the ten-foot railing with ease- thanking the rock-climbing skills I had acquired a few years back.

Once I landed on the other side of the gate, I rushed for the white-washed two-storeyed mansion and tried to clamber up the pipelines without being caught by a human eye.

The Prime Minister's room was on the first floor so I sought for a windowsill to grab and hold onto as I jumped in through the window. The hallways were long, a red carpet covering the white marble floor and pillars with designs carved in gold.

I started to open a few doors, as quietly as I could to locate his bedroom. I found him in the third room I opened the door to. He was already asleep. Funny how when the country's in an economic crisis with people dying from starvation, the leader of our country was sleeping so peacefully.

***

'Then?' the Inspector asked, noticing the sudden pause in Medha's narration.

She shifted her posture and straightened her back, stretching her arms as if she had been sitting for hours in the same position when it had only been 20 minutes.

'Then what? I had a rope strung across my shoulder and I quickly made a noose of it, wrapped it around the Prime Minister's neck and-' she clicked her tongue and smiled.

'It was that easy?'

This time, the Inspector had his eyebrows raised which created creases on his forehead.

'Yeah. It was a bit difficult to pick up his body and hang it from the fan but I managed to do it before midnight. Then I closed the doors and went back the same path I took when I broke in and voilà, nobody was even able to see me, let alone catch me red-handed,' Medha said and the serenity on her face made her look as if she was reminiscing a joyful memory. Only a person who had heard the words she spoke would be horrified at her calm demeanour.

'Pfft,' the Inspector chuckled and said, 'And you got away with it?'

'Yeah. Nobody suspected it to be a homicide.'

'Then why are you here confessing your crimes, tonight?' the Inspector enquired, amused.

'The Façade of Fascia,' she replied.

'What?'

'You didn't read the newspaper today?'

'Oh. I did, but didn't think much of it. Just some eccentric reporter who believes our former PM was murdered,' the officer spoke casually.

'At least she was clever enough to figure out that the person holding the highest post in Fascia, wouldn't just hang himself from the ceiling over some silly negative comments from the opposition over the falling economy. The only thing she got wrong was not including an "s" before the "he" when she wrote about the possible murderer. So, I decided to clear things up by confessing my crimes.'

Medha yawned and continued, 'I guess you're gonna keep me in a lockup and open that case your superiors closed 8 years ago?'

The Inspector studied her face, before bursting out laughing for the third time in the past hour.

'You think, I'm going to believe a woman who just walks into my police station and claims to have murdered someone at the age of 22? I'm not some lunatic,' the Inspector said and continued to laugh.

'You think a woman is incapable of murdering someone?'

'I didn't mean it like that. The story you just spun was definitely a good one, but I'm not buying it.'

'You're an idiotic fool not to,' Medha said with seriousness on her face. When she noticed that the amusement on the face of the Inspector had still not been wiped off, she stood up and walked straight out of the police station.

She didn't even look back before dialling a number on her phone that would shake the grounds, the people of Fasica stood on. It was all over the newspapers of TFT the next morning in bold capital letters, the headline that became the topic of discussion on the lips of people all around the world:

"THE WOMAN WHO MURDERED THE PM"

'They're calling you the "Misogynistic Inspector" on the news,' the female police officer said, concern laced in her voice.

'Let them say what they want to. That woman is lying and if the governing party is so hell-bent on re-opening the case so they can slam accusations on their opposition for not protecting their leader- they can,' the Inspector said, sipping on his morning tea.

'How are you so sure that the woman is lying?' his junior asked, ' She has also shown pictures of the Prime Minister's bedroom from the night he died.'

The Inspector smiled as he elucidated, 'I was on the Investigating team when I was posted in Forkston. It was an attempt of suicide. If he was suffocated by someone, there would be marks of struggle and it would be mentioned in the post-mortem report. But there were none. As for the photos, someone on our Investigating team might have smuggled them to her and editing pictures these days is child's play.'

'But people are believing her!' the female cop exclaimed whilst her senior simply looked out the window, at the sky covered in grey clouds.

'As Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, once said: "What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is what can you make people believe you have done." That's what makes a difference.'

***

Tried a totally new genre for the Monthly Prompt: No Consequences by crime !
Really enjoyed writing this one <3

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