"May my Eyes only See what I Wish to See
And Ears Hear that I Yearn to Hear,
Lest I Step outside my Comfort Zone
And See Life for that it Truly Is "

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A #WRITCO Interactive Mystery

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WHO
DONE
IT?

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The gavel fell with a sharp crack, echoing through the stillness of the courtroom like a gunshot in the night. It was the first day of the most peculiar case I'd ever presided over, and the weight of my role as the impartial arbiter of justice felt heavier than usual. The accused, a man named Marcus Castellanos, sat at the defendant's table, his eyes scanning the room with a mix of confusion and fear that was almost palpable. The prosecutor, a seasoned attorney named Ms. Janet Castellanos - no relation to the defendant, she'd been quick to clarify - stood, her heels clicking against the gleaming hardwood floor. "Your Honor," she began, her voice smooth as velvet, "the state calls its first witness, Detective James O'Reilly."

O'Reilly took the stand, a stoic presence amidst the tension that hung in the air like a fog. He recounted the grisly scene that had unfolded in the quiet suburban home: the shattered glass, the discarded sandwich, and the haunting silence that had greeted the first officers on the scene. The jury, a diverse array of faces, leaned in, eyes wide with a mix of horror and fascination. "It was like someone had raged through the house, leaving chaos in their wake," he said, his voice a solemn baritone. "But the most disturbing part was the lack of struggle. It was almost... clinical."

As he spoke, my mind's eye painted a picture of the crime scene: the broken TV knob, the fingerprints on the doorknob - the only ones found inside the house. The absence of any other prints or DNA, except for the mysterious semen samples, was a puzzle that had the forensics team scratching their heads. And yet, here was Marcus Castellanos, with an air-tight alibi of being overseas when the unthinkable occurred. The defense attorney, Mr. Daniel Winston, objected, his voice rising in pitch with every word. "Your Honor, how can we possibly link my client to this heinous crime with such circumstantial evidence?"

The room was a tableau of anticipation as the prosecutor nodded to the forensics expert, Dr. Evelyn Kim, to take the stand. She spoke with a calm authority that seemed to belie the horror of her job, her words dissecting the evidence with the precision of a scalpel. "The fingerprint on the doorknob is a direct match to Mr. Castellanos," she began, her eyes flicking to him briefly before returning to her notes. "But the absence of any other evidence of his presence, and the inconclusive nature of the semen samples, leave us with more questions than answers."

The defendant's eyes met mine for a fraction of a second,...