Case of Caterpillar Caro

Caro, the monarch caterpillar, sank heavily into a plastic chair. It wasn't easy with her legendary hundreds of legs scattered in all possible directions. Lacking any other comfortable position, she contented herself with curling up in the centre of the seat. After all, it wasn't made for her.

After two hours of waiting, filled with the intense production of her milk brain, the inspector appeared at the metal door, closed it behind him, sat down in a similar plastic chair opposite with dignity only human, and placed a tape recorder in the middle of the table between them. He studied her for a while. Her awkward posture in the chair was like a leaf tossed by the wind, trivial and tiny. Then he started.

‘It’s not on yet.’ He pointed at the recorder. ‘Camera in the corner too.’

Caro glanced at two o'clock and saw only a bare box with no lights on.

‘When we switch it on, a red flashing light will appear in the upper right corner. You can watch it if you want.’

Did he even know that my six pairs of eyes don't see colours, only light? I doubt it.

‘Alright. Let’s start from the beginning then. I am inspector Haze, and I am intending to ask you a few questions in connection with… well, the disappearance of some of your species. First of all, where were you on the 6th of August?’

‘I was feeding on milkweed. I suppose there’s no crime in that.’

‘Right. Have you seen anyone? Anything suspicious in the vicinity of your own?’

‘You mean in the grass?’

Haze nodded.

‘As usual, few feeders…’

‘Who did you see, if I may ask?’ Inspector insisted.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blinking light at two o’clock. Steady now, girl.

‘I saw Miranda feeding on honeysuckle, that’s all. She’s also a monarch caterpillar like me.’

‘Nothing unusual about her behaviour, no limping, all steady movements?’

‘I didn’t notice anything unusual. She moved fluidly like a true professional. Most of us are, you know.’

‘Her parents were murdered before she showed up on that greenery, my dear.’

‘You mean butterflies? We don’t have parents, and the only stage I can think of emerging after metamorphosis is the stage of a butterfly. Is that what you meant, inspector?’

‘Ah, yes. That’s right. Butterfly Tim and Tamara. We found them both dead at the edge of the garden.’

My heart missed a beat as such and then went back to normal just like that.

‘And you think, inspector, that I had something to do with it?’

I couldn’t see him, but I did see a posture blocking the light.

‘You were the only caterpillar in the immediate vicinity. Who else would interfere with their lives? The only question remains, what was your motive…’

I heard about it the other day from Ralph the Grasshopper. “When you get caught out there, you must know that they tend to deliberately plant clues to ensure a conviction. Don't be fooled, this is a test. If you fail and they catch you for real, you have no choice.”

‘First of all, I never planned to kill anyone. Who do you think I am?’ Caro’s frustration didn’t help her in this case, and she knew it. She worked on her self-control as best she could.

‘So, if you haven’t seen anyone, who else could be involved?’

‘It could have been a human, who knows. They’re all around. And they’re not always as nice as you, inspector.’ She said sarcastically and Haze just shrugged at the thought but continued.

‘Like plucking wings from colourful butterflies? It does not make sense. Why would someone want to kill a butterfly?’

‘Are they so colourful? I never noticed.’

‘How so?’

‘You did not know? I’m colourblind, inspector. Colours mean nothing to me, heart does. And mine says you’re mean.’

‘Am I? So maybe you saw someone else there, and maybe we could pick up where we left off. How about that?’

‘I saw a syringe in the grass.’

‘A syringe? What kind of?’

‘I remember once seeing a human feeding a baby bird that had fallen out of the nest, but this time there was something else inside, some smelly liquid.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I didn't think much of it because it was far from anything that would excite my senses, so I left it there, never touched it. I even forgot about it until you asked me. Did you find anything in the grass, inspector?’

‘My people are already working on it. Where exactly did you see this syringe? Would you be able to identify the place?’

‘I think so.’

‘Let’s go then.’

Then inspector took a real leaf and asked Caro to jump on it. As she did so, albeit reluctantly, Haze slipped the leaf into the lidded basket. She shouted from there almost immediately.

‘Ah, inspector! You’re not locking me up yet, are you?’

‘I didn’t read you your rights, so relax. You show us the place, and then we’ll see.’

The whole way back to the grass felt like hell to Caro. The bumpy road wasn’t exactly her cake or milkweed in this case.

When they arrived, she slid her slick, smooth, wasp-waisted body under the leaf she was formerly feeding on. She reappeared on the top leaf, waving her prolegs and shaking the plant to indicate the place. The inspector then let her go, regardless of the find, which now had to be processed in the lab.

The moulting season was fast approaching. Before inspector Haze could draw any conclusions from the evidence found at the crime scene, Caro became a colourful butterfly, even if she had no idea how variegated her own body was. The crocheted prolegs evolved into tiny black legs, and after a few days she could fly and explore the world with her own eyes, unfazed by platitudes.

Sometime later, she flew over the balcony, where a newspaper was spread on the table. The title of the article was “Lethal to humans and butterflies?” Although she couldn't read, she glanced at the ugly, tacky paper toad face with the syringe pictured underneath. She remembered the caterpillar she used to be and the cycle of life she had to go through. Spending no more time on it, she flew away determined to stay out of trouble.

Never let the cops send you on a wild goose chase. Never. That was pretty much it.

– THE END –

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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