Closing and locking the door behind him, Balthazar crossed his office as casually as he could manage and reached round the lowered blinds to open the window a crack. Facing away from his desk, he took a packet of clove cigarettes from his pocket and lit one with a match torn from a hotel matchbook. After a deep drag, he turned around.
The head was that of a woman. Her eyes were blue and open and staring, her face slightly reddened with sunburn. The tips of her long red hair trailing in the gummy, clotting blood which had flowed from her neck to drip down onto the green office carpet and wreak havoc on the lowest tiers of the stacks of paper carefully arrayed across the surface of the desk. Carefully balanced on top of one of these piles, placed fastidiously away from the crimson flow, was a pyramid of pale blue folded paper.
The less patient among the watchers fidgeted as Balthazar walked over to the desk and tapped fragments ash from his cigarette into the cut glass ashtray, before unhurriedly unfolding the square of paper and reading the note they'd been instructed to write on it.