Audio:
Text:
Damien drove his decommissioned Crown Vic up to the police tape surrounding a small, boarded up shotgun home on Trappers Street.
Damien turned off the car and stared at the activity in front of him. Two police cruisers, lights flashing, strobed the dark street in red and blue, and a crime scene evidence van sat between them, its back doors open.
Standing behind the van was a female crime technician clad in a Hayeston police polo shirt and wearing 511 tactical khaki pants lined with pleated cargo pockets. She slipped on light blue synthetic nitrile gloves that covered her hand and continued two inches up her forearms to protect her from any fluids or contaminants.
She slid the strap of a Nikon DSLR over her neck, then opened a large orange tool box. From inside, she pulled out index cards, a pair of scissors, tape, L-shaped paper rulers, and her fingerprinting kit, and slid the items into the large number of pockets covering her pants. Before closing the back door, she leaned deep into the van and pulled out a stack of numbered plastic cones for marking evidence.
Her night was just beginning. So was Damien’s.
He slid the keys out from the ignition and pushed them into his pants pocket, unsure why he’d been called to the scene of a murder. He still had weeks to go before his final exam, after which there’d be a series of ride-alongs with experienced officers who would double as trainers, teaching him the ways of the street and noting how he responded in the field.
Damien wasn’t even a rookie yet, not until his trainers told Lieutenant Decker he was qualified and Damien’s commander agreed. No matter how much cadet training he had received, he still belonged behind the yellow crime scene tape, not beyond it.
The car door creaked loudly as he pushed it open and the cool air slipped into the cabin along with the potent smell of a decaying corpse. A chill danced up Damien’s spine, but not from the fall breeze. It was the sight of the crime scene tech taking pictures of a half-buried dead body under the warped front steps, the victim’s bone white hand stretched out in front of it.
The scene felt eerily familiar. Almost as if Damien had been there before.
He closed the door to the Crown Vic. The retired police cruiser had seen better days, but it was a cheap buy at the city auction and he wasn’t ashamed of its obvious connection to law enforcement. Thanks to the department’s mechanics, even though it neared two hundred thousand miles, the large white car was still dependable.
He glanced back at the window and found his crisp blue Class B uniform at odds with the retired heap he drove there. He took but a few steps toward the yellow tape before some of the detectives took notice.
“Whoa, turn down the shirt,” one detective said with a laugh.
“Did I miss graduation?” another said.
“I heard Hill was good, but this is ridiculous,” the first said.
“Welcome to the scene, Admiral,” the second continued, finishing with a flourishing salute. “Thank you for gracing us with your presence.”
“You guys suck,” Damien said.
Damien had forgotten to change before he left home. The urgency in Ted’s voice made him rush out before he and Raquel could spend anymore time relishing in their future parenthood.
As the detectives continued to throw jabs his way, other officers and crime scene techs turned to take a look. Some shook their heads, others chuckled, but none of them welcomed him.
Damien didn’t care.
He lifted the police tape over his head and stepped forward, looking closely at the ground as he walked, making sure he wasn’t trampling on any evidence. Hayeston’s homicide detectives were usually the low rent kind, handling the obvious crimes like when one spouse killed another or a convenience store robbery which turned bloody.
The real murders, the ones with more than two puzzle pieces, were normally handed off to the other seasoned investigators from distant jurisdictions or state agencies. Hayeston didn’t have the investigative chops for a real murder. Not since Detective Sanders Grace retired.
Damien overheard some officers spout their untrained opinions, certain the victim was a prostitute who had crossed the line with a violent pimp or a homeless person who died while trying to stay out of the cold. They thought they could solve the crime by sunrise.
Damien knew better.
He realized he had seen this before.
Read about it in Hayeston’s own police reports. Clipped out articles from the local paper. He’d thought about it. Had nightmares about it. Tried to dismiss it.
But who could forget a series of murders committed by one of your high school classmates?