the story so far
Charles stepped to the side, expertly avoiding a still-wet puddle of blood. The body in the center of the room catching his attention quickly as he moved diagonally, following the brushed red tips of white carpeting. Someone had been bleeding lightly when they had been dragged; stabbed near the doorway, moved to the center of the room and then... and then ruined. At least that's Charles' best guess as things stand; the damage to the face was excessive; in direct contrast to the premeditated appearance of the rest of the crime. It was deeply personal, but the killer himself was methodical, patient, experienced. A shallow puff of air blew past his lips and up into his bangs ruffling them as he bent at the knees. Crouching down he rested his elbows on his thighs, letting himself get as close as possible to the dead man in the black suit as he can without touching him. He was nearly bathed in blood on his extremities, dying his skin that brutal color of both life and death.
Latex covered fingers extend, tracing the lines of his body while azure eyes follow the path. He pauses at the man's suit jacket, the handkerchief so neatly folded for a man who had just been in some sort of struggle, drugged and killed. He slowly pulls at one corner, watching the silk folds unravel and a cream colored business card flop out from it's tucked away position.
Plucking it up he notices the elegant scrawl in dark red on one side, 'MURDERER'. Charles can't help but snort and hopes no one heard when he muttered under his breath, "That's a bit ironic don't you think?" Because talking to a killer, let alone one that isn't even in the room, is bordering on crazy. The logical part of his brain is already possessing the facts; the way the man-- which he'd have to be to have subdued someone of the victim's size-- would have had to lie in wait, the way he came prepared with a calling card and something to keep the victim pinned while he tortured and eventually killed him... this was probably not his first kill, and Charles was nearly positive it wouldn't be his last...
He spoke with the coroner about the time of death, the state of the body, the apparent cause of death, the blood-loss, the technicians about photographs of everything in the house-- not just the blood, he persists because anything can be a clue till they know the victim. The killer hadn't taken any of his things, nothing seemed out of place-- nothing at all; so the man hadn't been out to rob, hadn't been looking for property-- which meant revenge was the clear motivator till he found hints otherwise. Yanking the powder-free latex gloves off of his hands when he steps out into the frozen New York winter he really wants a damn cigarette. Too bad he promised Raven he'd quit once he made detective; Rookie mistake. He raises his thumb to his lips, rubbing against the chapped skin as he trudges through the snow toward his unmarked car. He was supposed to be off duty two and a half hours ago; right now he could use a stiff drink and a comfortable bed-- or if he couldn't make it that far, a comfortable couch.
He glances up from the keys he's trying to wrangle out of his pockets to take note of the few passersby and the occasional onlookers who have stopped to observe the police presence. Two cop cars and an ambulance tend to attract some trouble. He tries to make note of anyone suspicious but so far it just seems like the usual rubberneckers.
It doesn't take him long to pile in his car and book it toward his side of town; parking in the over priced but well placed between-his-home-and-closest-bar garage before he trudged in through the fallen snow. Tugging his tan overcoat a little closer around him he breathes out an annoyed sound, couldn't killers be more considerate of the weather? Pushing the gold-handle open on the Lions Head-- or whatever they had renamed it after it was no longer a Pub and now officially a bar. Charles ambles over to his favorite table, flags down his favorite waitress-- a brunette with exceptionally long legs-- and orders himself a scotch. It will either quell is oncoming headache or make it worse; he isn't sure which yet-- but he's damn glad when he's got the tumbler in his hand and he can take that first sip from it.
(written by walkingthegrid aka. butwedonot )
Latex covered fingers extend, tracing the lines of his body while azure eyes follow the path. He pauses at the man's suit jacket, the handkerchief so neatly folded for a man who had just been in some sort of struggle, drugged and killed. He slowly pulls at one corner, watching the silk folds unravel and a cream colored business card flop out from it's tucked away position.
Plucking it up he notices the elegant scrawl in dark red on one side, 'MURDERER'. Charles can't help but snort and hopes no one heard when he muttered under his breath, "That's a bit ironic don't you think?" Because talking to a killer, let alone one that isn't even in the room, is bordering on crazy. The logical part of his brain is already possessing the facts; the way the man-- which he'd have to be to have subdued someone of the victim's size-- would have had to lie in wait, the way he came prepared with a calling card and something to keep the victim pinned while he tortured and eventually killed him... this was probably not his first kill, and Charles was nearly positive it wouldn't be his last...
He spoke with the coroner about the time of death, the state of the body, the apparent cause of death, the blood-loss, the technicians about photographs of everything in the house-- not just the blood, he persists because anything can be a clue till they know the victim. The killer hadn't taken any of his things, nothing seemed out of place-- nothing at all; so the man hadn't been out to rob, hadn't been looking for property-- which meant revenge was the clear motivator till he found hints otherwise. Yanking the powder-free latex gloves off of his hands when he steps out into the frozen New York winter he really wants a damn cigarette. Too bad he promised Raven he'd quit once he made detective; Rookie mistake. He raises his thumb to his lips, rubbing against the chapped skin as he trudges through the snow toward his unmarked car. He was supposed to be off duty two and a half hours ago; right now he could use a stiff drink and a comfortable bed-- or if he couldn't make it that far, a comfortable couch.
He glances up from the keys he's trying to wrangle out of his pockets to take note of the few passersby and the occasional onlookers who have stopped to observe the police presence. Two cop cars and an ambulance tend to attract some trouble. He tries to make note of anyone suspicious but so far it just seems like the usual rubberneckers.
It doesn't take him long to pile in his car and book it toward his side of town; parking in the over priced but well placed between-his-home-and-closest-bar garage before he trudged in through the fallen snow. Tugging his tan overcoat a little closer around him he breathes out an annoyed sound, couldn't killers be more considerate of the weather? Pushing the gold-handle open on the Lions Head-- or whatever they had renamed it after it was no longer a Pub and now officially a bar. Charles ambles over to his favorite table, flags down his favorite waitress-- a brunette with exceptionally long legs-- and orders himself a scotch. It will either quell is oncoming headache or make it worse; he isn't sure which yet-- but he's damn glad when he's got the tumbler in his hand and he can take that first sip from it.
(written by walkingthegrid aka. butwedonot )