Summary: In a city of 8 million people, one woman awakens from the frightening vision of anothers murdered body. Still shaken, she goes to the police. But Detective Faith Yokas dissmisses her as a nut-job. Until the "vision" becomes reality and she finds herself working once again with her former partner.
A vicious killer is loose on the streets of New York alterting a unique unit of the FBI. Special Agent Noah Bishop's Special Crimes Unit is used to dealing with so-called "psychics" and skeptical members of law enforcement. But even this killer will test every strength his unit posesses.
It's a race against time as detectives and agents work to save the city from the hands of a killer determined to taunt the police at every turn, and force one police officer to face his past, his present, and his uncertain future.
A/N: This story takes place three years after Goodbye to Camelot
Chapter 1
It was happening again.
The cold came first, bone chillingly absolute. The kind most people turned away from, but not her. It went against everything she knew to be true to resist it. Next the pain burst in her head, short to start but quickly becoming longer. Her hands rubbed her temples to no avail. There was nothing to be done about it now.
It was coming.
The flashes started - strobe-like pictures of people and places she'd never before seen. There was nothing familiar about any of it. That much was for certain.
A woman. A man. They were standing side by side. One was dark, another lighter and different, but same. She strained to see more, but everything appeared opaque. In this time and place the light was low casting shadows everywhere and it was hard too see much else. But she tried, focussing all her strength. The pain in her head intensified but she pushed forward despite it. This time she was going to have something significant, something to make people believe she wasn't just another kook in a city with one on every street corner.
The man and woman were standing over something. Like searching through a fog at it's most dense, it was almost impossible to view anything clearly. But the outline of a foot came into view suddenly. Her eyes travelled upwards seeing a woman's shapely calf - bare except for a blob of colour just in the inside – colour that could be anything, a birth mark, a bruise, but it looked more to her like a tattoo. What pattern or shape it represented she couldn't see clearly enough.
She realized quickly that the thing she was seeing was a woman. A dead woman.
Unable to look any further, she pulled back, desperate to distance herself from the picture of death. Instead her focus shifted back to the man and woman, flesh and blood alive.
"Chrissie! Chrissie, can you hear me?"
The voice, soft and urging, called to her but not yet. She wasn't ready yet. One minute more.
"Chrissie!"
Moving through the mist, she stood before the woman. The gold adorning her chest was a beacon, pulling Chrissie forward.
1141
1141…1141…she repeated them to herself. She must remember. She had to this time.
The man's eyes, hazel and penetrating suddenly looked directly at her. Startled Chrissie had the eerie feeling he was seeing her.
It wasn't possible. She stumbled backwards, nervous at this new development.
"Are you seeing me?" She whispered.
Wide set apart eyes were fixated on her. She found herself mesmerized by their intensity, but also by the edge of sadness, of loss and regret making him seem incredibly vulnerable. Chrissie had an overwhelming desire to put her arms around him, hold tight and chase his shadows away.
"Wake up, Chrissie. Please…" The voice pleaded before she felt herself falling backwards into the blackness.
And then she was awake.
It took her a few seconds to remember where she was – at home, safe and comfortable in her bed. The covers tangled around her legs, her hair a mass of damp curls, and her breathing laboured, but she was home, not trapped in one of her dreams. And that was her greatest fear – stuck forever in a nightmare filled with monsters and death. She shuddered.
"Another one?"
Despite the disturbing events she'd just witnessed, she smiled. He cared. She was a lucky woman to have someone like him care about her, love her.
She reached out to lay a hand on his arm, revelling in the warmth of his skin. "I'm okay." When his eyebrows went up she added, "Really. I am."
"Why don't I believe that?" He sighed. Giving up on keeping his distance, he took her in his arms. She didn't resist.
Despite the heat from his body, she shivered. The cold, long and deep, wasn't yet ready to let go of her.
"Shhhhh," he cooed, his hand rubbing soothing circles across her back. "When are you going to stop letting this happen to you? Do you think I'd be able to live with myself if anything ever happened to you? We're finally comfortable with each other and I can't imagine loosing that."
"Nothing's going to happen to me," she said against his sweater. She caught a whiff of his aftershave – strong and musky just like him. Pulling back and leaving the warmth of his embrace she met his eyes. "You understand that I have no power over what happens to me. You said you understood."
Her eyes, wide and still somewhat vacant from her ordeal, never appeared more vulnerable to him than after a dream. "I know what I said but – "
"The universe knows what it's doing, Steve. Trust it. Better yet, trust me. It wasn't easy telling you about my….dreams."
A lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail lay across her forehead, damp and curly. He tucked it behind her ear. "Have I told you lately how thankful I am that you did? Everything made sense afterwards – your restless sleep, the night sweats, the sleep walking. It took courage for you to tell me," he said hoping he sounded convincing.
Chrissie heard the doubt in his voice. "But you still don't believe that my dreams, my visions are real."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Chrissie."
She'd known since the day they'd met that it would take proof, the kind you could touch and know to be true, for him to accept her gift. The training that had made him what he was didn't allow for the unexplained. Facts were facts, and that was that, he'd said to her on their second date.
There wouldn't have been a second date if it hadn't been for her. Steve was a great guy, but shy was an understatement when it came to him. It was the sweetness he'd displayed that first day when his coffee had accidentally landed in her lap that first attracted her to him. She still remembered how he'd practically fallen over himself trying to help clean the mess on her skirt, how his cheeks had reddened when his hand brushed against her.
The bolt of lightening the books talk about didn't appear. There wasn't a spark of any kind. It wasn't a knowing rush either. One look of his flushed and adorable face and she knew in that instant that he was the man she'd spend her days growing old with. In a flash she'd seen what their life would be like – a nice house with a yard for the kids to play in, him reading them to sleep at night, entertaining them with stories from work and his arms wrapped around her while they slept.
Three months later she'd moved into his small apartment and hadn't looked back until he'd cornered her with questions about her sleeping habits. The thing that made her scared the most was him walking out after hearing the truth. And if ever she'd had to put her faith and confidence in the mysteries of the universe it had been then. They'd survived it despite the fact that he still didn't believe what she experienced.
"I have to talk to someone about this."
"If you're sure. Maybe a psychiatrist could make sense out of it."
"No." She shook her head. "Not a shrink, Steve."
"Then who – " He pulled back from her. "Not again. Please, not again."
"It's happening again," she whispered, the image of the woman's body, her nice legs frozen in death swam in her head. "Something has to be done to stop it."
"But why you? Leave it to the people who know about this kind of thing."
Irritated she said, "Are you saying I should ignore it? Let the professionals handle it, you say. Have they done anything so far? No. They only laugh no matter how right I am."
"Can you blame them," he replied softly. "This isn't the X-files, Chrissie."
"I saw a badge number this time."
Startled he asked, "Do you remember what it was?"
She nodded rattling off the number that had been playing in a constant loop since awakening.
Steve scribbled the number on a pad, before picking up the phone. "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes."
He dialled a familiar number, thankful when it was answered quickly with an efficient, "Records, state your business if you know what's good for you."
"It's me."
"Gee, I never would have guessed by the name on my phone."
He sighed. "I need a favour, Izzy. And it has to stay between us, okay? No one can know I was asking."
"Ya, ya. Whatever. Have I ever blabbed?"
Izzy would blab at the first threat of violence, Steve thought. But luckily he was far away from it enclosed in his basement office as he was. A whole world went about living above his head day after day, but Izzy never knew it.
"I have a badge number that needs an owner. Can you help or not?"
Izzy scoffed. "Child's play, my friend." The tapping of keys came across the line. Steve knew the keys were more than getting their daily workout with Izzy as their master. Lightening fast and hardly ever wrong, his childhood friend had the fastest fingers in Manhattan.
"Here you go." Steve furiously wrote down the information Izzy imparted. "Next time give me a challenge, will ya? One day my brain will go to mush and you'll be forced to identify it at the morgue knowing you were the cause of the meltdown."
Ignoring him, Steve asked, "Are you positive you got the right person?"
"Badge number 1141 assigned to one Detective Faith Yokas, Major Case Squad," Izzy repeated. "Not what you were expecting?"
"Not exactly," he replied. "Thanks for the help, Izzy. I owe you one."
"Give me Chrissie and we'll call it even."
Steve glanced at his fiancée's face, still pale and drawn. "Don't think so pal. Thanks again."
"Wait! You didn't say why you need it."
"No, I didn't, did I." Steve hung up on Izzy's protests.
"Did you get a name? Were the numbers right?" Chrissie asked, impatient to know if finally she'd managed to verify something she'd seen in her dreams.
Steve stared at the name on the piece of paper. What would she think about Chrissie's tale? Would she laugh like all the others? Despite what he knew of her, he wasn't sure.
He just wasn't sure.
Unlike Steve, Faith Yokas was sure of something. Paperwork could kill you.
Paper cuts upon paper cuts. It was the life of a detective – the one the movies never showed. File this report, then another and another and another until your paper cuts paper cuts refused to bleed by the sheer stupidity of staining yet another report.
Sometimes being a detective wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Sure there were the great collars, the scum-bag murders no longer allowed to hide in the shadows stalking their next victim or the rapists behind bars where the only person getting victimized were them. Those things made you believe in what you were doing day after day, gave you the cause to fight the daily battles of good – you – versus the bad – everyone else. It was the life a cop surrendered too. Everything else mattered just that little bit less.
And that was the downside of being who you were. The ones that suffered weren't the scum you arrested; the one's incarcerated for more years than you had left till retirement. It was those you loved and cared for the most that did. Faith Yokas was a walking testament to that.
Married young with two kids, she easily could've ended up just another statistic. Instead she made something with her life. She acquired a purpose that fed her need to help those that needed it most. So she became a cop. A damn good cop too.
But at that moment she felt as far away from that as the earth to the sun. Every murdering sonofabitch locked up didn't make the world of difference when eight faces – young hopeful pretty ones that once upon a time had dreams and hopes beyond what their existence really was – stared at her from across the room. Every waking moment, every second she sat there no further ahead then the day before, they called out to her, their silent pleas louder and more urgent with each passing day.
Help us.
Silently cursing, Faith lifted her bleeding finger, sucking the blood away of her latest paper cut before it could stain the paperwork she was shifting through for the hundredth time. Something had to have been missed, she thought. Two weeks later and she was no closer to finding the truth.
"Must be all that rap music these young people listen too. Gotta be the reason why they can't hear. 'Don't touch the Subway Series mug'. I tell 'em. But do they listen?"
"Why not keep it at home. That way you wouldn't have to worry about it gettin' used." And keep you from bitching at me about it, she thought.
"I like to look at it. Reminds me of how close we came to a Championship."
Faith looked up and straight into the bulging stomach of her partner. Round as a barrel, Jelly could give Santa Claus a reason to question job security. But he was a good cop, a good detective who'd never once complained after downtown had saddled him with a newly promoted cop without an ounce of investigative experience. He'd taught her a lot and along the way she'd grown, flourishing under the knowledge he imparted to her. She was damn lucky to have as good a partner as Jelly Grimaldi.
"Look at it at home, stare at it, make love to it for all I care, just as long as you stop bitching to me about it."
"Some partner you are."
"You love me," she said with a smirk. Her eyes met his over the file in her hands.
"Only because you remind me of my ex."
"Thought she left you for the butcher down the street."
"She did. But damn, she could argue with the best of 'em."
"Stop, Jelly. I just might cry."
He laughed making her smile. Most days there wasn't much to smile about. But her partner had a way with words, a way guaranteed to make even the most heartless of men grin, complete with teeth showing.
"Anything new jump out at you in those files while I was gone?"
She instantly sobered. Murder could do that to you.
"I don't know why I keep looking at this. Nothing's gonna change."
"I keep tellin' ya that. Someday you should listen to me."
Sighing she let the file drop to the desk. Rubbing her sore eyes she said, "I can't understand it, Jelly. Eight women murdered and we don't have one lead, one scrap of evidence. Nothin'. Who is this sonofabitch, Houdini?"
"The bastard's slick I'll give him that. Slick as oil."
Faith stretched her arms above her head, the muscles in them screaming at the forced activity after such a long hibernation.
"A little birdie told me the Chief of D's has called in the big guns," he said. "But you didn't hear that from me."
She straightened. "The Fed's?"
Her partner nodded.
"No way the Captain would allow it."
"Don't matter what he wants, the Chief told him we gotta be nice to the Washington suits. Dammit. They'll end up ruining this investigation."
"Can't get much worse that it already is," she muttered. "Did you hear this from the Captain?"
Jelly scoffed. "He don't tell us nothin' no more. Had to hear it from the desk sergeant."
There was a time when the Captain told her everything, unless under strict orders from the Brass not too. Those days were long gone. One mistake and it was nothing but a memory.
"Could you two kiss and make up. Makes it damn hard to get anythin' done around here with so much tension."
"Stay out of it, Jelly," she warned.
But that didn't stop him. Nothing stopped him when he was on a roll.
"This is the perfect example of why workplace relationships are wrong. How you look someone in the eye after you've seen them butt naked, I'll never understand."
"I've seen your ugly ass in the locker room and yet here I am." She jerked an arm indicating the squad room alive with ringing telephones and other detectives working cases.
"Look, I told ya it was a bad idea in the first place. Next time listen to Jelly before you leap. I know what I'm talkin' about."
"You giving me advice about my love life? There's something fundamentally wrong with that," she replied. "It's not like the Captain doesn't tell us anything. Just takes him a while before he does."
"That's my point, Yokas. It don't have to be that way. Eight months now this has been goin' on. Find a way to get into his good books or I might have to find me a new partner," he said before adding, "Someone better lookin'."
"You're all heart, Jel."
"Someone say somethin' 'bout a new partner?" Detective Escobar said, sidling up to Faith's desk. "You finally decide to trade in this ugly beast for someone with sophistication who knows how to show a lady a good time?" He smiled broadly, his white teeth glaring proudly at her.
"Well I know you couldn't be talkin' about yourself, Escobar. The last lady you showed a good time wanted a hundred bucks just for the blow job."
Hand over his heart Escobar pretended to look hurt. "Querida, you know you're the only woman for me."
With his shiny suit, slicked back hair and overpowering aftershave, Josè Escobar looked and smelled more like a pimp than a detective. But anyone who let his outward appearance fool them was asking for trouble. Beneath the suave charm and pretty boy smile, hid a former Latino street fighter who would gut you and serve your innards to the rats if the situation called for it.
Movie star handsome with an accent designed to make women think of Zorro in street clothes, Escobar was considered the resident ladies man and main attraction come the yearly Christmas party. Every year the secretarial pool had a draw to see which woman would be chosen to take him home when he got shitfaced drunk.
Five years running and there had yet to be a woman to share a cab with him during the Yuletide season or anything else for that fact. At least that's what Faith had been told when she'd transferred to Major Cases.
"If Mrs. Escobar could hear you now…"
She thought it impossible, but his smile got even wider. "My Mami would fall to her knees and thank Jesus for sending her son an angel."
"An angel?" She eyed him under raised brows. "Even for you that's a stretch."
Escobar only continued to smile, pretty but seriously bothersome. Every so often he liked to say that she was the one, the one sent to deliver him from the evils of bachelorhood. Or so he claimed. They'd yet to meet any one woman capable of doing so which put serious dents in his so-called "theory".
"Did you just come over here to annoy me, or did you and your flashy teeth have a point to make?"
"Whoa, relax Querida. Unlike our esteemed leader, you know I'd never do anything to make you question me"
That got her shackles up. It was bad enough Jelly knowing details about her private life, but the rest of the guys in the squad? They were on a "need to know" basis. And none of them had that type of clearance where she was concerned.
"Your point being?" She said in a controlled voice.
Escobar raised his hands in surrender and had the grace to back off. "I didn't mean nothin' by it. I swear."
She doubted it. "Yeah, I can tell you're broken up about it."
She was treated to another million dollar smile.
"Hey, I only came over to tell you that you've got a visitor. They say they want to talk to you about a murder."
"They?"
He nodded. "Two of them. Man and a woman. And man she's got the most – "
She held up a hand. "Spare me your lecture on female anatomy."
"Spoilsport." He turned to Jelly. "She always this grumpy."
Faith said before her partner could open his mouth, "Only if I haven't had my Wheeties."
"McMurphy's marital problems are starting to sound better by the minute."
Nate McMurphy, Escobar's partner had two jobs – being a detective and complaining about his twenty-four year marriage to the woman he liked to call "the one who drugged me and dragged me to the alter".
Faith had met Mrs. McMurphy once. A more dominating woman outside of the S&M underground, she had never met. Following that she had tried to be more understanding when it came to her fellow detective.
"Things aren't always greener on the other side, are they Escobar?"
"Maybe not," he said. The hip he'd been leaning against her desk slid away. "Your visitors are waiting in interview 2."
Faith riffled through the many files and reports that littered her desk. "Dammit, there's a pad of paper around here somewhere," she muttered. "They say exactly what they wanted to talk about?"
Escobar replied, "Came in asking for you. Said it was important."
"For me? You sure they got the right detective?"
"I'm just the messenger." He backed away until he was ensconced at his own desk with his own partner.
Faith rose from her desk, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. "I'm gonna go see what these people want. If I'm not back in fifteen come and rescue me, will ya," she said to Jelly.
"Yeah, yeah." He waved her away, picking up on the files she'd been reading over.
She shrugged into the jacket, rescuing her hair when it got trapped beneath the collar. Not having found her own pad of paper she stole Jelly's on her way past his desk.
The Major Case division inhabited most of the seventh floor of 1 Police Plaza. Compared to most of the detective squads in the city it was fairly new - if you considered ten years new. The bullpen, as it was most often called, consisted of numerous pairs of standard police issue metal desks. Some had computer monitors taking up far too much surface space, while others – like her own – resembled a paper mine field. Of course there was always the smattering of family photos – wives and children or for those single men – mothers, fathers or siblings – anything to ground you to the reality that existed beyond the job. When your world consisted of the lowest forms of humanity you need reminding that there were people that didn't fit into that sub-category.
Faith rounded a corner that separated the desk farm from the interview rooms. The hallways were painted a depressing grey; often making her wonder if the purpose had been to give criminals the impression of prison. With the threat of incarceration staring them right in the eye they'd be more likely to confess saving the taxpayers the cost of an expensive trial? Was that what it was meant to do?
No matter what the designers had originally intended, Faith found it sad and depressing. She stopped at a heavy door painted a couple of shades darker than the hallway. Interview 2 was one of the smaller interrogation rooms housed in the Major Case Squad. Inside there were two people – a man and a woman – just as Escobar had said.
The woman, seated behind the table, hands folded – no, clenched – together lay on top. The man stood behind her, his hands laying possessively on her slender shoulders giving Faith the impression they were a couple - married or affianced judging by the ring on the woman's left hand.
She was sure she'd never met the woman before. But there was something familiar in the earnest face of the young man.
"I'm Detective Yokas. I was told you wanted to see me."
The door behind her closed, she gestured to the man to take a seat beside his companion. Not until he was seated did she take her own seat. The pad of paper hit the desk with a thud.
"You don't remember me, Detective?"
Her brow furrowed with thought as she tried to place the man's face. She flipped through photo memories stored in mug book style in her mind.
It wasn't until his face dropped a little, looking like a sullen teenager unsure and scared did it finally hit her.
"Gustler?"
He smiled shyly. "Yes ma'am."
Faith smiled in return, genuinely pleased to see him. She'd often wondered what had become of the young rookie she'd been partnered with so many years ago. What she once thought of as a slight almost frail frame that had made her question his entry and completion of the police academy had filled out with age. He wasn't the boy she'd known, but a man.
She wanted to say he looked taller because despite the laws of nature he did appear much taller than when they'd worked together last. Instead she settled for saying, "You look good."
He blushed at her compliment giving her a glimpse of the old Gustler. Some things never changed, she thought smiling.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"What did I tell you before? You don't have to call me ma'am."
"Yes ma – " The blush deepened. "Alright."
"He's always been so polite." The girl smiled despite the tension making her face appear blanched and nervous. "It's one of the things I love about him."
"Ma'am - sorry. I mean, Detective. This is my fiancée, Chrissie Martin."
"Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," Chrissie said.
"You still with the department?" Faith cringed immediately. "I – I'm sorry. I didn't mean –"
"It's okay. For a while I didn't think I would come to this time and place and still be able to say I was a New York City Police Officer." He shrugged. "Found out really quick that being tough didn't mean physically strong. After that, I focused on being less scared and concentrated on strengthening the things I could offer to the job."
"Good. That's really good to hear." And she meant it. It was a shame to see new recruits fall out on something they really believed to be their calling. Steven Gustler didn't fit the normal NYPD image, but he had a caring heart. Some called him stupid and slow, but Faith always sensed that he just needed to grow up some, find himself and when he did he'd make one fine officer.
It was nice to discover she was right about something.
"Yeah, I've been stationed on Staten Island these last four years. Slow but quiet. I kinda like it."
She returned his easy smile. "So, what brings you to my neck of the woods? Detective Escobar said something about a murder."
Gustler and Chrissie exchanged several meaningful glances before he said, "Promise me you'll listen to her, ma'am. Hear her out. That's all I ask."
Faith promised ignoring his slip up. She had to admit she was intrigued.
With a squeeze of her fiancée's hand, a comforting gesture Faith found heartfelt, Chrissie spoke.
"I saw a woman. She was dead."
The pounding in his head was as rhythmic as the heart beating beneath the many layers meant to protect it. Unfortunately for him there was not enough distance between the world and his head.
The pain made him reach for the aspirin. He could use the more powerful painkillers the doctor had prescribed. But the less people knew about his pain, the better.
"Man, another headache? You need to take something stronger than that over-the-counter shit."
He dry swallowed the pills, ignoring his partner's remark.
"You're still coming over to watch the game tonight, right? I got everything you like – chips, dip, beer, and all the pizza you can eat"
"What, no porn?"
Eddie laughed. "No, man. We don't need that fucking shit."
Shit. It was Eddie's second favourite word after fuck. Would it be so hard for him to go a day without swearing, he thought? Hell, Bosco wasn't a choir boy, but the man had saltier language than the fifth fleet. His mouth only came partially clean in two situations; when they were dealing with the public and during one of his five alarm headaches. He never thought he'd find himself longing for the days when he rode with silent Faith or family-complaining Faith. The ache in his head intensified at the thought of his old partner.
"You are coming, right?" Tenacious was another word closely associate with his partner.
"I don't know, Eddie. The head aches like a real bitch today."
"You're not going to let your partner down, are you man? What have we got if we can't rely on each other?"
"On the job we have gotta be there for the other. Outside of that, you're on your own."
But to be honest, Bosco wasn't being fair to him. Eddie had, more than once, gone above and beyond the call to help him when he needed it most. If he hadn't encouraged Bosco to go to the doctor, he might now be seeing the world from the bottom of a bottle. If not for him, the transition to the 7-9 could've been harder. If not for Eddie he might have gone crazy long ago.
Really, he couldn't ask for a better partner in Eddie Quinn. That was what he rationalized to himself day in and day out.
Bosco sighed. "Look, I'll think about it, okay?"
That brightened Eddie's face. It was kinda of sad. The man didn't have any family nearby and his friends in the department were few and far between. Transferring from the L.A.P.D hadn't warmed him to people. Bosco didn't understand the problem. He could shoot and he wasn't as stupid as he looked. But until Bosco had come to the Brooklyn North precinct, Eddie had spent eight months being bounced around from one partner to another.
Eddie was no Faith, but he could write a mean report. Better yet, Eddie was happy to do all their paperwork. And never once did he bitch about it.
The thought made him smile despite the headache.
The smiles were few and far between these days. It was hard to find anything to smile about when everyday you were forced to live with constant pain. If it wasn't the persistent throbbing in his head, it was the ache that made his eyes feel like someone was trying to pull them out of their sockets. Every doctor he'd seen told him the same thing. They could clone sheep, but not one of them could explain why he was in pain.
Jagoff doctors.
He often wondered what they'd say if he told them about the other things he experienced.
"Think we'll see any action today? Man, it's so fucking slow."
"Eddie – "
He waved his hand in Bosco's face. "Yeah, yeah - the language. Sorry, man."
"Keep it to the occasional shit and we'll be fine."
That got a chuckle out him. "Anything for my partner."
79-Edward. We got a call of a suspicious odour in Tompkins Park. North west corner.
"Looks like my prayers were answered."
"79-Edward, we got it." Bosco radioed back. "Suspicious odour? Don't they have special units for this stuff?"
Eddie hit the lights. "Yeah. Us."
Bosco smirked. His partner pushed the pedal to the floor sending the RMP screaming towards the park.
When they arrived, Bosco didn't have to move to know what the suspicious odour was.
He closed the door to the car. "You smell that?" Please tell me you smell that Eddie, he thought.
His partner came to stand beside him, gun drawn. "Smell what? Can't smell anything from here."
The air was thick with the smell of death. Bosco would stake his career on it. And yet Eddie couldn't make the same pledge. A few deep snorts to clear his sinuses, he tried again.
And nearly choked on the rotting flesh threatening to overwhelm his nostrils.
"A body," he whispered, not actually aware that he was speaking until the words echoed in his ears. "There's a body in there."
"We're at least four hundred yards from the north west corner. It isn't possible to see anything from here, let alone be smelling things. You sure you're okay, man?"
He covered quickly. "Maybe it's a dead squirrel I smell."
Eddie looked at him strangely. It was a look Bosco was getting used to seeing.
"Hopefully it's nothing." He tried to sound convincing. "Let's go."
With Eddie right behind him, they travelled the distance from the North entrance to the location of the suspicious odour. Despite what Bosco had told his partner, the smell wasn't a squirrel. The closer they got, the stronger the scent became. Till they reached what were undeniably a pair of legs, shoes still attached, lying on the ground, their owner covered by tree branches.
They were also undeniably not moving.
"Central, we're going to need a sergeant to respond to this location. Looks like we got a body."