Man, I wish they had Law and Order reruns on TV here. I'm really not a TV addict at all, but I did rather like the show and its multiple spinoffs. There was one spinoff I didn't like as much, but I can't remember the name. Not that that's important in any way. The point here is that I was in the mood to write some drama/suspense/mystery. Voila – I bring you this fic. Idea is mine, characters are not. Zat eez all.

Onward and upward, then!

000000000000000000000000000

000000000000000000000000000

"Malik, not so much!"

In response, Malik Ishtar laughed, pushing the glass of champagne toward his sister. "C'mon…you're no fun," he said, mock-pouting.

Isis reached for the tall glass, her slender fingers wrapping around the stem as she shot a look at her younger brother. "There is a difference," she said coolly, "between being no fun and being sensible, Malik."

Malik rolled his eyes at that. "Uh, huh. Right." He refilled his own champagne glass, his eyes perhaps a bit too bright; alcohol seemed to affect him rather quickly for some reason. "Anyway," he said, putting the bottle down, "you should have at least some champagne – this is a special occasion."

"That's true," Isis conceded calmly, then turned to smile warmly at her other brother. "A toast, then. Here's to your promotion, Rishid. Congratulations!" She smiled, blue eyes sparkling, as Rishid lifted his own glass.

"Thank you, sister."

Malik lifted his glass, which was nearly empty again. "Congratulations, Rishid!" He struck a pose. "Lieutenant Rishid Ishtar, homicide investigator extraordinaire!"

Now it was Rishid's turn to roll his eyes. "Thank you, Malik" he said dryly, smiling good naturedly. "I hope I can live up to the title."

"You will," Isis said, taking a small sip from her champagne flute. "I'm sure of it."

Malik grinned, flipping a white-blond strand of hair out his eyes. "I'll drink to that!"

))0(())0(())0((

Wednesday, 9:32 a.m.

Hiroto Honda pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the immense headache he could feel building in the back of his head. Dammit. It's not even noon yet. For the most part, he felt that he handled the stress of his cases well. A little focus, a little caffeine…well, OK, a lot of caffeine, but the point was that cases usually didn't get to him.

This one, however, was different. He had joined the crime scene investigation team three years ago, and he had seen some pretty gruesome things in his time. The details of this case, however, were somehow a little more gruesome, a little more disturbing…almost more…more…well, evil, if he had to choose a word for it.

It was a serial killer. That much they knew for sure. Always the same kind of girls, always the same kind of weapon. Always the same frustrating ability to slip under the radar and disappear when police began investigating.

"Honda-san! Can you get a photo here?"

Honda looked to where one of his colleagues was pointing. "Sure," he said, stepping carefully through the crime scene to document the case.

Focused on the job at hand, Honda impassively but thoroughly snapped away. The girl was lying at that awkward angle that many dead seemed to assume, her mouth still open slightly.

"She was pretty, wasn't she?"

Honda nodded. Was is the key word there. The girl's face was fair, but her body bore the long slashes of a sharp blade. Her arms were in bloody shreds; more long, dark lines of blood crossed her thighs, her abdomen, and over her ribs.

He tortures them to death, Honda thought distantly, kneeling to get a better angle. He didn't know why he assumed the killer was a he. I gotta stop reading the paper. The local newspapers, and now even some national ones, had begun to talk about the killer as "he". Some idiot local reporter had even gone so far as to make a comparison to Jack the Ripper. Damn press.

Sighing, Honda stood up, brushing the dust from his pants. The headache was making its way to his temples by the point. Might be time for some more coffee.

He began packing away the camera, frowning slightly in thought. This girl was the fourth victim. The fourth. He shook his head slightly. Whoever this guy is, I hope we find him. Soon.

))0(())0(())0((

Tuesday, 10:47 a.m.

Rishid Ishtar looked at the new manila folder on his desk, frowning slightly. He knew immediately what it was – more on the serial killer case. Probably about the young woman they had found last week early one morning. On one hand, every time the killer struck there was the possibility of finding another shred of evidence to go on. On the other hand…

On the other hand, the last thing we need is another murder.

Rishid opened the folder, focusing on the task at hand. He flipped through the routine forms, running a hand over his head thoughtfully. Nothing new, really. Victim late teens, early twenties. A prostitute – part of the underworld since her mother had last seen her five years ago. A runaway, evidently. Time of death estimated to have been between two and four a.m. The autopsy wasn't complete, but cause of death appeared seemed to be multiple stab wounds and the blood loss that ensued.

Finally, Rishid flipped to the photographs. A blurry photo taken about six years ago showed a girl smiling slightly, almost shyly into the camera. The next few photos were decidedly less pleasant: the girl lying among dead leaves in the park, body twisted, mouth open in a silent scream.

Rishid hated this part – he had already known more about pain and death than he had ever wanted to, even before he took this job. Nevertheless, the photos had to be looked at, had to be examined; he found it was often his eye for detail that helped him make headway on a case.

At first, he scanned the picture impassively, his eyes taking in the knife wounds, the torn clothing, the way her body was bent. He noted the ground where she was lying – it certainly looked like there had been a struggle. The murderer must have done his work there, not killed the girl elsewhere and dragged her body into the woods.

Rishid sighed, rubbing at his eyes. So far there was nothing unusual, nothing leaping out at him. Nothing…

His less than fruitful musings were interrupted by the ringing of his telephone. He picked up on the second ring. "Rishid Ishtar."

"Ishtar, good." It was Captain Sumeragi. "Listen, there's been a little development here…"

Rishid switched the phone to his left ear, reaching for pen and paper. "Go ahead."

"I got a call from Honda-san about ten minutes ago. Seems like our serial killer's struck again. Only this time, he's made a mistake."

"Oh?" Rishid paused, pen in midair. "What sort of mistake?"

"An enormous mistake," the captain said. "It's the victim…she's still alive."

Ooh! Chapter one, fini! I'll hopefully have more up in a day or two!

Review if you'd like. I know I'd like it : )