Drugs and Doctors, Booze and Blood
Disclaimer: not mine.
A/N: This story contains graphic violence, including rape and murder, detailed description of consensual and not-so consensual sex including gay sex, among other dirty things such as drugs, booze, and naughty nature such as desecration of certain religions. Oh, and foul language. Ye have been warned.
Chapter One: The Doomsday Doctor
She turned out her pockets to find two nickles, six pennies, and a crumpled up note from 5th period. She could not take a cab today. Her apartment was not far, straight down Broad Street, a left onto Pearl, past the Brittish Gardens at Hannover Square and then directly on the right. It wouldn't be a long walk and it wouldn't be an unfamiliar one but before she left the lobby of the highschool she reached into her backpack and pulled out the paper that she stole from the library earlier. "LOWER EAST SIDE GIRL SLAIN, 'DOOMSDAY DOCTOR' STRIKES AGAIN" The girl looked down to the one image that took up most of the front page: Two cops, one male and one female, leaned over a bloody sheet behind police lines with crowds of tourists, news reporters, and on lookers swarmed around. The girl skimmed the bulk of the article and then put it back in her pack. She looked out in the gray night of the city, sighed, and stepped out the door. The girl did not make it home.
It had been a long night and Captain Donald Cragen had the blinds shut, head down, and his thoughts focused solely on the sealed bottle of bourbon in the locked bottom drawer of his desk. "Fifteen Minutes" he thought and closed his eyes. It had been a long two weeks since what the media had labeled the "Doomsday Doctor" had started to creep his way into the nightmares of young girls and their families throughout his precinct. Four dead, no witnesses, and no leads. Each girl was snatched off the street, raped, and then tortured. Her body was dumped in the confessionals of catholic churches throughout the city with a doctor's syringe through the heart, latex gloves covered in vaginal cells shoved in her mouth, and a note pinned to her naked body: "Repent! This is the trumpet of doom and you have been served a fair warning." Cragen's problem was original analysis from his contracted FBI Psychiatrist, George Huang, who claimed that the perpetrator was neither a doctor nor religious. All his leads were dead ends and his team was getting exhausted. The phone rang.
"Sex Crimes." He listened to frantic voice of an officer on the other line and when he hung up wasted no time to dial Oliva and Elliot, the two detective who took lead of the case. They were needed at Saint Joseph's, another girl was dead.
The city seemed to sweat. Water dripped from leaking fire-hydrants, condensation stuck to paper napkins below lemonade pitchers, and the tar on the the roofs of buildings flowed almost freely along the crevices and jointing. Cragen had no idea that the sun had risen hours ago and as he walked down the street beads of sweat globed up on the back of his neck and trickled down his back. A young officer stood in front of the church, his hat in his hand, and greeted the captain with a grimace and a comment about the weather. He stood to the side and the captain began to open the door. "It's bad in there." The young officer said.
"I'm sure I've seen worse." But the captain was wrong.
He walked inside the church amidst the flashing of the forensic photographers and heavy discussion of coworkers and contractors. The girl was younger than the others and sprawled across the confessional. The syringe through her sternum left a trail of blood down the middle of her torso that pooled at a small piece of paper stapled to her skin. Her mouth gaped with the fingers of the latex glove stuck out. Her body was bruised with a dozen or so lacerations of beatings and torture but she was unlike the others in one distinct way: she was not alone.