A/N: Chapter three. A bit shorter, but I'll have chapter four up soon, and it should be longer. Reviews are appreciated and much-loved.
And thank you to those who have reviewed, and those who don't but who read it anyway. It's what makes me want to continue writing :]
Oh, and the story is a WIP—obviously—it's just categorized as complete.
Rating: T (rating will go up as story continues)
Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.
Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously.
Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned.
"What the hell is this?" Kurt demanded as soon as he entered the room, looking down at a body that was certainly not his.
The blonde in front of him paused a moment from where she was about to pull apart a perfect y-cut; eyebrow rose in his direction. "A body?"
"Hardee ha ha. I could deduce that much. This is not my DB."
It was this sentence that made Quinn Fabray stop to fully give Kurt her attention. She was a young woman, a year or two younger than him maybe, who came off as cool and uninterested in everything that she did. She was a no-nonsense woman; sarcastic, a bit self centered, and bitchy. Kurt liked her quite a bit. She was the best at what she did—and she'd have to be to have the title of youngest and best Medical Examiner in New York.
Her usually impeccable hair was thrown into a messy bun, and she was wearing sweats and sneakers instead of whatever get up that was currently in style at the moment. She pulled off her bloodied gloves and goggles, gazing up at him in amusement.
"Quite right, Detective. This isn't your body. But as I've already finished with yours—after I was dragged out of bed by the too-perky and brand new intern, I might add—I decided I'd start on another. Considering your priority is finished. There are dead bodies aplenty, as you know. They won't tend to themselves."
Kurt scowled slightly, looking away from her smirk and down into the bruised face of a middle aged man. "What's he in for?"
She laughed, a light sound that bounded around the sterile and pale room. "Are they in prison now? I suppose that's another way to look at it. Botched burglary. He's the burglar. Broke in to some house on the lower east side, the house he broke into was supposed to be empty, but the couple had to cancel their plans. They had come out after hearing a noise and startled the burglar—so badly that he tripped down the stairs from the second floor, and the television he was trying to steal landed on his chest, crushing his lungs."
He shook his head. "I should be used to this type of stupidity by now, but then something like this comes along."
Quinn nodded, pulling the sheet over his face and leading him towards Santana. "They say money makes the world go 'round, but I'm debating whether or not that should be changed to common sense. Now," she lowered the sheet covering Santana. "Your report was spot on. The puncture wound was the cause of death, around six-twenty. Pointed, diameter around the size of a pencil. Slid straight on through, slightly at an angle, away from the face and eyes, more towards the back of the head, and into the frontal lobe."
She handed Kurt a pair of gloves and micro goggles. She tilted Santana's head, to give Kurt a better view, and then moved it back. "Excessive bruising on the face is from a blunt instrument—not enough to do fatal damage—"
"But enough to make a point and to cause pain while keeping her conscious." Kurt finished.
Quinn nodded. "Broken nose, two black eyes, and cheek bones both on the verge of shattering, and dislocated jaw. Which brings us to her tongue. Again, you were correct; her tongue was cut out before she was killed—the blood indicating that. Before she was killed but after face and body bruising.
"Bruising on forearms is from a rounded instrument, and seems to be the only defensive wounds, besides the knuckles. But grit was found in the torn skin on her knuckles, so it's unclear as to whether she was punching something or if the skin is torn."
"Crime lab get the skin under her fingernails?"
She nodded. "I sent the grit in the abrasions from her back, knees, and knuckles over also. Knee bruises indicate single force pushed upon them, I'm guessing she fell on her knees. And the lacerations from her back and upper buttocks indicate she was dragged over a surface, as do the finger shaped marks around her wrists. The abrasions are post-mortem."
"And the carvings on her abdomen?"
Quinn's eyes hardened. "Also post-mortem, by a dulled or jagged instrument, I'm leaning more towards dulled as you were in your reports."
She gave him a small smile. "You were right all around from your report. All you needed me for was the technicalities. You after my job, Hummel?"
He snorted, pulling off his gloves and goggles. "I'll leave that to the experts. I'll leave the cutting open dead bodies to you."
She followed his example. "Honestly, you don't even need to come into the morgue. You've got it all correct in your notes. I can confirm everything you've said over electronics."
"Ah, but then I don't get to see your pretty face."
"Hush, you. Any word on when her family is coming to see the body? I'll clean her up as much as I can, but there's only so much I can do."
Kurt nodded. "Her wife's best friend contacted me to see whether it'd be okay to see her tomorrow morning."
"That's fine. I'll think of something to make too-peppy be somewhere else. Honestly, how can someone that happy work in a morgue? It's just not normal."
"And cutting dead people open for a living is?"
She snorted and took a sip from her water bottle. She put the cap on then just stared at Santana's face for a long moment. "I knew her."
Kurt glanced up sharply, but she went on. "Well, I didn't know her. In fact, it wasn't even from New York—though we crossed each other on occasion, her receiving files for a case, or I'd be put on the stand to explain any findings that may have to do with one. I went to high school with her, actually." She snorted again. "Her and her wife, Brittany? Went to school together. I'm pretty sure we were on the same cheerleading squad for a while; I dropped out after sophomore year. I didn't see them much after that, but it hit me while I was sewing her skull back in place. Kind of disturbing, but what can you do?
"Anyway. I figured I might as well tell you, better safe than sorry."
Kurt nodded, feeling slightly uneasy. "If I need you to come in to make a statement I'll contact you, for now I'll just put it on record. You're from Ohio, also?"
"Yeah. What are the odds? We lived in Lima, Ohio and we all end up in New York. And I end up performing an autopsy on a former fellow cheerleader. It really is a small world."
"Yeah," Kurt agreed, stomach churning; thinking. "Small world."
…..
The sun was just beginning to rise by the time Kurt had gathered impressions and recorded statements from the victim's neighbors. After a brief and tearful discussion with Brittany Pierce and Mike Chang, he was also granted access to her home electronics and planner. He thanked what ever deity that may or may not exist that he wouldn't have to get a warrant. He was feeling bitchy enough as it was that morning, and that was with three cups of coffee.
At the moment he felt fit enough to toss his murder board out the thin and grimy window in his home office—if you could even call it that. It was too large to be considered a closet but too small to be a bedroom. But it fit his desk and his murder board, and it suited his needs just fine.
He shook his head, frustrated. "Doesn't fit, something just doesn't fit."
The images of the vic's body hung on the board, along with copies of her day planner and her contact list. He had received a report from the forensic sweep of the scene and report from the crime lab—both coming up empty. The only blood on the scene was the vic's, and the only prints were her own. Similarly with the body, the skin under her fingernails were her own, and no other prints were on the body—anywhere. Along with no hair or clothing follicles.
Which meant that the murderer had sealed up.
But why then, did it all seem so careless? So messy?
Kurt cursed, narrowing his tired eyes as he grabbed his cup and gazing at the photos. They were one big contradiction. He was hung up on the scrapes and bruises—they just didn't fit. Neither did the jagged edges on the knife—and something about the drop of the body was niggling at him, but he just couldn't grasp it.
This didn't seem like a crime of passion—it seemed too cool, too calculated, despite the bruises and lacerations. And the carving in the abdomen seemed more like an after thought. But the tongue—the tongue and the puncture wound seemed key.
He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. The timeline too. Between the time she left work, and her body was discovered. Was she taken somewhere? How long would it have taken to abduct, kill, and carve the word in her abdomen and cut out her tongue? And then the time of the drop off.
It was just too excessive. Too much, almost. It felt too planned, but was set up to look more spur of the moment—maybe trying to use the carving excuse as a hate crime. It just didn't add up. He knew he'd have to retrace her steps, hope to get a feel. Start at her work, take statements from the ADA—Dave Karofsky, Kurt remembered Brittany mentioning.
Then tackle her electronics, which he glared at from where they were laying—mockingly in his opinion—on his desk. He'd save that for after he finished contacting friends and family of the vic's. If there was one thing that hated him and he hated right back, it was everything to do with technology. Maybe he could convince Abram's to have a go at it. He was the only one that he'd ever worked on a professional level with from the electronic division, partly because he seemed to be the sanest out of the entire lot in that sector. He'd have to get it cleared with his obstinate Lieutenant, of course—
He stopped dead in the process of grabbing his coat, stamping down on the urge to groan aloud. His LT. Of freaking course, how the hell could he forget about that speed bump? Maybe he'd put that off, instead. He'd rather deal with the electronics.
Despite her being his mentor and the one to snatch him up directly out of the academy and training him personally, Kurt didn't know if he could handle her on limited sleep and little coffee. They'd both end up knocking the other out—or she'd just knock him on his ass, which is highly likely considering who his LT was.
He snatched his keys and cell on his way out the door, shaking his head in vague—but fond-amusement. If there was one person who was more difficult and stubborn than him in every way, it was the Lieutenant of Homicide herself; miss Sue Sylvester.
He nodded decisively to himself as he left his small apartment. He'd definitely put off that meeting until he was summoned or until he had more than three hours of sleep. Otherwise, there would unquestionably be bloodshed in the near future—much more than he'd ever seen. And considering he was a homicide detective, that was saying something.
