Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, though the story is. I do not claim that the characters are my own. So please. No suing.
The day was saturated with loss. It tossed and turned, swelled and puffy, through the news and air. Like a fat rain drop falling to earth, expanding with each other rain drop that hit it until it was too heavy to glide on the air any longer. The headlines were every where, even, he thought, smeared onto the inside of his eyelids. "Clarice Starling, famous Hannibal Lecter chaser, killed in undercover drug bust." "Death's Angel killed by drug lord in drug bust" "Clarice Starling shot to death. Is it the FBI's Fault or her own?" One paper had the image of Jack Crawford, soaking wet with rain, stepping out of the old tile factory the drug bust was held in, pulling the end of a stretcher. Upon the stretcher lay a long, black body bag in which Clarice Starling eternally rested.
He wanted to rip his hair out, scream, anything. But he stood their silent, staring at the news stand, alarms going off inside, nothing but a stern look showing on the outside. He wanted to kill everyone who had been rude to her, done her wrong, treated her poorly. His deep roller had finally fallen, and not of her own accord. It was her precious FBI's fault. Taking one last look at the stand he hailed a cab. Sitting in the backseat he ordered he be taken to the nearest airport.
Like satin it twirled and twisted down the spine, its thick red color filling the tiny ridges that lifted the skin. Beauty poured from the face even in death, the eyes were crisp, almost lime green, though the terror had shot them blood red. Blood dipped and pooled just above her partner's chest, a lock of blond hair turned red in the divot of his collar bone. His face was twisted. Demolished. His eyes were sewn shut and his lips smoldered together.
She slammed the folder shut, rubbing her eyes with her left hand as she uneasily set the manila folder down onto the polished oak desktop. God she hated crime scene photos, possibly even more than the real thing. The photos had a haunting effect to them, seemed to actually have the victim looking into the lens, into the eyes of the observer. She shook her head denouncing the idea and stood, her thin arms outstretched to her sides. Picking up her coffee mug she sidled her way through the stacks of files and cabinets. Finally reaching the door with what felt like fifty paper cuts, she yanked on the handle to find a stack of boxes had been placed in front of it just close enough to make it incapable of being moved. She hissed lightly under her breath and placed her empty mug atop the boxes and proceeded to lean down, pushing the bottom box which in turn glided the other boxes away from the door.
Opening the door slowly she sighed. Blinking a few times in the new light she looked up and down the empty halls. The only sound that drifted through the halls and cubicles was the soft click of her too-unnecessary high heels. Humming for no other reason than to keep the unease of the place off of her shoulders she made her way into the break room. Instantly the stale smells of coffee and old food filled her nostrils. Pouring herself a cup of coffee she hummed louder as the tension thickened. The office at night had an eerie feel to it, the contents within made the place almost reek of death.
"Of all the gin joints in all the world"
Swiftly she turned around, a tingle of nerves twisting down her throat, between her breasts and into the pit of her stomach. Barely able to keep from shooting coffee everywhere she stifled a scream. Standing before her was a tall, blond headed man, his dark blue eyes widening at her surprise. A thick smile quickly spread over is cracked lips. "Damn you're easy to scare Brianna." She just blinked and flipped him the bird, her sights set on the small wall mounted TV in the background, her deep grey eyes focusing onto the screen just in time to catch the latest news update. On the screen a field reporter with long brown locks stood in front of a roped off doorway, the yellow tape blocking the entrance reading "Caution" in thick black letters. It was a crime scene. She pushed passed the man and took a seat at one of the off-white tables that sat in the room. Scrolling across the bottom of the screen were the words "Hannibal Lecter's newly discovered Parisian Hideaway found empty" Her eyes widened.
A/N: I guess no one liked the first Chapter. Lol. Well hope you recognize the quote! Enjoy!