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Flack remembered having nightmares that were just like this.
In his dreams, there was usually an obstacle he had to go through, often a door he had to open, knowing that on the other side, something terrible was happening. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how strongly he kicked, the door wouldn't let him in.
Then he would hear the gunshot' sound and the door would open all by itself, finally allowing him entrance.
He was always too late in his nightmares. He would near the dead body on the floor, turn it around and see his father's face, a friend's face, sometimes even his own face. That was when he would wake up, sweating, panting, but glad that it'd been only a dream.
As Flack knocked on Danny's door, there was a strong sense of dejá vu washing over him.
In between trying to reach Danny's cell and house phones, Flack had called for backup from his car, giving specific instructions to all teams responding that they should 'play dead' until told other wise. That meant no sirens, no lights and a quiet seating of perimeter around Danny's apartment building. The last thing Flack wanted was this thing turning in to a hostage situation.
He'd parked his car right behind the officers that had stood on guard in Danny' street. They were talking on the police radio, reporting two gunshots that they'd just heard.
In the quiet street that was only now beginning to wake up, the sound of a weapon going off had travelled far.
Both seasoned officers of the NYPD, neither man had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary during the time they'd been there. No suspicious cars had parked near the building, no odd looking suspects had entered the place. Without more information on who might be coming after the cop that they were guarding, there wasn't much more that they could've done. Still, the sound of gunshots had felt like a slap on their professional pride.
Flack had gone up the five storeys up to Danny's flat alone, for once glad that there was no elevator in the old place. Donauh had only one way of getting out of there, and that would be through him.
There were only three apartments on Danny's floor. The door to number 5A was opened and a man with dark hair and wearing nothing but boxer shorts was peaking at the corridor. He gasped when he saw the tall man bearing a gun, coming right at him.
"NYPD," Flack IDed himself, flashing his badge. "Go back inside and do not come out under any circumstance."
The man, too frightened to talk, just nodded and quietly closed his door again. From inside Flack could hear a woman's voice, talking in some foreigner language.
Making sure that there were no more neighbours putting themselves in danger, Flack moved in on apartment 5B.
"Open up!" He yelled, banging on Danny's closed door. Inside, everything was silent.
Flack took two steps back and, aiming at the lock, kicked on the door. The impact of his foot on the thick block of wood that was Danny's front door, made him feel every single bone on his leg, from the tip of his toes to the bottom of his hip.
Trust his friend to buy a house old enough to have a solid door. The wood around the lock had splintered but not broken.
Flack was balancing for a second kick when the gunshot sound broke the silence. And for a moment the detective was sure that this was one of his nightmares and he was about to wake up on his own bed.
The lock didn't resist his second kick. Flack went inside, heart hammering, weapon ready.
He'd been to Danny's place a couple of times before, picking him up when the young man's car was broken or to watch a baseball game, on weekends when both of them happened to have a day off. The apartment wasn't very big, and Flack knew the lay out of it well enough.
Pass the front door, the first opening to the left gave access to the living room, the second to the kitchen. At the other end of the hall was Danny's room. There was a bathroom to the right and not much else.
There was a distinct smell in the air, but Flack couldn't name it. Daylight was coming out from the living room door, a greyish morning soft glow, but enough for him to see his way around. There was a broken painting on the floor to his left, but no other signs of forced entry.
"Dan? Buddy? You here?"
Flack felt like a rookie all over again, doing a search of the apartment with no backup, but he didn't cared all that much. Poking his head around the first door, he half expected to be greeted by a gunshot. Instead of the hot lead, he was hit by the cold wind coming from Danny's double windows, opened ajar.
"Dan, come on! Do some noise! Don't make me search the entire Buckingham Palace for you!"
Danny's coat was lying over the couch's arm, the car keys dropped on top of it. A sport's magazine, on top of the coffee table, was producing an annoying noise as it's top pages flapped, moved by the draft coming from outside.
As Flack moved inside the living room, the body that had been half hidden by the couch came in to view.
A man, with light hair and wearing back pants and shirt, was laying face down. Blood pooled around his head, in a gory dark halo. His out stretched right hand was clenched around the strap of a black handbag.
Flack approach carefully. From what he could see, it wasn't Danny, something that he was grateful for, because as far as he could tell, the man wasn't breathing. Flack put two fingers on the man's neck, confirming his suspicions. His fingers came away bloody.
"Fuck!" He let out. Using the barrel of his gun, he turned the man's head aside, just enough to have a look at his face. He'd only seen the man once, but he was good at memorizing people's faces. "Donauh."
Flack's heart skipped a beat inside his chest. If the killer was dead, why wasn't Danny answering his calls?
From his crouching position next to the body, Flack looked ahead. Right in front of him was the countertop that served as frontier between the kitchen and the living room. And behind it he could see part of the damaged kitchen.
He was on his feet and inside the kitchen without even thinking. He'd found Danny.
It was impossible to reach his friend without disrupting the scene. There were wood splinters and broken glass everywhere on the floor. The odd smell of alcohol, blood and gunpowder was impossible to ignore now.
Danny was half leaning against the fridge's door, his right hand limply holding a gun. There was blood everywhere.
All that Flack could think, as he kneeled beside Danny and reached for his cell phone to call for an ambulance, was that he was stepping all over his friend's blood. And that was wrong on so many levels.
It was irrational to believe that someone could still be alive when that much blood was on the outside instead of the inside. Still, as Flack checked for breathing while pressing two fingers to Danny's neck, to check for a pulse, he was demanding to every saint on the altar to make sure that he would find some sign of life under his fingers. He couldn't find one.
Cursing, he looked at the gunshot wound on Danny's stomach, blood pouring freely from it. Silently apologizing to his friend, Flack pushed the unresponsive body to the floor.
"Come on man," he hissed, tilting Danny's head back. "This is not what we'd agreed, Dan." Flack took a deep breathe and forced his air inside Danny's opened mouth, "this does not count as dying of old age, you bastard!"
Sweat was seeping in to his eyes by the time Flack was beginning compressions. When he'd taken that department' side course in first aid, this was not what he'd had in mind.
A part of his brain kept telling him that he should be keeping scores on how long it'd been since he'd started, but he had lost track of time. All his brain could cope at that moment was that after reaching fifteen compressions, it was time to force two blows inside Danny's chest. Keep his heart pumping, keep his lungs working.
He gasped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"We'll take it from here, sir," the paramedic gently told him.
Flack looked around. Danny's house was full of people. He hadn't noticed a thing.
There were the paramedics, hands filled with medical equipment, calmly pushing him aside so that they could do their job; there were other policemen, securing the place and looking at him like he was the kid who'd lost his puppy; there was a team of CSI's, faces he wasn't familiar with, standing outside the door, waiting to come in an process the crime scene. Flack's heart clenched.
Danny's house had become a crime scene.
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