The scene in question was an upscale club downtown. It was part of the "green movement": clubs that employed gardeners instead of interior designers, to create the indoor illusion of being outside. The club was decorated with fountains, patches of lawn, and countless ferns. They realized, quite soon upon arriving at the scene, that extensive processing would not be necessary. The alleged "body parts" were nothing more than a miniscule blood smear on a bathroom door. Ryan sighed upon hearing the club owner's story.
"Listen, I thought I might as well be safe and call it in. Even if it does cost me a lot of bad press." The man said proudly, appearing to expect a badge of honour.
"How nice of you," replied an exasperated Ryan. But he couldn't keep the overjoyed tone from his voice. Did she really reach for my hand? Did I really reach back? It's not so bleak, after all!
Ben and Ryan continued to move slowly around the club, looking for anything out of the ordinary, until Ben called out to him in an excited voice.
When Ryan finally managed to track her down, crouching on the opposite side of the dance floor, she was squinting at the ground, towards a small patch of grass.
"Uh…what exactly are we looking at?" We're a 'we' again!
Benny looked at him, confused. "Ryan, don't you see? This soil has been recently disturbed. We've already discerned that the blood on the door is human; this upset topsoil could well contribute to the act, or at least our understanding of it.
Ryan squinted, trying desperately to see what she saw. Nothing. Oh shit, what if it's my eyesight again? He felt his heart rate increase, and chewed his lip nervously.
And of course, nothing went unnoticed by Benjamin Wallace.
"Ryan…what's up? You seem kinda…on edge." She almost whispered as she placed a delicate hand upon his upper arm.
He looked like he wasn't going to answer, but finally looked her in the eye. "You know about my old eye injury?"
She nodded slowly. Of course she did. He frequently tossed and turned in the night, as if scared to death that someone else may well shoot him in the eye with a nail gun. And when she looked over at him, tangled in the sheets, she saw a young man—an attractive young man—sweating profusely and clutching his face with both hands. How could I forget?
"Well, I've been having some problems lately. My sight, it uh…it's been acting up a bit. So I had it checked out." His eyes begged her to comfort him, a request she knew he would never verbally make. He was vulnerable, he was weak, he was completely susceptible to anything the world might throw at him, but he would never once in his life admit that to anyone, let alone ask for help. "It's an infection. My sight has been deteriorating for a couple of weeks now. They don't know what they can do. I'm getting a little scared."
The release was incredible. To have finally spoken his mind, finally told just one person that yes, Ryan Wolfe does indeed experience fear, gave him an instantaneous feeling of relief and immense gratitude towards this woman who was so much more than a woman. Who knew it would feel so good to admit that you're scared?
Ben threw her arms around him, brought his soft, warm body towards her. She waited a long moment before breaking the silence, then whispered into his ear, "Ryan, it's going to be OK. You've got the best doctors in Miami, you've got a stronger will than anyone I've ever met, and you've got—" She broke herself off. This is the guy who ripped my heart out for fun. The guy who will never fully understand the pain, the agony he put me through. And here I am, comforting him? It wasn't the old anger, the old bitterness. It was a new feeling: pride. How do you tell someone who put you through hell that they can lean on you anytime they need, regardless of the torture you endured on their behalf? Ben just looked at him, and revised her impending statement. "You've got…nothing to worry about, Ryan. Don't…don't worry about it." She shrugged, and he immediately recognized the gesture.
That's how you pretend you don't care.
He nodded at her, and then bent down further to inspect the area of disturbed soil she had brought to his attention. Squinting hard, he could just make out the slight difference in colour between the shade of the area she indicated, and the rest of the section of grass.
"Could be completely benign; recently dug-up spots in a…uh…lawn, are hardly probative. But you're right that it's strange how it's contained to this single area. I'll ask about the maintenance record for this section. I guess we'll just have to dig it up, huh?"
That Boston accent again. I wonder if he would get a Canuck accent, hanging out with me.
They hadn't been digging for long before finding something more probative: a two square-inch section of flesh, wrapped in what appeared to be a plain white cotton rag.
Ben and Ryan exchanged confused glances: what the hell?
Ryan shook his head, not comprehending. "How could this possibly have gotten here?"
"I don't know…it's certainly out of place in a place like this." Benny replied as she took out a hemoglobin test from her kit, to discern whether or not the flesh was human, though it seemed quite clear that it was; the skin was pale, with faint blonde hairs. Maybe from someone's forearm. "Yeah, it's human." She sighed, not really knowing how far this case could be taken. "Whoever this belongs to…is either dead, or seriously disfigured. Look how thick the flesh is. You'd definitely need a skin graft to heal from this. No question."
Ryan frowned. "This is going to be a tough one to…Ben?" They had been walking together towards the entrance, but he now realized that she was no longer alongside him. He turned to see her looking at the bagged evidence, complete concentration etched across her face. He walked back to her, squinted at the evidence.
"You see something?" He asked.
"Yeah…" she held the bag closer to his face. "Look at the other side of the sample. Something's lodged in there."
"What? Ben, I really don't see anything."
Benny sighed and walked over to the bar, where she cut open an alternate side of the bag, pulled out the flesh, and flipped it in her hand, so that the skin was against her palm, and she was facing the bloody portion.
"Pass me my tweezers?"
"Huh? Yeah, one sec…" He reached into her kit, and placed the tweezers softly into her outstretched—if gloved—palm. After a moment, she pulled the tweezers up, a single strand of hair clasped between them.
Benny laughed. "You see that? That's what we call—"
"Incriminating evidence." He finished. "Nice. Let's just hope it has a follicle, and it belongs to the attacker."