I
Little bird,
Who sings at dawn,
Sings a song for me.
He was a problem child from the moment of conception, a storm that might have been averted had life granted him the warmth of family. But that was not to be.
He was a seeping poison, a quick knife, a horrifying reminder that Death held teaspoon's worth more mercy than Life. He should have died a long time ago, but Life kept snatching him away to whisper, Wait a little longer.
The first judge had taken pity on his tortured and broken background, sentencing him to life in prison. It was not a punishment. He hunted shadows until, one day, a beautiful shadow followed him. Shadow by his side, he loped the halls and corridors with ease, a toothy white grin dancing across his handsome face.
With that same ease he slaughtered three prison guards and four other inmates before they were able to subdue him. The second judge sealed his place in Death Row. Destination: certain. Time seeped out of his grasp like sand through a careless fist. It wasn't like he gave a fuck anyway.
His angel had flown away.
It starts again.
The victim is a woman in her late twenties. Her hair, long and blonde, spills prettily around her, framing her face in a halo of gold. Her hands were laid carefully across her chest; neat and clutching a folded note. It's almost sweet. But there are bruises around her neck from where she was strangled. There's blood staining her shirt, seeping from where the kitchen knife was left protruding from her abdomen. Her eyes are open and unseeing, the blue glazed milky by death. Lastly, there's a set of wings painted in blood on the floor.
"Sam."
The coroner passes the note, crumpled from wrenching it out of her grasp.
"Thanks, Andy."
"Cause of death was strangulation. The knife was done shortly after, though."
Sam casts his gaze back down to the note in his gloved hands. With a growing sense of dread, Sam Wesson opens it and gazes down at the neatly written words.
Dearheart,
Please be proud. I'm keeping our promise.
I miss you so much. Do you miss me too?
Five years. Five years and it's back. The letter shakes in his grasp. Oh God, how could this be?
"Sam? Sam! Don't blank out on me, man. Come on."
Fingers snap in front of Sam's face. Sam pushes the hand away,
"God damn it, Ash. I'm fine."
A raised brow. Skepticism. Concern. A hint of exasperation in his partner's green eyes.
"Mind letting me in on those thoughts?"
Sam shrugs noncommittally. Ash sighs, shaking his head and fiddling with his watch. They'd been partners for three years now, and sometimes you just had to let Wesson keep his thoughts until he was ready to share with the class.
They're putting a white sheet over the body now.
She was Rachel Engel. 28. Single. Airline Stewardess. Someone else was notifying her brother and her sister of what had happened.
Someone else.
Despite the almost ritualistic layout of the murder, there was nothing personal about it. Rachel could have been alive right at this very moment if only she hadn't answered the door. Someone else could be dead.
Five years ago
Sam froze in his tracks. He took in the horror of the scene before his eyes. There's blood spattering on the wall; some of it was arterial spray from the attack, most was placed there after the fact. The girl's body, identified by the neighbor who found her as Cassie Robinson, was face-up on the wood floor of her living room. Her shirt rested on her chest in tatters; the knife that killed her ripped it to shreds as the killer stabbed her again and again. Her face was covered by a folded sheet of paper. It was a mockery. He wanted to make sure her eyes were closed. He wanted to cover her body with a white sheet. He wanted to give her death some small ounce of dignity. He wanted there to be at least some façade of peace in death. Instead, he stood guard, waiting for forensic to fucking get there already.
It was a long night. The mother came, confused and lost, not comprehending why there were police at her daughter's house. They didn't let her see the body. They couldn't.
At the station, Captain Singer briefed them on the case at hand. They had a serial killer. He named the officers that were going to be working on the case to catch their man. Sam was not surprised to hear his name called out. Singer had the note projected on the screen as he spoke.
"We're getting in contact with the FBI so we can get some direction on this thing. This is a good department. We're going to be working day and night at catching this guy. Go home. I want you all to come back in the morning with fresh minds." Singer shut off the projector, signaling their dismissal.
The officers made their way out, but Sam stayed behind. He stared blankly at the screen, phantom words flickering before his eyes.
Babybro,
Would you be proud of me? I'm so sorry I couldn't keep my promise. I miss you so much. Do you miss me too?
The Captain made his way past Sam's seat, squeezing the young officer's shoulder. Sam looked up to meet his eyes. The Captain was gone, leaving tired, old Bobby behind. Sam felt the world around him sink as he realized the gravity of what they were fighting against.
"Go home, Wesson."
"Ash, I need you to pull up the case file on a "Dean Smith." The case closed about five years ago."
"Didn't you work on that one? I know how you operate, Robocop. You still remember that case. Why do you need the file?"
"There's just something I need to see."
Ash gives him a mock salute,
"I'll see what I can do, pardnur."
Sam heads back to his desk and slumps, running his hands through his hair. He needs a haircut. He's starting to look like one of those plainclothes guys. A regular Serpico. He shuts his eyes, trying to find the relief of darkness despite the light bleeding through his eyelids.
"Hey. Hey. Earth to Samsquatch. Come in Samsquatch."
Sam wrinkles his nose,
"I really wish you wouldn't do that."
Ex-FBI Agent Gabriel Laufeysen sits on the edge of Sam's desk, a smile on his face and a sucker staining his tongue green. His hands are in the pockets of his dark green jacket, and he smirks down at Sam from his perch.
"Face it. You'd get bored if I stopped. Singer wanted me to look at the crime scene photos of the murder. Same old, same old."
Sam waves a hand at the new file on his desk.
"Knock yourself out."
Gabriel takes the file, flipping through the photos and frowning. He hops off of his perch and moves to a nearby desk. He shoves the photographs and cup of pens aside, heedless of the fact that the desk he was rudely rearranging was actually Sergeant Turner's, and that said Sergeant would not appreciate the gesture if he wasn't currently at home on sick leave. Sam watches as Gabriel takes out photo after photo, laying them out in a pattern of his own making onto the desk and muttering as he goes.
Ash walks in, file in one hand and coat in the other.
"I'm clocking out. Here's the file. Do you think its related or something?"
"Or something. Take care of yourself, man."
He sets the file on top of the other files on his desk. Right as Sam puts it down, Gabriel snatches it up again, reading the name on the label. His face contorts into a grimace and he unconsciously rubs his right shoulder.
"That was a nasty case." He says, returning the file to its place on Sam's desk. Sam picks up his long cooled cup of coffee and takes a sip,
"Doesn't take too much thought to come to that conclusion. Any insight on the current case?"
Gabriel shrugs, tapping the photo of the bruises on the victim's throat. He slides the sucker out of his mouth, using it to gesture as he speaks,
"Well, your perp is thorough, right handed, strong, and detail oriented. Considering the height of your victim and the positioning of the bruises, it's probably a male. Not necessarily educated, but certainly informed. From these photos, he hasn't left anything behind that he didn't deliberately place. Where's the note she was holding?"
Half-guiltily, Sam fishes the evidence bag out of his coat pocket. Gabriel doesn't even raise an eyebrow. He takes the bag and returns to sitting on Sam's desk. He flattens the plastic so he can read the words underneath. His nose crinkles and his eyes narrow in consternation. His golden eyes flick back to the Dean Smith file.
"Huh."
"It was just a hunch. This one doesn't fit Smith's pattern though. His first victims were a single mom and her son. I'm probably just seeing shapes in clouds."
"Let's hope that's case, Kiddo," he tosses his half finished sucker into a nearby waste basket, "Go home to your wife, Sam. This is a heck of a way to spend a Sunday. Might as well end it pleasantly."
Sam rubs at his temples. It was going to be another dreaming night.
"Yeah, you're probably right, Gabe."
"Sam-a-lam, I'm always right. One of these days you'll finally catch on."
Sam does the mature thing and shoves Gabriel off of his desk.
A/N
So this story was inspired by the episode "The Thin White Line" from the 90's show Millennium. But then it became it's own sort of monster. Oh well.