Author's Note: This looks A LOT better if you read in the half or three-quarters width.
I was dreaming. The delicious kind of dream that left you sweaty, restless, and yet unfulfilled.
The sex dream.
Of course, all my dreams lately starred the sexy, albeit weird man who'd recently come into my life. The man I'd suspected of committing a rash of crimes throughout Rochester. What did that say about me?
Edward Cullen's narrow hips between my thighs, his mouth attached to my nipple, my fingers clenched in his hair.
This wasn't the first dream starring my suspect, and it wasn't the first time my dream self didn't get the chance to—ahem—finish. Each time the dreams slinked into my sub-consciousness, making me feel dirtier than a whore in a pigpen, something interrupted me before I could come. Christ, I had mental blue balls waiting to achieve some sort of dream climax. I'd always wake up right before. Sometimes the neighbor's dog barked, sometimes it was a car alarm down in the parking lot, other times I think my brain just couldn't handle my subliminal, unconscious desires.
True to form, I could hear my phone ringing, and even in my sleep I recognized the ring tone.
It was the Chief.
I struggled to awaken, finding my wrists pressed to my hipbones, my fingers dipping under the waistband of my boyshorts.
I coughed to clear my voice and fumbled around the nightstand for my phone.
"Hullo?" My voice was thick with sleep, and I coughed again as I struggled to sit up. The red glow from the clock next to my bed read 3:58.
"We've got a vic. Get your ass over to the warehouse where Clifford dead ends."
"Warehouse?" My mind was struggling to keep up.
"Yes. The Tech Unit is on the way. Newton and Crowley will meet you there."
The chief hung up abruptly, and I vaguely wondered if he'd go back to sleep for a few hours.
I threw back the covers, swung my feet over the edge of the bed and planted them on the cold floor. I leaned forward, letting my elbows rest on my knees and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, the kind that tremors through your whole body like an earthquake, and I rubbed at my eyes.
Heaving myself off the edge of the bed, I padded to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I rinsed my toothbrush under the tap and stuck it in my mouth after another yawn. I chewed on the bristles as I gathered up my hair in a ponytail. I was still trying to shake off the dream.
More importantly, why couldn't I shake Edward Cullen?
It suddenly occurred to my drowsy brain that I had another vic just days after Edward returned from his sojourn in Alaska, but I hadn't had one the entire time he was gone.
I was suddenly wide awake.
"We've got a partial print, Bella."
Eric was the technician on call and, much to my surprise, he was bagging evidence as I ducked under the crime scene tape and entered the warehouse. I tried taking in the details of the scene. Paint cans randomly dotted the floor, a broom lay abandoned near the northeast corner, and there was another open door at the far end of the building.
The big halogen work lights illuminated the crime scene and dozens of little, yellow placards marking the evidence around the mostly abandoned warehouse.
I tried not to get my hopes up.
"Is Newton here yet?" I asked, fumbling for my phone so I could enter some details.
Eric nodded. "Yeah, he and Crowley went around back to secure the property and see if there was anything else. There's some outdoor storage in a lean-to out back."
I could see the body, a woman, but I couldn't tell if the five open gashes marred the skin or if the throat and neck were torn open.
Mike and Tyler returned, stating there was no perp or second crime scene. I stayed outside the field Eric was working within, so I wouldn't contaminate the evidence, and waited for the team to process the scene. The unit worked systematically, taking photos, collecting evidence, and obtaining samples. Finally! There would be something to test!
After a couple more minutes, Eric rose from a crouch and ripped his gloves off before dropping them in the designated trash bag. He leaned into his shoulder and wiped his cheek on the shoulder of his polo shirt and announced, "It's all yours, guys."
We descended upon the scene like hounds chasing a fox. Mike picked up the victim's purse and searched for a wallet, Tyler studied the footprints near the rear door, and I stood over the body, looking down upon the once-beautiful face. Now her blue eyes were fixed with fear, and her blond hair was stained burgundy.
"Sarah Kempton, 28, from Webster."
I heard Mike's voice, but my eyes didn't leave the corpse. There were four deep gashes across her stomach in more of a random rather than systematic fashion. Blood had poured from the wounds and stained her pink T-shirt that read '#1 Mommy.' Not all the cuts went in the same direction. Some were angled to the right; some to the left, one was directly up and down. Her throat was slashed.
"There's no cash in the wallet, Bella. No credit cards either."
"Fuck!" I swore, looking away from the body. "There's no way this was the same perp, Mike. Different motive, different injuries. Who reported the crime anyway?"
Tyler spoke up, his shoes scuffing over the dirty pavement as he moved closer. "A neighbor across the street. She heard a scream and then a car speeding off."
"We took a sample, but there were no visible tracks," Eric said, disappointment tainting his voice as he bent low over his tools and began to pack them up.
"I'll head over and see if I can get any details." Mike handed the purse to Eric to put into evidence and excused himself from the scene.
I sighed, watching Mike leave and seeing the coroner's van pulling up outside.
"Don't worry, Bella. I'm going to process this right away. If there's a fingerprint match in the system, we'll have something soon," Eric said as he dropped the purse into a clear plastic bag labeled EVIDENCE in bold letters.
There was no way I'd be able to go home and sleep for an hour or two, so I decided to start my day early and headed in to the office—after I stopped for a coffee and a bear claw from the convenience store by the station. Cheap coffee and individually wrapped pastries. Mmmm, the breakfast of champions.
The office was never quiet. Despite the early hour, phones rang, visitors came in, and the techs ran labs. Still half asleep, I weaved through the desks like a drunk trying to find his car in the bar's parking lot at closing time. I dropped my bag into the waiting chair in my cubicle near the back corner of the office and sighed. Overnight the lights were dimmed to an orange glow, the bulbs buzzing and eating away at my sanity.
Stuck to the monitor of my computer was a note. At the bottom of the novelty stationary was a chalk outline of a body, and the caption read "Got Chalk?" I snickered and lifted it from the screen.
Come see me.
-Ang-
Angela. Maybe she had something on the body we'd found abandoned in the suburbs. I hurried back through the desks to the elevator and punched the keycode for the basement level. I tapped my nails on the handrail and waited as the elevator chugged to life, dropping suddenly, my stomach dropping immediately after.
My mind drifted back over the last several weeks. I didn't have much hope of solving the case with the current evidence, but if Angela had something, anything, to tie Edward Cullen—or anyone else to the crime—it would be the break we needed.
The elevator lurched to a stop, and the doors rumbled open. I made my way to the end of the hall where the tech lab was located. It was always a slightly eerie place full of pungent smells, strange noises, and technicians in special gear walking around in booties, hats, and masks so as not to contaminate anything.
Lucky for me, Angela sat at her desk, drumming her pen as her eyes scanned through a document.
"Angela? Got something for me?"
She jumped, clutching the papers to her chest. "Shit. You scared the life out of me!"
I cringed; I could see why it could be scary down here. "Sorry," I mouthed.
She took off her glasses, rubbing at her eyes. They looked red and droopy. I knew she was under an immense amount of pressure. Her expression gave it away.
"It's okay, I'm just really tired." She paused for a moment, tidying up her desk, before reaching for a file folder. "It took us a while, but we've finally identified your vic. His name was Kyle Anderson. He went missing after leaving his job as a paralegal one night. The family was asked to provide us with a sample from his toothbrush, and we confirmed what the family already knew."
I nodded, waiting for more. She knew what I wanted.
"And?"
She chewed on the inside of her lip and her eyes darted away. "There was nothing to test, Bella. Nothing. We didn't find a fingerprint, not another sample of DNA, or hair—nothing. There were no identifiable footprints, no contamination. I'm sorry, Bella. I tried. I tried so hard. I even ran all my tests again and took two separate sets of samples."
I punched my right fist into my open left palm. "Fuck."
Angela hesitated and then reached out, laying her hand on my knee. Her eyes met mine and were contrite and wary. "Bella," she said, swallowing forcefully as she squeezed my knee, "you're going to catch him, I know it."
I was instantly sorry for my reaction. Angela had just as much at stake as I did, and I had no doubt she wanted this sicko off the streets too. It wasn't my intention to insinuate that she had failed me, and I wanted her to know that.
"Ang, I—" I managed to lay my hand over hers before she interrupted me.
"I know, Bella. No apologies necessary. It's frustrating, and we all want him behind bars. Some cases are tougher than others, but they all screw up eventually. It's only a matter of time."
I could only nod. There wasn't really anything more I could say. I was drowning in feelings of disappointment, failure, and frustration.
"In the meantime, I'm helping Eric process your other crime scene. You couldn't ask for more evidence there."
All the more reasons not to get my hopes up. There's no way the same criminal would be so clean, so careful, and then make so many mistakes.
"Thanks, Angela, I'll let you get back to work."
I left the basement feeling the worst I had in days, weeks perhaps. How could a criminal be so callous and so perfect? Would he eventually make a mistake? Furthermore, was it even fair to still suspect Edward Cullen? Ultimately, I didn't care who it was. I just wanted Rochester as safe as it could be.
Returning to my desk, I decided to further investigate the mystery that was Edward Cullen. I'd done a search within the state of New York, and I really didn't want to involve the FBI for a case of suspicion and nothing more, so I did what every Millennial would do.
I googled him.
Surely something would have to come up: a profile on a dating or social networking site, a blog full of deep, dark secrets, or a mention in the University newspaper. I quickly typed in his name and hit 'search,' waiting to trawl through the results.
.18 seconds later, I had just a few findings.
I didn't expect the top results to be valid or hit so close to home.
The Cullen Family celebrates at the 2008 Policeman's Ball. Pictured from left to right are: Alice Cullen, Edward Cullen…
I quickly clicked the link.
I was met with a simple website that, perhaps, I should have been familiar with—the website for the Rochester Policeman's Ball. The page displayed several photos that were taken at a past gala event. Sure enough, several images down was the family I'd met only weeks before. The doctor and his wife were surrounded by their adopted children, all smiling perfectly, angelically, at the camera. I read the full caption.
The Cullen Family celebrates at the 2008 Policeman's Ball. Pictured from left to right are: Alice Cullen, Edward Cullen, Dr. and Esme Cullen, Emmett Cullen, and Jasper and Rosalie Hale. The RPD thanks the family for their generous contribution.
Contribution?
I scrolled up and found the sponsors page. Sure enough, about halfway down was a large banner with a black and silver family crest on it. The ad belonged to the doctor's practice, and it was one of the larger advertisements. A larger donor.
I suddenly wanted to kick myself for not going to the ball in the last few years. Truth be told, I tried to avoid it at any cost. It wasn't tough for some of the new members of the department; we were always stuck working when senior officers wanted a night off, but I'd taken on extra work to ensure I didn't have to get dressed up and attend. A mistake, clearly.
There was only thing to do—I'd have to RSVP for this year's gala.
By late afternoon I was exhausted; I'd been awake since 4 a.m. I had the coffee jitters from the influx of caffeine into my system. I knew the crash was coming and soon. I'd checked in with Angela and Eric for the final time, and was getting ready to power down my computer when the chief's office door opened with a whoosh.
"Swan, Crowley, Newton, you've got a male vic at the pumpkin farm off Route 251. It's recent, the owners remember the guy visiting yesterday. The Tech Unit left five minutes ago."
Yesterday? We'd never found a victim so fresh before. Maybe he had been there with someone.
Mike, Tyler, and I all bolted into motion, gathering laptops, briefcases, jackets, and securing our weapons as we assembled near the stairwell and elevators.
Within minutes we were racing down State Highway 251 with lights and sirens blaring. I couldn't ignore the fact that this could be a huge break.
The entrance to the farm had been sealed off by the Tech Unit, the yellow tape boundary alerting everyone that a crime had taken place in this sleepy little corner of the American Dream. The rural farmland would forever be tainted by spilled blood now. Could the poor family who owned this property recover? Would their business swarm with customers this Halloween as insects do to fresh fruit, or was it over for them?
The squad cars nearly bottomed out in the deep ruts and valleys of the muddy dirt road that led the way to the rich, black fields polka-dotted with pumpkins as they neared maturity. Curling, swirling vines snaked over the earth like the yellow crime tape that wove through the trees at the edge of the pasture where the Tech Team was already setting up.
We parked the cars and began the hundred or so yard walk through the damp, shin-high weeds and grass out to the farm's boundary clearly marked by barbed wire fencing in front of the pine tree forest surrounding the property. I saw no evidence markers along the way. It had rained hard that morning, and I knew with our luck we might never find any evidence anyway, but if there was any, it probably washed away.
On the other side of the fence, draped over the lowest branch of a once-proud pine, hung a body.
As usual, the throat had been ripped out, and the body looked emaciated and grey—as though all the blood had been drained. Something had slashed through his jeans and flannel shirt, exposing the mangled skin beneath. He had long hair that had been secured at the nape of his neck and an intricate beadwork bracelet that gave away his Seneca heritage.
"I wonder who he is," Mike muttered as we stood together at the fence and allowed the Tech Unit to do their work.
I swallowed and felt the sting of tears come to my eyes as the scene hit home.
"It's my neighbor, Morgan."
Author's Note 2: EPIC thanks to the talented Duskwatcher2153 and Kisbydog for the beta. Pop over and show some support for these talented ladies and their fics too!
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