"Membrane, you're looking rough today," Charles stepped into his office.
Dib sat back and smiled.
"Long night," he replied.
"Yeah? You're in for a long day, too." He handed him a folder. "Your girl is dead. Brunette in lockup ID'd her."
"What?" he leaned forward to flip open the folder and skim through the papers and photos, finding a gruesome image of the victim among them. It was her alright, the woman from the butcher shop, though he could barely tell from her mangled appearance. "What happened?"
"Someone called about noise coming from her apartment on southside around 4am. Officers went to investigate, found her dead in her kitchen. Stabbed twelve times with an unidentified object and her face was crushed in with blunt force by what we suspect is the same object."
"Is there a suspect?" Dib sat back, tossing the folder on his desk and folding his hands behind his head.
"Not yet. No leads, either. This is a passion murder. Nothing was taken. Someone wanted her dead."
Dib nodded slowly, lowering his arms as he stared at the photo.
"Alright, I'll start on it, thanks."
Charles nodded and left. Dib closed the folder and stood, pulling his coat on.
The detective stepped under the police tape and unlocked the apartment door. He stepped inside, the scent of blood heavy though cleanup had already done their job. Everything not considered evidence had been left, the family called to come clean out the apartment later that week. He walked around the small flat slowly, taking in all the details he could. A passion murder. The door hadn't been forced. He checked the bedroom and found the window broken, cardboard taped in place over it until it could be repaired. He stepped around the broken glass carefully and pulled up a corner of the cardboard, looking down three stories to the street. No human could climb that high. He pressed the tape back down and went to the kitchen, hands in his pockets as he looked around. Cleanup had done a good job, aside from the smell. That would have to just wear away with time. Something caught his attention and he stepped over to the fridge. A large dent defaced the front of the door, placed there with some force. He remembered seeing it in the file photos and turned to look at the fresh scratch across the counter. Reaching out, he ran his fingers along the deep groove in the counter. This, too, would have taken a considerable amount of force to accomplish. Looking up, he saw a hole punched in the ceiling over the stove. The stab wounds, unidentifiable object. He thought back to the metal extension folded away in the Irken's PAK. Dib drew his cellphone as it vibrated.
"Membrane."
"A murder was just reported in Madison, I want you to get up there."
"Madison? What ever happens there? That's not our district."
"Same deal, stabbing with an unidentifiable object. We might have a serial on our hands."
Dib glanced at the counter.
"Alright. Forty-five, with traffic." He hung up and left the apartment, locking it behind him and returning the key to the landlord waiting downstairs.