In the Midst of Death Chapter 8, an once upon a time fanfic

Chapter 8

A Rookie stood in front of Tinker Bell's apartment door, his appearance betraying his inexperience. Emma recognized him immediately: barely old enough to order a beer, his uniform seemed freshly unpacked, and his skin had a slight green tint.

After a few months in this neighborhood, a cop learned not to get sick at the sight of a corpse. Drug addicts, street-accredited partners, and tough guys fought in these alleys for entertainment as much as for profit. The smell outside indicated either a recent death or the absence of recycling trucks for a week.

"Officer." She paused, showing her badge. Since she had emerged from what served as an elevator, Zimmer was on alert. Emma's instincts were telling her that without quick identification, she risked getting shot by the trembling hand of the young man holding the gun.

"Lieutenant." His eyes, scared, refused to fix on a specific point.

"Give me the status."

"Lieutenant," he said again, taking a long, unstable breath. "The landlord stopped my unit, saying there was a dead woman in the apartment."

"And there is... Officer Zimmer?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, she is..." He swallowed hard, horror crossing his face again.

"And how did you determine the subject was deceased, Zimmer? Did you check her pulse?"

A blush, rivaling the green tint, colored his cheeks. "No, Lieutenant. I followed procedure, preserved the crime scene, notified headquarters. Visual confirmation of death, the scene is intact."

"The landlord entered?" Emma knew she would learn all this later, but she saw him stabilize as she forced him to review the steps.

"No, Lieutenant, he says he didn't. After a complaint from one of the victim's clients who had an appointment at 9 pm, the landlord checked the apartment. He unlocked the door and saw her. It's a single room, Lieutenant Swan, and you see her as soon as you open the door. After the discovery, the landlord, in a panic, went down to the street and stopped my patrol unit. I immediately accompanied him back to the scene, made a visual confirmation of suspicious death, and reported."

"Did you leave your post, officer? Even briefly?"

Zimmer's eyes finally fixed, meeting Emma's. "No, Lieutenant. I thought I should, for a moment. It's my first, and I had trouble keeping myself together."

"It looks like you've held up well, Zimmer." From her bag, Emma took out gloves, putting them on carefully. "Make the calls to forensics and the ME. The room must be swept, and she must be bagged and tagged."

"Yes, Lieutenant. Should I stay at my post?"

"Until the first team arrives. Then you can make your report." She finished putting on her gloves, looking at Zimmer. "Are you married, Zimmer?" she asked, attaching her recorder to his shirt.

"No, Lieutenant. Sort of engaged, though."

"After you've made your report, go find your lady. Those who turn to alcohol don't last as long as those who have a warm body to get lost in. Where can I find the landlord?" she asked, and turned the knob of the unsecured door.

"He's downstairs, at 1-A."

"Then tell him to stay there. I'll take his statement when I'm done here."

She went inside, closing the door. Emma, though no longer a rookie, did not feel her stomach turn at the sight of the body, the torn flesh, or the blood-splattered children's toys. But her heart was heavy.

Anger seized her, a sharp and red lance, when she discovered the ancient weapon, nestled in the arms of a teddy bear. The scene struck Emma with emotional brutality.

"She was just a child."

It was seven in the morning. Emma hadn't gone home, she had caught an hour of restless and troubled sleep on her desk between computer searches and reports. Without a Code Five attached to Tinker Bell, Emma was free to access the databases of the Criminal Investigation Resource and Analysis Center (CIRAC). So far, CIRAC had found nothing that matched.

Now, pale from fatigue, nervous with the false energy of caffeine, she faced Humbert.

"She was a professional, Swan."

"Her fucking license was barely three months old. There were dolls on her bed. There was Kool-Aid in her kitchen."

She couldn't get over it—all those ridiculous and childish things she had to sift through while the pitiful body of the victim lay on cheap, frilly pillows and dolls. Enraged, Emma slammed one of the official photos on the dresser.

"She looks like someone who should have been leading the cheerleaders in high school. Instead, she was walking the streets and collecting pictures of fancy apartments and even fancier clothes. You think she knew what she was getting into?"

"I don't think she thought she'd end up dead," said Humbert calmly. "You want to debate sex codes, Swan?"

"No." Tired, she looked back at her copy. "No, but it depresses me, Humbert. A kid like that."

"You know better than that, Swan."

"Yeah, I know better." She forced herself to bounce back. "The autopsy should come in this morning, but my preliminary exam places her dead for at least twenty-four hours minimum since her discovery. Have you identified the weapon?"

"SIG two hundred and ten—a real Rolls-Royce of handguns, circa 1980, Swiss import. Silencer. Those old silencers were only good for two or three shots. The killer would have needed it because the victim's place wasn't soundproofed like Ariel Gold's."

"And he didn't call, which tells me he didn't want her to be found that quickly. He needed time to disappear, to escape," she reflected. Thoughtful, she took a small square of paper, officially sealed.

TWO OUT OF SIX

"One a week," she said softly. "My god, Humbert, he's not giving us much time."

"I'm checking her logs, her client book. She had a new client scheduled, 8 pm, the night before last. If your analysis is correct, that's our man." Humbert let out a thin smile, almost spectral in the dim light. "John Smith."

"Older than the murder weapon," said Emma, rubbing her hands over her face, a gesture marking both her fatigue and determination. She let out a dry laugh, tinged with irony. "With all its resources, the CIRAC will surely track down our man with that profile. John Smith, what a genius!" Her voice, laden with sarcasm, left no doubt about her skepticism regarding the relevance of their lead.

"They're still compiling the data," murmured Humbert, his voice tinged with a protectiveness, even an unexpected sentimentality for the center. After all, his department was in charge of this part of the analysis.

"They won't find anything. We're dealing with a ghost, Humbert."

He snorted, a fleeting smile crossing his face. "Yeah, a real Jules Verne."

"We're looking at a twentieth-century crime," she said, lowering her hands, her voice muffled by exhaustion and frustration. "The weapons, the excessive violence, the handwritten note left at the scene. Maybe our killer is some kind of historian, or someone who regrets the good old days. Someone who wishes things were as they were before."

"Many people think everything would be better otherwise. That's why we're overwhelmed by theme parks." Humbert got up, pacing the room with nervous energy, his gaze fixed on an invisible horizon.

Emma, the determination reigniting the flame in her eyes, resumed: "Even with its advances, the CIRAC can't help us get into this guy's head. It takes a human mind to decipher this puzzle. What's he after, Humbert? Why is he doing this?"

"He's targeting PAs."

"PAs have always been easy targets, since Jack the Ripper, right? A vulnerable profession, even with all the screening, we still find clients to mistreat PAs, kill them."

"It doesn't happen often," Humbert stopped, thoughtful. "Sometimes, in S and M venues, a party can get out of hand. But most PAs are safer than many other professions."

"They remain exposed, the oldest profession facing the oldest crime. But things have changed, some things. Violence has evolved, as well as our means to apprehend it. Firearms remain accessible in a limited way, and society and legislation have evolved to discourage criminal use. Desire, although always a driver, is now channeled differently. We have sophisticated investigative methods, blending technology and psychology to anticipate and understand criminal behaviors. New motives have emerged, reflecting the complexity of our time. In the end, a constant remains: people continue to kill. This is the challenge we must face, Humbert. Keep looking. Me, I've got people to see."

"You mostly need sleep, Kid."

"Let that bastard sleep," muttered Emma, a glint of defiance in her gaze. Stiffening, she turned to her smartphone, ready to face the next ordeal. It was time to contact the victim's parents, a task she approached with solemn gravity.

When Emma walked through the doors of the opulent hall housing Mills Inc.'s offices in the heart of downtown, she carried the weight of more than thirty-two hours without sleep. The previous hours had seen her deliver the darkest news to devastated parents, their tears and shock leaving an indelible mark on her memory. She had scrutinized her monitor until the numbers and letters began to dance before her tired eyes.

Her follow-up interview with Tinker's landlord had been an ordeal in itself, turning a simple procedure into a veritable obstacle course. The man, having had time to digest the events, had spent thirty long minutes lamenting the negative media fallout and potential repercussions on his rental business.

"So much for human empathy," Emma thought bitterly.

ooooo

Approaching Mills Inc., located in the vibrant heart of New York, Emma was greeted by a sight that surpassed her expectations. The building, with its elegance and impressive stature, soared into the Manhattan sky like an ebony arrow, capturing the sparkle of the wet asphalt under urban illumination. All around, a sophisticated network of aerial paths for delivery drones wove a dynamic web above the streets, while holographic screens continuously broadcasted the latest news and advertisements, creating a luminous halo that brought the glass and steel structure to life. Facades equipped with smart solar panels, reacting to light intensity to optimize energy, reflected a changing mosaic of colors, symbolizing the harmony between technology and sustainability. The incessant ballet of autonomous cars and electric vehicles, gliding silently along the redesigned avenues, offered a visual symphony, a testament to the metropolis's relentless progress towards a new era.

On this segment of Fifth Avenue, Emma noted the total absence of the usual hustle and bustle of food trucks and street vendors, usually in the midst of electronic gadget transactions. Here, street commerce had vanished, replaced by an almost surreal silence, imposed by strict zoning. Silent surveillance drones patrolled the space, while automated vending points offered products without human interference, creating a bubble of tranquility amidst the New York frenzy.

The main hall, encompassing an entire city block, was a world unto itself. It housed three establishments of the restaurant Le Festin Enchanté, a gallery of luxury boutiques, a selection of specialty stores, and even a small cinema dedicated to art films.

The floor, covered in dazzling white tiles, stretched to the horizon, capturing the light to create a lunar effect. Glass elevators, equipped with antigravity technology, rose and fell effortlessly, tracing luminous lines in the avant-garde architecture of the hall. Visitors were guided by personalized synthetic voices, offering precise instructions with almost human gentleness.

Interactive holographic maps, floating at eye level, invited autonomous exploration, reacting instantly to the gestures of the curious to reveal paths and information about the surroundings, making each movement an immersive experience in this microcosm of the future.

Approaching a monitor, Emma was greeted by a digital assistant of impeccable politeness.

"Regina Mills," she expressed, a hint of irritation piercing her voice, surprised by the omission in the main directory.

"I'm sorry," replied the machine in a tone suavely programmed to reassure, but which, in its excess of zeal, only exacerbated Emma's irritation. "I cannot access these informations."

Persistent, Emma presented her badge to the recognition interface, letting the device buzz as it analyzed it. The wait, though brief, seemed interminable, until finally, validation sounded, establishing a direct link with Regina Mills.

"Please proceed to the east wing, Lieutenant Swan. You will be expected there."

"Okay."

Emma proceeded down a corridor where a marble stream was bordered by a bloom of pure white impatiens.

"Lieutenant." A figure detached itself, a woman dressed in a striking red suit, her immaculate white hair rivaling the hue of the flowers, displaying a smile pierced by a hint of coldness. "Please follow me."

With a confident gesture, she inserted an ultra-thin security card into a discreet reader, then placed her hand on a black glass panel for biometric verification. As they approached, a section of the wall silently retracted, revealing a private glass elevator.

Once inside, Emma's companion selected without hesitation the building's highest level, a choice that hardly surprised Emma. She understood that Regina Mills would aim for nothing less than the top, both literally and figuratively.

The vertical journey unfolded in an almost ceremonial silence, only disturbed by the slight hum of their rapid ascent. The woman, wrapped in a subtle and sophisticated fragrance, embodied discreet elegance, from her carefully chosen shoes to her impeccable hairstyle. Emma, while remaining focused on the purpose of her visit, couldn't help but secretly admire the ability of some to present themselves with such mastery and refinement.

Against such a serenely majestic backdrop, Emma instinctively adjusted her time-worn leather jacket, internally questioning the wisdom of finally investing in a real haircut, rather than continuing to manage it herself in a makeshift manner.

These "primordial" fashion and hair considerations were quickly set aside when the doors opened onto a vestibule of Olympian calm. The space, dazzling white and generously sized like a small apartment, was a verdant oasis. Ficus, palm trees, and even a dogwood, an unusual bloom for the season, thrived in an urban oasis. The air was scented with a spicy and tangy fragrance, emanating from a collection of dianthus in vibrant shades of pink and violet.

At the heart of this indoor garden, a lounge area invited relaxation, with its purple sofas, polished tables, and lamps that were undoubtedly made of pure

brass, topped with precious-hued shades.

Dominating this space, a centralized circular desk recalled the command post of a spacecraft, equipped with monitors, keyboards, and other communication instruments, where a trio of employees orchestrated ongoing operations.

Crossing the glass bridge, Emma had a breathtaking view of Manhattan, her thoughts briefly diverted by the music playing in the hall, unfamiliar to her ears; Her relationship with music had only begun after her tenth birthday.

Arriving at their destination, Caro, still impeccable in her scarlet suit, used a discreet intercom to announce: "Lieutenant Swan, ma'am."

"Let her in, Caro. Thank you."

With silent efficiency, Caro once again activated a black glass plate, triggering the opening of a panel. "Please, lieutenant," she said, inviting Emma to proceed.

"Thank you." Curiosity piqued, Emma watched Caro walk away, admiring the grace with which she moved on her high heels. Then, she crossed the threshold into Regina Mills' office.

It was, as she expected, as impressive as the rest of her New York headquarters. The three-dimensional view of the city skyline provided a striking contrast with the luxurious interior, where the high ceiling and bright lights complemented the rich topaz and emerald tones of the opulent furniture. Yet, it was the presence of the woman behind the ebony desk that dominated.

Emma still wondered what made Regina Mills so intriguing as she stood to greet her with an enigmatic smile.

"Lieutenant Swan," she said, her voice tinged with a Costa Rican accent, "a pleasure to see you again, as always."

Emma responded with a determined smile. "You might not think the same when I'm finished."

Regina raised an eyebrow. "Why not discuss it now?" she suggested, offering coffee.

"Don't try to distract me, Ms. Mills," retorted Emma, her gaze briefly scanning the room. As spacious as a helipad, it was filled with high-end amenities: an automated bar, a relaxation chair with VR, an unused wall screen, and to the left, a luxurious bathroom with a jacuzzi.

Regina watched Emma, her impassive expression barely concealing admiration for her confident approach and her ability to grasp the details of the room.

"Would you like a tour, Emma?" Regina offered, a hint of challenge in her voice.

"No. How can you work with all this..." Emma gestured towards the treated glass walls, "...all around?"

"I prefer freedom to confinement. Are you going to sit or stand?" retorted Regina with a hint of amusement.

"I'll stand. I have questions, Ms. Mills. You have the right to an attorney."

Regina arched an eyebrow, a corner smile appearing. "Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet."

"Then, we'll wait for the attorney. Ask your questions," consented Regina, her relaxed posture contrasting with the tension of the exchange.

Emma, though standing opposite Regina, couldn't help but note that despite Regina's relaxed position, her hands were nonchalantly slipped into her pockets, a subtle indicator of underlying emotions.

"The night before last," Emma inquired, fixing her gaze on Regina, "Between eight and ten p.m. Can you verify where you were?"

Regina, with ease betraying familiarity with technology and confidence in her own alibi, tapped the screen of her device to open an app displaying her history. "I believe I stayed here until a little after eight." She showed Emma the screen displaying the time her monitor disconnected, 8:17 p.m. "Then, I left the building and drove home."

"Drove," interrupted Emma, her tone indicating she was looking for precision, "or were you driven?"

"Drove. I keep a car here for such occasions. I don't like to make my employees wait for my whims." Regina's response seemed to charge the air with subtle irony, highlighting a distance between her and the usual expectations of her status.

"Very democratic of you." Emma couldn't help but find the response both revealing and, unexpectedly, awkward. She hoped she would have a solid alibi. "And then?"

"I had a glass of cider, took a shower, changed. Then, I had a late dinner with a friend."

"At what time, and with whom?"

"I think I arrived around ten. I like to be punctual. It was at Eliana de Lys's townhouse."

The mention of Eliana de Lys immediately conjured in Emma's mind the image of a voluptuous blonde woman, with sensual lips and almond eyes. "Eliana de Lys, the actress?"

"Indeed. We shared a meal based on pigeon, if that can be of any use to you."

Emma chose to ignore the sarcasm. "No one can verify your movements between 8:17 and 10 p.m.?"

"A staff member might have noticed, but I pay them well and they are likely to say what I ask them to say." said Regina with a hint of sarcasm. Her voice then changed. "There has been another murder, hasn't there?" Her statement, sharper, signaled a turn in their dialogue.

"Tinker Bell, Accredited Partner. Some details will be released in the media within the hour."

"And some details will remain out of media reach."

"Do you have a silencer, Ms. Mills?"

Regina remained stoic. "I own several. You seem tired, Emma. Have you been up all night?"

"It's part of the job. Do you have a Swiss gun, a SIG Sauer P210, dating from around 1980?"

"Indeed, I acquired it recently, six weeks ago. Please, take a seat."

"Do you know this person?" Emma took out a photo from her briefcase. On it, a young girl with an elfin appearance overflowed with mischief and joy, illuminating the photo with her presence.

Regina's gaze fell on the image placed on the desk, and a shiver crossed her eyelids. When she spoke, her voice betrayed an emotion that Emma interpreted as compassion.

"She's too young to be accredited."

"She celebrated her eighteenth birthday four months ago. She applied on the same day."

"So young... She didn't have the chance to change her mind." Regina looked up at Emma, and this time, it was undeniably compassion. "I didn't know her. I have no connection with prostitutes, let alone children." She stood up, circled the desk to return the photo to Emma. "Please, sit down."

"Have you ever—"

"Sit down, damn it." Regina, suddenly carried away by anger, grabbed Emma by the shoulders and pushed her onto a chair, thus overturning the backrest that scattered other photos of Tinker, images far from reflecting mischief or joy.

Emma could have picked them up first, her reflexes being no less sharp than Regina's. Perhaps she wanted Regina to see them, perhaps she needed her to see them.

Crouching, Regina picked up a scattered photo from the floor, observing it intensely. "My God," she breathed. "Do you really think I'm capable of such a thing?"

Emma, trying to remain professional, began, "It's not a question of belief. I must investigate—" She stopped short, their gazes locking.

"You believe I'm capable of this?" Regina insisted, her voice low and sharp.

"No, but I have a duty to perform."

"What a shitty job."

Emma

gathered the photos, methodically putting them back in place. "Sometimes, yes."

"How can you sleep after seeing that?"

A shiver crossed Emma, betraying an emotion she immediately tried to mask. Regina, also intrigued by this instinctive and emotional reaction, regretted provoking it.

"I tell myself I'll stop whoever is responsible. Now, let me go."

Regina, motionless, placed her hand on Emma's arm. "Someone in my position needs to know how to read people. You seem to be on edge."

"I said. Let me go," insisted Emma.

Regina helped her stand without letting go, blocking her path. "He's going to do it again," she said calmly. "And it haunts you, not knowing when, where, or who."

"Stop trying to decipher me. We have psychs for that."

Emma's gaze hardened.

Regina sketched a smile, but without any trace of amusement. "I have connections, lieutenant. You were supposed to undergo a psychological test several days ago, a standard department procedure after a justifiable end, the one you implemented the night Ariel was killed."

"Don't dig into my life," Emma retorted vehemently. "And your connections can go to hell."

"What scares you? What are you afraid they'll discover?"

"I'm not afraid of anything." Emma's reply was firm, but Regina placed her hand on her cheek. An unexpected, soft gesture that made her stomach clench.

"Let me help you."

"I..." A shiver, almost an echo of the one provoked by the photos, brushed Emma's lips. But her reflexes, honed by years of control, prevented her from revealing her thoughts. "I manage." Turning away, she announced, "You can pick up your things tomorrow from nine o'clock."

"Emma."

She didn't stop, staring at the door. "What?"

"I'd like to see you tonight."

"No."

Regina, feeling a strong impulse to run after Emma, resisted and remained still. "I can help you with this case."

Emma, wary, stopped abruptly and turned around. If Regina hadn't been overwhelmed by sexual frustration, she might have laughed at the suspicion mixed with evident skepticism in Emma's gaze.

"How?"

"I have contacts who knew Ariel," explained Regina. Her seriousness slightly transformed Emma's skepticism into interest, although distrust persisted. "You're looking for a link between Ariel and this young girl. Let me see what I can find out."

"The info from a suspect has little value," retorted Emma. "But you can still pass it on to me."

A corner smile formed on Regina's lips. "Curious, isn't it, how I desire you... naked and in my bed?" She cleared her throat, as if to correct herself, and added: "I'll keep you informed, lieutenant."

When Emma left the room, the smile faded from Regina's eyes. Alone, she nervously played with a button in her pocket, activating a private and secure line for a call she preferred to keep out of her history.

ooooo

Approaching a monitor, Emma was greeted by a digital assistant of impeccable politeness.

"Regina Mills," she expressed, a hint of irritation piercing her voice, surprised by the omission in the main directory.

"I'm sorry," replied the machine in a tone suavely programmed to reassure, but which, in its excess of zeal, only exacerbated Emma's irritation. "I cannot access these informations."

"Please proceed to the east wing, Lieutenant Swan. You will be expected there."

"Okay."

Emma proceeded down a corridor where a marble stream was bordered by a bloom of pure white impatiens.

These considerations were quickly set aside when the doors opened onto a vestibule of Olympian calm. The space, dazzling white and generously sized like a small apartment, was a verdant oasis. Ficus, palm trees, and even a dogwood, an unusual bloom for the season, thrived in an urban garden. The air was scented with a spicy and tangy fragrance, emanating from a collection of dianthus in vibrant shades of pink and violet.

At the heart of this indoor garden, a lounge area invited relaxation, with its purple sofas, polished tables, and lamps that were undoubtedly made of pure brass, topped with precious-hued shades.