Police Story: Chronos (Novelette)

Recently, I have felt compelled to write a new Chronos story. Now, I know I have a terrible habit of starting these things and never releasing the finished product, but I have a good feeling about this one.

If you love CSI, Law and Order, or any kind of cop show, you will love this take on police work!

Police Story: Chronos
By Power Shot

Part One: Autumn the Sniper Cop

The shooting range at the police precinct was always empty at this hour.

A few dispatch officers were on duty, but the majority of the officers were out in the streets, protecting and serving the streets of Zepther. So, when the young plainclothes cop waltzed into the department headquarters, barely anyone noticed him, too focused on their own paperwork for the majority to even lift their heads in greet. That was fine to the plainclothes, who glanced at the clock on the wall of the precinct’s lobby. He whistled, it was much later then he originally thought it was. Though he wasn’t supposed to start his shift for about an hour, he liked to come early whenever life allowed to work on a few skills he had. He saluted the captain, who happened to be exiting his office, with a smirk and a flick of his wrist in the captain’s direction. The captain, a war veteran named Benson, nodded curtly in the plainclothes’ general direction, before returning his gaze to the file he had been looking at.

The firing range was located in the back of the station, conveniently right next to the regular criminals spending the night in holding. He looked to the cages with mild interest, as he had managed to bring in one perp the other day. “Wonder if she’s still there,” he said to himself, as the hallway was empty, and opened the door to the firing range. The room was quiet, something he happened to like, as bullets tended to be a bit loud, and it was hard enough shooting at a target with something that sounded like a cannon in your hand without the additional noise of other cannons bursting from other people. Plus, other people liked to judge each other’s firing accuracies.

And he didn’t really compare to most of Zepther’s finest. By any means.

He pressed the button next to the target station and a clean sheet emerged roughly a fifty foot distance away from the target station, exactly the distance that the plainclothes cop preferred. He reached inside the tan sports coat he was wearing and produced a gun from his holster, along with four accompanying bullets for his personal practice. He hated to use any more then that. After loading his gun clip, he snapped it into the butt of his gun and took aim at the target.

His cool grey eyes were obscured by the bangs of his sandy blond hair, so he snorted upwards with his mouth to clear his vision. For an instant, his gaze hazed but he focused his sight on the target and the fuzziness cleared up at once. “Adios, amigo,” he murmured to the target sheet, and fired all four rounds at once.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

He barely noticed the recoil on his gun, primarily because he was properly grounded when he fired, but his ears stung a little because he had forgotten to apply his earmuffs in the dimly lit, very acoustic firing range, and his shots echoed off the walls and back into his ears. But when the noise died down, the plainclothes pressed a switch on the side of his station to bring the sheet up. The human-shaped paper zoomed forward on its conveyor belt until it landed in his hands. “Not bad,” he commented, and looked over his handiwork.

His first bullet, easily indefinable from the fact that its hole had the most amount of time to adjust to the bullet’s entry, was located in the femoral artery in a neat burst. Had the sheet been a perp, the bad guy would have undoubtedly been unable to continue running, and would have fallen to the street clutching his thigh. The second was to disarm the suspect, and had torn through the sheet exactly where the bullet would have lodged in a real body between the collarbone and the ribcage. The plainclothes had shot the right side, simply because most people were right handed, but was more then able to shoot the left side, which he had with the third bullet. Both were neatly aligned on the sheet, with only a centimeter of difference in their symmetry. But it was the last bullet that the plainclothes had saved for last, considering it was the last resort.

The final bullet was directly where the heart would be found in the standard person. The cop hated to use lethal force, but didn’t deny that sometimes his job required that of him. As such, he had hit the target so, if it was one day a suspect, death would be instantaneous. He didn’t like making people die painful deaths. He set the target aside for later observation, pressed a button to load a second target sheet, and reached for four more bullets.

“Not bad, Slim Autumn,” a female voice behind the plainclothes said. Slim Autumn, the plainclothes rookie, turned around in surprise to see his superior, Sergeant Mullen, standing behind him. Sergeant Mullen, smiling, glanced at the sheet to his side. “Still practicing? I thought I made it clear that this place is off-limits at this hour.” She walked forward, and took her gun from her own belt. “You up for a pissing contest?”

Autumn shrugged. “I’m more of a solo flyer, if you catch my meaning, Sergeant,” he replied. His sergeant, always the polite considerer of other peoples’ opinions, loaded her own gun with eight bullets and slipped the clip right in. “Or, if you like, you can let me practice alone if I beat you with four bullets to your eight.” He cocked his eyebrows with a hint of defiance.

Mullen returned the favor with a smirk, and tossed back her raven bangs. “We’ll see, rookie,” she retorted. “Need I remind you who has the record for best score on this thing?” She glanced to a small plaque on the wall near the door, where her name was presumably displayed, Autumn couldn’t read that far away from where he was standing. “Best score wins.”

“If you say so,” Autumn replied, and made sure his safety was on before he started to twirl it casually in his right hand with his index finger. Mullen seemed to think something was wrong with that, for she issued a huff of indifference to whatever attempt at rattling her nerves he could think of, and faced the target sheet, keeping both her hands on her gun as she aimed carefully. Autumn yawned as Mullen fired slowly, one after another, each shot carefully planned and executed until eight empty shells were scattered on the floor next to Mullen’s shoes.

“How’s that?” she asked him with a hint of smugness. Autumn shrugged, and his ice-grey eyes met her bright green ones for an instant, then he moved forward to inspect her sheet. She had hit each vital point at least once, perfectly. It looked like excellence itself, and Autumn nodded with approval. “Give up, rookie.”

“I beg to differ,” replied said rookie, and glanced at his own target sheet for little in a very relaxed position, not even bothering to point his gun at the target. After about a minute of analyzing the target, he finally lifted his gun in a haphazard manner, flicking off the safety, and blasted the target in the same way a gang banger might take down a rival on the street. His gun empty, Slim Autumn blew on the gun barrel and pressed the switch to bring the sheet to him. Mullen joined in behind him, though she was slightly shorter then the rookie and had to stand on tiptoes to watch the results. “I win.” His enjoyment of his victory could not be understated.

“No you didn’t,” Mullen complained. “You hit the right and left pectorals, the trachea, and the headshot, yeah, but that’s not enough to warrant a win.”

“Oh no?” Autumn looked around the firing station, and spotted a marker conveniently placed near the score cards. He drew three sharp lines and chuckled. “How’s this?” Mullen glanced at the lines, which connected the blasts from Autumn’s gun into a gigantic letter ‘A’. “It’s an ‘A’ for ‘Autumn’,” he explained with satisfaction. “What do your target shots spell? And-” For Autumn to truly elaborate how much worse Mullen did, he had to look down at her and squint with his yes “-how much time did it take you to line up the shots?” Mullen pursed her lips.

“I still won on points,” she said.

“Yes,” Autumn agreed, “but not on style. No one’s going to respect your rep on the street if you don’t play hardball and look good while shooting.” He holstered his gun.

“We are cops, Autumn,” Mullen replied. “We don’t need any rep. We just need to do our jobs and keep the streets safe.”

Autumn didn’t want a lecture from his commanding officer, and current partner since his regular partner, a man named Murray, had taken retirement and a replacement hadn’t been handed to the rookie to show him the ropes. Thus the job was given to Mullen to show the detective in training the ropes, and his youthful upbeat nature of dispending justice helped her little. But at least his heart was in the right place, and he was quick enough on his feet for someone fresh out of the police academy.

“Rep keeps us from getting killed,” he pointed out, and snapped his fingers. “Anyways, Sarge, if ya don’t mind, I need to perfect my shooting style. It still lacks finesse.” He pressed the button for a clean sheet, and reached for his gun and four more bullets. Behind him, she snapped her fingers, which told the cocky rookie she wasn’t finished talking to him. He sighed, and rubbed his forehead. “What? My beat doesn’t start for a while still!”

“Suck it up, Autumn,” she retorted, and lightly flicked his cheek with her fingers. “We have a case that dispatch just tossed at me, and you’re catching it too.” Autumn suddenly noticed a case file on his target station, roughly where Mullen had left her practice sheet. Autumn groaned, he hated overtime, but nonetheless grabbed the file and flicked it open. A 187, from what Autumn could tell from the sheet inside.

“We got a stiff, huh?” he asked, with vague interest. “It’s a homicide. Why are we doing it?” There were people out there much better suited to the task, Autumn was more of a misdemeanor kind of cop. He had never been out on a homicide investigation.

“Higher ups want me to speed up your babysitting,” she replied with a giggle. “Let’s go.” Autumn fumed, but decided that there was nothing be done when Mullen wanted to do something. Adjusting his coat for the cold spring air of Zepther, the rookie plainclothes followed his somewhat attractive but annoying sergeant outside.

“I’m drivin’,” he muttered. The wind caught his hair slightly, and the blond strands fluttered in the wind. Mullen laughed at him mockingly and produced her pair of keys as they walked to her personal car. The lock beeped, and Autumn climbed into the shotgun seat. “Someday I’m gonna drive.” Mullen shut her door and put on her seat belt.

“When we take you off your diapers, maybe,” she replied sweetly, and started the engine. Autumn briefly considered the notion that he could tail her on his motorcycle, but didn’t have time to leave. Mullen started the car and it took off into the streets. Mullen was a slightly bold driver, especially for Zepther weather, which was transitioning between the snow of winter and the rain of spring. The tires squealed on the wet pavement, but Autumn leaned back in his seat, comfortable enough to know he wouldn’t be dying today.

“Is CSI there?” Autumn asked, and flicked open the file again. The victim, Harold Newton, had apparently been found stabbed with an unknown kind of blade, two hours beforehand. The stab wound had been inflicted directly to the heart, and death had been instantaneous. “I don’t want to mess up my first crime scene.”

“CSI just finished up,” she explained, and turned a corner. They were heading downtown, which was never a good sign when it came to crimes. “Just make sure to wear the butt-inspection gloves and you should be alright, rookie.” The drive took less time then Autumn anticipated.

“Forgot to clock in at the station,” he murmured. “Chief’s gonna have fun with that.”

“I clocked in for you before we left,” she said. “You’re fine.”

She parked the car across the street from a building which had outside it a crowd of people wearing their pajamas and little else. An ambulance was parked nearby, with no one inside it. “Body’s still inside,” Autumn noticed. “There’s no stiff in the bus.”

“They’ll want to get crime scene photos and let us take a look before they take the body to the morgue for identification,” she explained. “We’re there to analyze what they have right now, then we’ll head to the labs for DNA and fingerprint identification.”

Autumn clicked his tongue. “Got it.” He followed Mullen up the stairs, flashing his badge to the orderly guarding the staircase. The man nodded, and allowed Mullen and Autumn access to the apartment building. “What floor is he on?” Autumn asked, as Mullen headed for the stairs.

“Second.” They ascended, and easily located the door, primarily because of the gathering of investigators from the crime labs circling the door with samples and evidence. Autumn chose to limbo under the yellow police tape that blocked the door, while Mullen opted to simply duck under it like a sane human being. “And Autumn, try not to hurl on my shoes when you see the corpse. I just had them polished.”

“Oh yes, Master,” he shot back, and bowed slightly in feigned respect for his superior officer. “Take pity on me, for I am not worthy of your polished shoes. I, the man poor enough to only be able to afford sneakers.” He continued to bow right up until they reached the room with the dead body, wherein a powerful stench invaded Autumn’s nostrils like a charging rhino.

“Need some cream?” Mullen asked, noticing that Autumn had turned a slightly unattractive shade of green in response to the scent in the room. After rubbing some of the cream under her nostrils, she offered the small bottle to Autumn, who did exactly as she had immediately.

“So,” he murmured, as if nothing had happened. “Let’s see what’s up.”
***
Author's Note- This is a draft and only a portion of a larger novelette.

It's time for the magical enjoyment of another Part.

Part Two: Autumn Meets the Dark Eye

In his final moments of life, Harold Newton had not been very handsome.

His body was huddled in the corner of the bedroom, propped up against the dresser drawer next to his unmade bed. He wore nothing but his robe, and Autumn’s stomach felt slightly queasy at the sight of the dead man. Mullen’s hand gripped his shoulder, to reassure him.

“You okay, rookie?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’ll manage.”

Newton’s face revealed that he had been unattractive in life, a greaser with a heavy moustache on his upper lip. His eyes were still half-open, and his mouth agape in surprise. Autumn and Mullen walked forward, and the CSI team moved away to give them some privacy. Both took a pair of latex gloves and tweezers from them, then the CSI team moved out of the apartment to provide them with analyzing space. Autumn, with some encouragement from Mullen, leaned over the dead body, and looked it over.

Autumn knew he was being given the chance to observe first for practice, so he honed his gun slinging skills to look over the body. His partner looked over his shoulder. “Well, what’s the first thing those hawk eyes of yours can tell?” she asked. The rookie took a deep breath to steady his eyesight, then took in the whole scene as his sight slowly adjusted to the dim light in the room. CSI had thought it a better idea to keep everything as it was, so only a night lamp near the bed was available for light, aside from the bathroom’s bulb.

“I don’t think he died here,” he said, slightly hesitantly.

Mullen blinked. “Why not?”

To answer her, Autumn pointed to a faint red trail on the floor’s carpet, which clashed with the blue fabric. “He was dragged here from over there,” he answered, and used his tweezers to point to the bathroom, where the trail began. Mullen nodded, and smiled at his deductive skills.

“Go on,” she cooed.

Autumn stood up and headed to the bathroom door, which was ajar enough for someone to fit through. “He died here,” he confirmed, and pointed to just outside the bathroom, “where the blood trail begins. The attacker probably surprised him coming from the bathroom.” Careful not to disturb the crime scene, both Mullen and Autumn entered the bathroom. It was fairly clean for a downtown apartment, which slightly surprised them both. Mullen clicked her tongue, and shook her head.

“Sorry rookie,” she said with a smirk. “Your theory’s good, but take a look at this.” She motioned to the sink, filled with water to the halfway point. A razor sat perched next to the mirror, and Autumn saw it still had some hairs on the blades. Autumn’s mind flashed an image of Newton’s face in death: halfway through the shaving of his chin hair.

“So he was in here,” he murmured. “Stabbed from behind while wetting down his razor.” He glanced at the water, and grinned. “Bingo. There’s blood in this water, sergeant.” Mullen peered into the seemingly normal water.

“I don’t see anything,” she said, and squinted. “Looks fine. Are you sure, rookie?” There was a hint of doubt in her voice, but Autumn nodded, sure of himself.

“Yeah. Most people can’t tell from vision, but I can definitely see it,” he answered. “It’s slightly diluted, but it’s different from most water in downtown. Make sure that CSI gets a sample when they come back up for the stiff.” Satisfied with his inspection of the room, Mullen followed Autumn out of the room, where he stood in front of the corpse.

“Hey, sergeant?” he said. “Are we going to be interviewing the people on this floor?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “CSI wanted us to do that after we took a look around.” Autumn nodded, and kept looking around. Mullen thought it was weird that he would adapt so quickly to the crime scene. He was still looking for evidence. “There are roughly five people living on this floor we’ve been asked to interview. We can do it at the station, where they’ll feel safer.” She took one last look at the room, then began moving to the exit. Autumn did not follow her. “CSI will come back and take the body for an autopsy, we should get out of their way.” He remained where he was. “Have you seen everything you think you need?” He shrugged.

“I really don’t think I can add anything to the investigation by just looking at everything here,” he replied. “We should probably go and interview the floor residents and let CSI do their job.” He yawned, he hated being up this early, and stretched his limbs. “Actually, I think I could use some hot chocolate or soda. I need something to keep up at this ungodly hour.”

She tilted her head, and smiled. The rookie was just a rookie after all, she thought. “I’m pretty sure I saw an all-night convenience story a block down on the way here,” she said. “Would you like me to get you some coffee before we head back to the station?” Autumn shuddered, and shook his head.

“Anything that’ll keep me up but coffee and energy drinks,” he muttered with distaste. “Those things are disgusting.”

She laughed. “You’re gonna have to get over your fear of coffee sometime, rookie,” she murmured, but nodded. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” Mullen left the room with a slight quickness in her step that Autumn heard on the living room tile. He had at most five minutes, which was more then enough time for him to get what he needed. He closed the apartment door and doubled back to Newton’s corpse. The plainclothes rookie scanned the entire area with his grey eyes, taking in every detail of how Newton had looked when he died for Autumn’s personal recollection.

The initial report that his sergeant had handed him had lied. Harold Newton had not died of a knife stab to the heart. Oh, something had stabbed him sure enough, but as Autumn peered towards the crimson portion of the corpse’s otherwise white robe, the puncture wound didn’t match. It was hard to see from all the blood that had blossomed from it, but the hole was small and round, nothing like a knife blade. More like a pencil thrust, thought the rookie. There were also no signs of a struggle, since he couldn’t see any abrasions on the exposed flesh. The dead man had either known his killer or the killer had been very sneaky indeed, and Autumn was inclined to believe the former.

The murder weapon had also been kept inside Newton’s body, at least for a little bit, and the free arm of the killer must have been used to drag Newton backwards towards his final resting spot. Autumn glanced at the unmade bed, unsure of exactly how the killer had gotten inside. He couldn’t figure it out.

He whistled between his teeth. “This guy’s pretty smart,” he thought aloud.

“Indeed.”

For a moment, Autumn thought he had heard incorrectly, as if the wind fluttering from the open window had suddenly decided to speak to him to confirm his suspicions of the killer’s intelligence. But not so, for Autumn had distinctly heard a man’s voice speak to him out of nowhere. He looked up sharply, and the lights went out all over the apartment.

His heart racing, Autumn instinctively reached for his gun, having forgotten that he had neglected to load it before going out on duty. He faced where he thought the man’s, as it had certainly sounded like a man’s, voice had come from, and held the barrel out. “Hello?” he called into the darkness of the living room. Nothing answered. “Zepther PD! Come out with your hands up!” The only response he got was the sound of the door’s lock fastening shut. His heart rate increased. “Where are you?” He regretted sending his sergeant away.

A footstep clanked in the darkness of the living room, like metal. “You will lower your weapon,” hissed a response. The voice was so chilling, so dark, that for an instant Autumn’s hand wavered, nearly compelled to obey, but he kept a grip of his gun. After a few seconds of this standoff, the voice’s owner spoke again: “Your gun has no ammunition in its clip, and its safety is on. Do as I say or I remove your weapon by force.” Though this declaration was frightening, mostly because the voice’s owner had accurately guessed the weapon’s uselessness, Autumn sensed no malice in it, but feared nonetheless for his own safety.

“Are you a cop killer?” the rookie asked.

“I do not kill.”

The rookie believed the voice so, despite his better judgment, lowered his gun and slowly holstered it back into his coat. Carefully, he held his hands up, and placed them behind his head. I’m going to die, he thought. “Okay, mister scary voice,” he said with his smirk, trying desperately to maintain his composure. “I put the gun away like you asked.” He felt beads of sweat on his forehead, never a good sign when trying to show someone he was keeping his cool. He wanted to wipe them off, but didn’t dare move his hands. “What’s next?”

“You will lower your arms, officer, and I will reactivate the lights,” came the dark reply, but Autumn couldn’t help but feel like he was being spoken to as one speaks to a child. The rookie complied with the request, as his basic instincts told him that if the voice wanted to kill him its owner would have already done so. Autumn, no longer as afraid for his life, was granted his focus again, which allowed him to adjust his vision to peer into the darkness, where he noticed that someone was standing. This someone, whoever it was, was definitely taller then Autumn, with a significantly larger amount of muscle. “I am turning on the lights now.”

The room flooded with light, and Autumn shielded his eyes to keep them from blinding. When he lowered his arm, he gasped in shock when he noticed who it was standing in the living room: instead of a psychopathic cop killer, as his imagination had led him to believe, was the exact opposite. Clad cowl to boots in black, a trench coat draped over his shoulders, and a belt buckle with an infamous green-and-black eye design, it could only be one person. Completely indifferent or uninterested to the effect he was having on the rookie cop, Zepther’s savior began walking into the bedroom, his feet clanking on the tile. He stepped into the bedroom, and stood no further then a foot away from Autumn.

“Metalhead,” Autumn breathed in awe. To others, the warrior was sometimes known as the Dark Eye, but most of the criminal element and the authorities called him informally by another nickname the man had picked up.

The vigilante looked through his faceless cowl down at the rookie, who could discern nothing about his face beyond a general outline. “You are to address me as Chronos when you are in my presence. Understand?” He lowered his head to focus on Autumn, exactly as the rookie himself had analyzed the dead Newton.

“Y-yes, sir,” was the cop’s meek reply.

Chronos looked up, which Autumn took to meant satisfaction at establishing dominance. “Good,” he said, and then past Autumn to head directly to the dead body, “now get out. I am here to analyze this crime scene for myself before your teams blunder it up.”

Autumn, always the independent thinker, decided that was nor kosher. “I don’t think I can do that,” he replied. Chronos looked up, clearly as a scare tactic, but the rookie was relatively sure the vigilante wouldn’t hurt a police officer, albeit a new one. “I know you do good things, but I can’t let you come in here and tamper with evidence unsupervised.”

Chronos thought about this. “Your point is valid,” was his decision. “I do not want to hinder police investigations and prosecutions in this case.” He glanced over the dead body. “Who is the victim?”

“His name was Harold Newton.”

“Then may I analyze the crime scene with your permission?” Autumn nodded, under the impression that the Dark Eye aiding him could help in bringing Newton’s killer to justice. Like a hovering bat, Chronos looked over every detail of the crime scene, but touched nothing so as to not jeopardize Autumn’s case. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was actually half a minute, Chronos looked up. “Died in the bathroom,” he muttered to no one in particular. Autumn didn’t answer, already knowing that, and waited to see what the Dark Eye would say next. After an instant to consider his theory, the vigilante nodded with certainty. “Killer was at the docks earlier today.” He then took in the murder wound. “Killer is a fisher, or has access to professional fishing equipment. Probably owns a boat too.” Chronos turned to Autumn. “Right?” he said. Autumn nodded, as he was sure Chronos wasn’t looking for contradiction, but a way to express his knowledge to the police. He wished to include Autumn in the analysis without making one of Zepther’s finest feel dumber then dirt.

“Uh…how do you know that the killer’s a fisher?” the plainclothes rookie asked with interest. In response, the Dark Eye lifted his left arm to point to a smudge on the carpet.

“This is damper then most of the floor,” he explained. “Killer‘s been near water.”

“But it’s raining,” Autumn noticed. “It’s been raining all week in fact.”

“Notice the stain pattern,” Chronos added. Autumn did, and realized what the vigilante meant. “It is consistent with a boot smear. It also means that-”He glanced to the bed “-the killer engaged in intercourse with Newton prior to the murder. The stain has the exact size and shape of a fishing boot. It is a very small size for a male, but average for a woman.” Chronos looked at Autumn. “Newton’s feet aren’t small enough for the boots to be his own, the print belongs to the killer.”

Autumn glanced at the boot print, Chronos was right. “Wow.” He had completely missed the print because he hadn’t looked carefully enough. “Wait, why is the killer a fisher? If the killer has a boat, chances are they’re a tour guide or something like that. We have plenty of those people on the docks.” Most people with boats in Zepther made their living giving tours around the harbor on café-ships or transporting people to Canada.

Chronos pointed at the wound. “The injury was most likely caused by a fishing hook,” the Dark Eye explained. “This point of injury is straight, like something was stabbed straight in, but it is too clean to be anything else. A knife would make a larger hole, and the hole in the robe’s fabric matches a fishing hook exactly.”

Again, the Dark Eye was correct. “So, that means that if we find the murder weapon, our killer will be left handed, since Newton was stabbed on this side?” he asked, and pointed to the left half of the robe.

“Most likely. Though it is possible that they simply used the arm that could more easily reach the heart.”

All of this fascinated Autumn, and he was eager to continue contributing to the Dark Eye’s analysis, but before the warrior could shed any further light on the investigation, they heard a knock at the living room door, and Autumn remembered that Mullen was bringing drinks. He turned to the door, then glanced back at where the Dark Eye had been standing.

He was alone in the room again. Chronos had vanished.

Autumn, wondering if he had imagined the Dark Eye, then remembering that the door was locked, rushed to open it for his sergeant, who was calling out his name impatiently. He opened the door, and Mullen jabbed a cup of hot chocolate in his hands, which burned him slightly. “What were you doing in here?” she asked suspiciously. Autumn shrugged.

“Just taking it all in,” he lied.

She considered that, then nodded. “Alright. Well, let’s get moving. Chief just called, he’s getting the crime lab data together for us for after we finish taking the interviewers.” Autumn nodded, and sipped the coca, which burnt his tongue, but woke him up. Briefly he glanced back to the bedroom.

“You okay?” she asked, and peered up at him through her dark bangs. She took a draught of her coffee, and sighed with content. “You look kinda shaken up, rookie.”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he replied, and took another sip of the chocolate. “I just had a sort of weird feeling, you know?”

“It’s the same for everyone,” she said sympathetically. “I remember my first murder. Ten years ago, right when I joined the force, I got called in to look at the girl’s murder.” She lowered her eyes, and Autumn strongly suspected she was fighting back nausea. “She was killed over her purse. I hurled right then and there when I saw what the creep did to her body.”

He put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, Sarge. I‘ll help you get past this.”

She punched him. “Let’s go, rookie.” He followed her out.
***
Author's Note- This is a draft and only a portion of a larger novelette.

I have only read the first Part and it was great. Only makes me want to improve my own writing ability.

Enjoy Part Three, with a new character and a worrisome twist!

Part Three: A Worrisome Twist for Autumn

“For the record, could you state your name?” This was Autumn’s final witness and, from the sound of his voice, he was already falling into routine. So far, the other two he had interviewed had matching stories, and it looked likely that this one would to. The witness, a college student, had rumpled hair that Autumn was certain she wouldn’t be caught dead with on her campus. Her eyes were red, she had probably been studying for a test or something.

“Dana Cook,” she replied sleepily in the direction of the tape recorder. Autumn wrote down the name on his notepad.

“Occupation?”

“Student.”

“Good,” said Autumn. “How about you tell us about what you saw this evening?”

She took a deep breath, and Autumn readied his pen. “I was in my room studying for a big exam tomorrow, over chemistry. At about two in the morning, I heard a sound from that…the dead guy…Harold’s apartment. Like something crashed. I went out into the hall to see what was going on, and I saw a bunch of people outside his door. We got the super, and he opened the door…and he was…” She lowered her head, and Autumn held up his hand. He didn’t want to traumatize her.

“Would you like some water?” he asked, and gestured to the pitcher on the table. She nodded, so Autumn leaned up to pour her some. After a sip, he noticed a slight tear fall from her eye. “Dana, how well did you know Harold Newton?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not really well. I mean…he kind of kept to himself, you know?” Autumn did know, and motioned for her to continue. “Sometimes we’d pass each other in the hallway, but I didn’t really know him really well.”

“Did he have any contacts like friends or family?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Sometimes I’d hear stuff from the next room, since the walls are pretty thin,” she answered. “I think he might have had a girlfriend or something, but I can’t be sure. I didn’t see anyone ever visit the guy.”

Autumn nodded, and she drank from her cup. “Do you think you might know anything else that might be able to help us?” he asked. She shook her head, so Autumn reached into his pocket and produced a card. “Dana, thank you for taking the time to talk to me.” He handed her the card, with his name and phone number on it. “If you remember anything else that could help, please don’t hesitate to call me.” She took it, thanked him, and handed her to the escort that would lead her out of the police station. He sighed, and flipped through his notes.

The door opened, and Sergeant Mullen walked into the room. “How’d you make out?” she asked, and sat down opposite him. He sighed, and put his notebook on the table.

“I got nothing,” he muttered, and rubbed his eyes. “One of the witnesses didn’t even know the guy’s name, just wanted some free donuts. Another knew him, and said he kept to himself.” He glanced at the door. “But this last one lived right next to him. Said that Newton had a girlfriend, or something like that, because she sometimes heard them in his room. Paper thin walls.”

“Eh, better then I got,” she groaned. He could see the lines in her forehead scrunch up. “The super said that Newton paid his rent on time, was clean, and didn’t have any complaints. Other girl was asleep during the murder, didn’t know Newton at all.” Autumn glanced at the clock on his cell phone.

“How long will we have to wait for the autopsy report?” Autumn asked. He hated waiting for things when he could be doing things.

“I’m expecting a call any minute,” she replied.

They sat in silence for a while, mostly because they couldn’t think of anything else to talk about. The murder was too interesting for Autumn, and what he had been told by the Dark Eye had complicated things. He now knew that he was looking for someone from the docks, probably a woman. He knew a lot more than Mullen did, but he wasn’t sure whether he should tell his sergeant. What would she think? She could think he had inside information, it wasn’t like Chronos ever talked to the police.

“Are you alright?” Mullen’s voice broke his concentration, and he looked up from the piece of lint on his pants. “You have a weird, complicated look on your face. I’ve never seen that before.” Autumn shot her a dirty look.

“While you were gone, I-I had another look around,” he began.

“Find anything interesting?”

Should he tell her about Metalhead? “Well, I think we’re looking for someone on the docks,” he replied.

Mullen was about to ask why, but her phone started ringing. “Hello?” she asked, opening it. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, thanks for the update Kelly, we’ll be right there.” She shut it off, and stood up from the interview table. “Kelly down in the morgue just finished our autopsy, we should get going.” She started for the door, but stopped when she noticed that Autumn was not following her. “Rookie, you gonna be okay seeing an autopsied body?” Those could be ugly the first time.

“Yeah,” he said, and followed her. The morgue was located on the bottom floor of the police station, away from most of the people so its smell wouldn’t invade the station. When they opened the door they applied the cream to their nostrils again, lest the smell cause them to vomit. In the room stood one living man, finishing up the Harold Newton autopsy. He had little hair on his head but clear blue eyes, and greeted them as they walked in.

“I’m just finishing up in here.” Kelly, who was older then both Mullen and Autumn, was the chief medical examiner for Zepther PD, but still liked to get his hands dirty every now and then. “It‘s over there, I’ll be right with you.” He removed his red-stained gloves and allowed them to approach the deceased’s table. “So, ready to see the results?”

“Lay it on me,” said Mullen, who glanced over the body. Kelly smiled, in the manner an old man might when presenting his grandchildren with a Christmas toy, and lowered the curtain over Newton’s body for display. Autumn groaned softly, but sucked it up in a feigned cough.

“Death was the result of a direct stab to the heart,” declared Kelly, who pointed to the small, circular shape on the chest’s left side. “It was a tiny thing, and notice this.” Both the sergeant and the rookie looked at some minor abrasions near the wound that trailed down the left side of the body, the perfect shape if Newton had been stabbed by a fishing hook and had been scraped by the hook’s curve. “It looks just like a fishing lure, doesn’t it?”

Mullen looked, not to the hole in the body but to Autumn, in shock as she remembered what her rookie partner had said in the interrogation room. Kelly seemed not to notice, however, and continued with his information. “The wound matches up with how the victim was found, he was dragged from the bathroom by someone slightly smaller then he was. No DNA on the scene, so I can’t really give you a definite on who we’re looking for. But I did find some traces of metal lodged in the wound.”

“You run a trace on it?” Autumn asked.

Kelly smiled, and nodded. “It’s consistent with the kind of metal used in most corporate fishing hooks. And, thanks to the size, I can even narrow it down to the brand used for the murder. It’s manufactured here, most freshwater fishing hooks are.” He produced a piece of paper, which Mullen took with the information. “I hope that helps, it’s all I could figure out.”

“There weren’t any prints on the body?” Kelly looked to Autumn, but shook his head sadly.

“I’m afraid not,” he murmured, and lowered his head. “His skin had no fingerprints, his nails no skin samples, no DNA or anything. I did, however, find some latex residue on his back and chest, perhaps he had a fetish?” He scoffed to himself at the habits of young people, then adjusted his lab coat. “Well, anyway, the marks on the body look more defensive than offensive, so there‘s a chance Newton attacked someone, and that someone fought back.” He looked at the paper in Mullen’s hands. “I’ve printed all the information in that report. Use it wisely.”

“Thanks Kelly,” Mullen said with a smile. “How’s that model plane I got for your birthday working for you?”

Kelly grinned. “Easy as pie,” he replied, and snapped his fingers. “Really, you must give me a challenge sometime, sergeant.” They laughed and Autumn, oblivious to the apparent inside joke, was escorted out of the morgue, upon which his sergeant’s cell phone started ringing again.

She picked up. “Hello?” she asked. “What?” Autumn noticed a slight change in her tone, which meant something bad had happened. “Okay, stay right there. We’re on our way.” She shut off the phone, and looked at Autumn with a shocked expression. “There’s been another murder. Same M.O.”

Autumn groaned. “And the sun’s not even up yet!”
***
Author's Note- This is a draft and only a portion of a larger novelette.