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Protowriter469 t1_j6etpep wrote

"A blind detective," the officer with the nametag Collymore exclaimed, "not something you see every day."

"Not something I see any day," I smiled. Most people were sensitive--if not somewhat patronizing--when they watched me tap my way around police barricades and yellow lines of police tape. Not this guy, though. Every once in a while I come across someone who speaks their mind.

"I guess that's right!" he chortled, drawing glares from the handful of forensics personnel as they emerged from the house. Who laughs in the presence of a murder victim? "So it's some kind of ruse, right? Like Miss Cleo?" The officer was now leaned closed, whispering conspiratorially.

"Miss Cleo?

"The psychic." He used air quotations, then caught himself and dropped his hands. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"She had a commercial, used to scam people who called her line. Miss Cleo, that is. Famous in the 90s. You really never heard of her?"

"I don't watch a lot of TV."

"Right." He pressed his eyes closed and tucked in his lips for a moment, illustrating some newfound shame. "But what I'm saying--and I'm not trying to be an asshole--but come on. What are you doing here?"

"I was hired to come assist the department," I answered. "They keep me on retainer."

He shook his head silently before squinting up at my sun-glass-shaded eyes. "I guess go on through," he sighed. "But hey,"

"Yes?"

"This was a good family, okay? Try not to stir the pot too much in there."

"Thank you, Officer..."

"Collymore."

"Collymore," I smiled, extending a hand forward. "I'll do my best to respect the dignity of everyone involved."

He nodded, unconvinced, before gesturing me to follow the freshly edged walkway into the house.

It was like every other home in the cul-de-sac: a large, pitched ceiling, arched windows, hollow columns. A concrete-and-drywall palace, massive from the curb, but oddly cramped inside. Family pictures hanged in the entryway under an artificially weathered sign: "When we're together, we're family." What was once a harmless expression of familial affection was now a cruel, dark irony.

"Detective Bexley," the unmistakable voice of Captain Gunn easily rose above the cacophony inside. She was a tall and foreboding figure, her hair cropped unapologetically short and her uniform prim and spotless.

"Captain Gunn," I returned the professional greeting. "I didn't expect to run into you here."

She ignored my thinly veiled question, what is a police captain doing at a midnight murder, and moved toward me quickly. With one firm hand she gripped my elbow and with the other, she shook my hand. "It's good to see you, Detective."

"Good to be seen."

"I have to ask, though. What are you doing here?" She'd beaten me to my own question.

"I was actually hoping you would tell me. I got a message on my pager thirty minutes ago to be here. What happened?"

"Not that I don't appreciate your service to the department, detective, but that didn't come from me. Regardless, it's too early to speculate. Forensics is still combing through the home and we won't need a consult at least until tomorrow after noon."

"Oh." I tried to sound more embarrassed than offended, without removing all offense from my tone. "I see. In that case, I'm terribly sorry for intruding."

"It's nothing. Do you need help getting back out?"

"Since I'm here, do you mind if I poke around? I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep for a while anyway."

Captain Gunn was not so easily charmed. A black woman in command of law enforcement officers would have had to break a cascade of glass ceilings. My "blindness" was just one, and she was not about to change the rules off that alone.

"No," she finally told me.

"Officer Collymore told me there was a family here--a good one. Was it someone close to the department?"

Her thin eyes peered outside toward her loudmouth subordinate. "I don't like rumors around my crime scenes, detective."

"Then please, dispel them."

Her tongue mouthed the inside of her cheek as she mulled over the position she was in. "You can follow me. Five minutes." Gunn handed me a box of latex gloves before ushering me

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Protowriter469 t1_j6ety84 wrote

around by the elbow.

There were four victims: Henry Emerson, his wife July Emerson, and their children, fifteen-year old Colin and twelve-year old Bailey. Captain Gunn gave me a brisk tour around the home, which was spotted with evidence cones and swarming with camera-toting forensics officers.

July was found dead in her bed, her face caved in by something large and round, but her body was otherwise undisturbed. The children's fate was no so peaceful.

"Can I see where they were found?" I asked the Captain.

Gunn's stoic posture was slightly shaken, she did not want to see the children again, but she led me to the garage anyway.

It was a scene of chaos: boxes fallen to the ground, their contents spilled. Christmas ornaments coalesced with pool noodles and tennis rackets. In the middle of the car bay, two bodies lied sprawled out, blood dousing their clothes and the ground around them.

"What was the cause of death?"

"You know as well as I do that we won't know until the autopsy is done."

"What do you think it was?"

Gunn leaned closer. "Could be the stab wounds. Could be blunt damage. Could be their eyeballs being ripped from their sockets."

My blood ran cold. I would learn nothing here, where the crime was most interesting. "Where's the father?"

Gunn lead me to the backyard, where a man was erected on a cross, nails driven through his hands and feet and his eyes taped open. It was a bizarre and gruesome scene, more akin to some arthouse horror film than a suburban murder.
But at least his eyes were in tact.

I convinced Gunn to let me a little closer before I peered over the black lenses of my glasses and made eye contact with the corpse hanging before me.
The images rattled into my mind.

Bully.

Abuser.

Alcoholic.

Liar.

Racist.

Sexist.

Sadist.

Murderer.

"Did you know him?" I asked the Captain.

"He was an officer," she replied in a detached, stuffy police captain voice. "I can't say we saw eye-to-eye frequently, but it didn't deserve this."

And yet I knew he did. His family didn't, of course. From what I could tell, they'd been victims the whole time, only to meet a grisly end.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I told her.

"What did you see?" she whispered, either desperation or anger causing the end of her sentence to flutter.

She couldn't know about me. There was no way. But in some way that she couldn't explain out loud, she had picked up on my gift, or at least had come to understand some small piece of it.

I wanted to tell her he'd been brave; noble. I wanted to give the captain comfort. But kind lies would be an insult to a woman of her integrity.

"His family didn't deserve this."

She gave a curt nod before asking me to leave.

I snuck one more glance at the red, taped-open eyes staring at the ground.
"Excuse me," an officer with a camera asked me to move, and as I stepped aside, I saw my reflection in his lens for only a moment.

Traitor.

I doubled over and vomited bile from my empty stomach.

"Okay, okay," the Captain ushered me away quickly. "Let's not make more of a scene."

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SamuelVimesTrained t1_j6hssaf wrote

Now, i am wondering 'why' on the 'traitor' comment..

Will there be more - as now i really would like to know.

And really well done .. goosebumps after reading this.

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abominableunbannable OP t1_j6flqan wrote

I don't like how you inserted your political biases into the story but otherwise this is pretty good!

−34

ThordurAxnes t1_j6glqki wrote

Oh, no. He wrote about an abusive cop. He must be a liberal commie leftist.

Nice bit of projection, op.

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Protowriter469 t1_j6fnurm wrote

Oh. Well all the opinions are the character’s, not mine. But I didn’t think I said anything that polarizing..

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Rydil00 t1_j6h7bd0 wrote

I don't like how you can't just accept a good story and have to find some bullshit to complain about, but otherwise you're right about it being pretty good!

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