Cage of bones

1.

Tobirama

There were advantages to having a filthy rich big brother.

"Please, Tobirama? Just try it. At least once. You'll like it."

There were definitely disadvantages as well.

"For fuck's sake, shut up. I'm at work. Also, the answer is no. I'm not a party-goer."

Hashirama sighed.

"I don't think you understand what you're missing. We're not talking about a sweet sixteen. We're talking a skytop bar, champagne, girls-"

"You know I don't do girls."

"Boys, then."

"No", I said firmly.

Hashirama sighed.

"Fine, then. At least let me take you to a ballet."

"Fine", I said, not really pausing to think what I was agreeing on seeing one of my junior colleagues just came into my office, police hat in hand, looking grave.

"Super! I'll pick you up Friday at eight", Hashirama said so chirpily, I immediately realised I had said yes to something I didn't want to do.

I hung up, not saying goodbye. Maybe, making your filthy rich brother happy was as good of a reason as any to go to a ballet.

"Chief?"

I leaned forwards, besides my fingers together on top of my desk, showing the officer I was listening.

"Spill it", I said; I didn't like it when my subordinates wasted time being polite.

"There's been another one", the young, rather green officer said timidly. God, he was cute. Blonde and freckled and thin as a stick. God knew how he had passed the physical exams required to join the police force. "Another missing person."

I sighed, ran my hand through my short, white hair. I knew my colouring, or lack thereof, scared some people off, but I didn't care. Actually, I rather enjoyed it. Or would have, if the situation hadn't been so dire; so serious. The fourth person to go missing within a week.

"What kind of person?"

"Clara Nielsen. A thirty-year-old athlete. Swimmer. Not internationally famous, but a few nationals behind her name. Family in Denmark."

"Have they been contacted?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good boy", I said, and the officer blushed madly just the way I intended to make him do.

I reached down and took a file from one of the drawers beneath my mahogany desk. It contained all other missing people. Henry, 50, graphic designer. Laura, 22, art student. Clover, 35, English teacher.

"Any connection between this Clara girl and the others?" I asked.

"None that we can find."

As I expected.

"Could it..."

The boy hesitated.

"What?" I urged him.

"Could it be coincidence?"

I leaned back, crossed my arms over my chest in a way that I knew made my muscular arms look even more dangerous than when I was relaxed, which was already plenty. I looked up at him from underneath my long fringe.

"It can always be coincidence, officer", I said. I noticed his eyes were farting this way and that; he was intimidated by me. Well, good. I hadn't become chief of the police force for nothing. "But we're not allowed to think that way. There's always a connection unless we prove otherwise. Understood?"