The Calm Before

EIGHTEEN HOURS BEFORE - 09:00

Detective Cash Grayson arrived to work. His golden hair gelled back to perfection, his expensive starchy suit on point. His amber eyes studied the crime scene around him. A dead body on the cold December concrete, in the midst of a parking lot. And blood. Lots of blood.

Walking under the yellow tape, he walked straight to the first responders. "Hey. Give me the lowdown."

"Right. Well, first of all, she was already deader than a fat buck durin' huntin' season by time we arrived," the first young man said.

"Crude," Cash noted.

"Sorry," the second man apologized, clearly embarrassed by his friend's lack of tact. "We checked for a pulse and found nothing. Looks like she was stabbed to death. She's still got the knife in her stomach."

"Wow," Cash said in slight awe. At thirty-two, he'd been on the force for seven years, and had spent four of them as a detective in homicide. He knew as well as anyone that murderers were rarely so messy as to leave the weapon behind, at least when they were trying to avoid being caught. Messy...or blunt, Cash speculated as an afterthought. "Anything else?"

"Well, I'll tell ya," the first guy answered. "Just for your general knowlege, this place," he gestured at the building behind them, "ya oughta know, it's a Rockwell Athletic Club."

Cash squinted and turned his head to the side, not identifying the oddity. Clearly, he was not picking up on something. "So?"

The second guy elucidated, "This gym is, usually, very packed. They should've opened at five today, but, when we arrived around eight, not one car was in the lot."

Taking in the vacant lot, Cash looked around. They were right; not one civilian car was parked in the whole lot. "So, who called you?" he asked, curiosity piqued.

"Anonymous. Called from a payphone, I reckon," the first guy chipped in.

"Who still uses a payphone? We are in the twenty-first century, right?" Cash quipped with a straight face.

The first guy answered, "Well, I reckon someone reportin' a murder might find it useful as a—"

"Let me guess. As a babe during matin' season?" Cash finished wittily.

"Hey, you said it, brother, not me. I'm just saying, you can't trace a payphone call back to the caller. And a lot of folks, even innocent folks, don't wanna be tied to a murder, even just for reportin' it. If you want my advice, considerin' ya'll probably aren't gonna find any eyewitnesses, which ain't always reliable anyway, I'd start lookin' for a print if I were you, and I'd start with that knife."

"Fair enough, I'll take that into consideration," Cash said politely, as though he didn't know all of that already and wasn't already going to check the knife for prints. "Alright. Thanks, guys."

The two nodded and both shook his hand.

So, no one saw anything? Cash thought. They all just coincidentally decided to skip the gym today? No. Something shady was most definitely going on.

He walked over to the body. A young girl, chestnut hair, eyes closed.

"About time you got here," Cash said, as he stared at the victim melancholically.

His partner, a young stud called Fox Hartley, came up behind him, wearing his trademark semi-formal suit. "Very observant, Gray. And I was quiet as a mouse. How do you do it? Are you some sort of a, uh, a ninja?"

"If I was a ninja, I'd be surprising you with my stealth, not noticing how late you are." As Fox rolled his eyes, Cash failed to suppress an amused smile. "Easy," he decided to answer his partner's question, "I could smell your cologne fifty miles away."

Fox raised his eyebrows as his lips flickered in a slightly cocky smile, obviously entertained by his friend's jest. "That'd do it, wouldn't it?"

Cash nodded down in an effectual cease to the banter. Then, again, towards the girl, who couldn't be over nineteen. "Stabbed in the abdomen."

"Yeah, I see. She's got a knife in her tummy," Fox noticed. "I'm pretty sure that's not supposed to be there."

Cash smirked slightly at the younger man's childlike terminology. "Yes," he agreed, "in her tummy. And, no. No, it's not supposed to be there."

Noting the condescending tone his partner was taking, he quipped, "You're very patronising."

To which, Cash responded with an insolent yet nonetheless charismatic smile as he stood up, "And you, my friend, are too sensitive."

As Fox rolled his eyes in slight irritation, obviously having heard this one too many times, Cash turned at the tap on his shoulder. "Yes?" he asked, in a polite manner.

"May I take her?" the elderly Chicago Medical Examiner asked, shakily.

"Why, yes, certainly," Cash said with a smile. "Will you make sure that the knife is delivered to us as soon as possible?"

"Of course, yes," the man said, nodding vigorously.

"Then, she's all yours," Cash said, motioning towards the girl.