Fission | Ground Zero

⭙C H A P T E R | F O U R ⭙

Scoping the scene of the crime, Vincent circled the police tape, observing the mutilated corpse in the middle of the marble-lined, ivory-brick roadway. His palms firmly held a notepad and pen, scrawling down any notes he could find surrounding the case, eyes planted on the body and only knowing where to write based on the trust of his peripheral vision.

Found on Kroger Avenue within 15 feet of nearby commercial buildings.

Three bullet wounds to the chest, blood has an odd consistency.

Sprawled as if placed, not as if fallen.

Eyes appear to be missing.

Behind him stood aweing spectators, craning to catch a glimpse of the desolation as the press pushed through the audience and began setting up their cameras. The police themselves were sitting near the body, crouched down to take samples and notes on the area for their paperwork.

Cadaver just outside of Preston's Bar, time of death assumed to be 6:25 PM, August 30tth, 1926.

One of the officers peered at him as he worked his way around the edge of the inner border of tape, gesturing him forward to which he immediately complied. His ID reading "DETECTIVE" stood out like a sore thumb, white and shining in the setting sunlight against his black suit coat. He adjusts the satchel of trinkets and tools over his shoulder.

From the hat on the officer and the lack of gloves on his hands, Vincent assumed –and correctly, for that matter– that this was the police captain running the squad. His badge read "Officer Russo". In Italian, of course; but it was no matter, for years of living in Vicenza during studies abroad had left him able to speak and understand the language.

"Captain Russo." He says, holding his hand out in extension for the Captain to shake.

"Detective Voss." Russo nods, taking the hand with a firm grip– all business, it seemed. "We've heard you're a fantastic P.I. More than happy to have your skills on our side." He chuckles, tipping his hat back a bit so that he could better make eye contact with the investigator.

Vincent clears his throat and pulls up his notepad and pen, reviewing his notes and then looking at the body. "Hm. Glad to know. Any points I should know about the cadaver?"

The man shakes his head, "Three gunshot wounds, no signs or traces of a weapon, and no witnesses." He thinks for a moment, "He did have a peculiar tattoo on his forearm, though I'm not sure what it means or if it means anything."

Tattoo on forearm– gang?

Police Captain is a useless biggot.

Vincent nods, "Thank you, sir. May I... inspect the scene a little more closely?"

The Captain gestures forward with his hand, palm relaxed and upward. "Be my guest, and let me know of anything you find."

To that, Vincent nods and turns to his left, walking only 4 paces before being directly in front of the body. He kneels, inspecting each possible location of bugs, wiretaps, abrasions or wounds– even in the more uncomfortable places to look, he was thorough in his work– and that, in comparison to the police who thrive on salary instead of the high, the need to solve the case, was what made him better. He would never brag, but he was confident in his skills. The cadaver laid sprawled with his limbs flailed in an odd position– almost too odd to have fallen naturally that way. One arm was completely behind the head, the other across his chest and his legs spread open with knees buckled to the sides as if he were going to give birth.