Butterfly Storm {MINOR REVISIONS}

08 || Frisky

～·～·～

~ April 18th, 2021 ~

A rhythmic thudding of a pen on paper kept Olsworth in a trance. Sat in his undercover Dodge Charger Pursuit, his focus stayed keen on the file propped on his lap. It was his fifth time scanning over the details, yet it was by far one of the most challenging he'd faced. The murder was carefully calculated, and executed to the exact detail that could dump the file in one of the many cold case boxes in storage.

Marissa Goldstein. A twenty-six-year-old university student found brutally murdered in a vacant apartment in the Brooklyn boroughs. No filed missing person's report, implying no friends or family, or even a social status for anyone to remember her by. She was only discovered by a woman calling in an anonymous tip, leading cruisers to find her.

Olsworth closed the file, tossing it to the passenger's side. He checked his watch. 4:55. Five more minutes before he made his move. . .

"Give me a name," he warned, keeping the crooked drug dealer's front pinned against the graffitied wall.

"Man, how many times I gotta tell you that you got the wrong guy?! I'm clean!" The thug spat out, worming to free himself.

It was a goddamn open invitation. "No?"

Olsworth kept a forearm braced against the crook's shoulder blades and began patting down his back pockets, inspiring crude protests. A plastic crunched. Pebble-like substances pressed against a secret pocket. Bingo. Olsworth pulled out two crinkled zip-locked bags containing colorful pills. Taking a closer inspection, he could see the smiley faces stamped on each one, playing coy. Illegally enhanced ecstasy.

Olsworth gave the bags a shake in the crook's face. "Let me guess, candy?"

"What—? You never seen smiley face candies before? My kid loves them!" He snapped, a little too high-pitched.

"Not the kind in zip-locked bags," Olsworth retorted as he took out his hooks and fastened them around the thug's bony wrists.

"I'm telling you they are! Look, look, look, look. J-Just have one and see, a'ight? Pop one and you'll see it's just candy."

Olsworth rolled his eyes. Ignoring the thug's overused excuses, he scuffed him by the back of the collar and began marching towards his undercover car. The thug immediately coughed out more excuses, shrugging and squirming for the freedom already chained up. It made the detective roll his eyes again. Eight years on the force, he'd heard it all before.

"Bro, come on, I got rights!"

"Possession of illegal drugs can land you in jail a good handful of years. But you already knew that, didn't you?" Olsworth taunted, tightening the cuffs. "Think you'll get a welcome party from your buddies?"

Three. . . two. . . one. . .

The crook grimaced. "Alright, alright, alright! I'll give you a name just—" he doubled over to stomp his foot aggressively like a child throwing a tantrum. "Just get this shi off me, man!"

Olsworth reminded him of the hold he still had on his collar. "The name."

The thug gritted his teeth, straining against his new bracelets. He knew it was hopeless; why he bothered was beyond the detective. Crooks always fought the inevitable, as if being strong-willed earned them a free get-out-of-jail card.

Taking a swift glance around the dead corner block, the evening's shitty weather was the perfect cover.

"The streets call him Wolfe, a'ight?" He mumbled, tossing his head downwards. "Chick worked the pole at one of his clubs. Sometimes caught her doing deals with customers. Chances are, if he gave the word, you ain't gonna find no killer."