The Daffodil Killer

Two.

Rome.
The freezing cold air of Group one whips around me, assaulting my skin.

Damn, I haven't been in this precinct—or neighbourhood, for that matter in a while. As the law-making sector of the world, specialising in all things police force, crime solving and court cases and trials, there are many, many police precincts littered throughout this desolate place, so I've been stuck at the twenty-fourth, not the twenty-second that stands before me now, tall as ever with all its modern looking windows and busy atmosphere. People dressed in all sorts of uniforms and adorned in a variety of badges bustle in and out of the building, all of them sporting serious, tense, or otherwise inquisitive expressions.

The memory of my initiation glows like the brightest fire in the back of my mind at the sight of the building. All the initiations happen here, while the training leading up to it happens at twenty five, six, and seven. I was fourteen at the time, fresh into that weird bout of puberty I got hit with, and so much more intelligent and mature than my father told people. He stripped me of my choice regarding the enrolment into the precinct program, thinking I'd make a good detective because he was 'always right' and 'could see into the future'.

What a load of bullshit.

However, as much as I loathe admitting it, he was right about at least this one thing. I do make a good detective. A great one. A brilliant one. One good enough to be called the best out of their name group, and I wear that like my favourite badge.

In this world, it's fucked up. That, we all know. But so many things we've supposed to have moved on from a nd left in the past have come back to haunt us, like that little bit of dried superglue you were never able to get off your finger. Child labour, for one, has returned and is in full swing, taking back its place in society and getting comfortable as the new standard. That's why all the detectives here are so young. That's why all these judges, commanding officers, and policemen are so young. We're all just a herd of kids thinking they have the authority and open-mindedness to run the world law-wise. And in a way, we do. We make the laws, we lock people up and we crack cases. The world gives us too much leeway, too much access to everything. And to think that royalty says they rule. Do they actually believe that? I hope they don't, because an unstable monarchy means nothing in the people's eyes. I hope they're not as daft as they seem to be. And as I walk away from the black vehicle I used to get here, and the white snow crunches beneath my equally charcoal boots, I think, I'm not looking forward to this. Not at all. The call pulled me out of one of the rare moments where my body and mind allow me to sleep, a fed-up commanding officer at the end of the line telling me I needed to be at twenty-two as soon as I could and that it was extremely urgent. They'll brief you on the situation there, he said through my earpiece, his tone signaling the displeasure any more questions about the sudden 'situation' would bring him. So, as one does, I clamped my mouth shut and begrudgingly made the long ass, forty minute drive to this fucking precinct.

Ive heard a lot about twenty two. Twenty two did this, achieved that, broke this record and solved this case. All blabber and jabber I couldn't care to concern myself with. I find it extremely useless to indulge in gossip and praise about another precinct when we could easily fill that time by trying to improve our own detectives, our own officers and our own records.
"You there yet?" The familiar voice of Fitzy fills my earpiece.

Cairo Fitzgerald, the epitome of a man child and admittedly one of our best men is like a fly in my ear at all times, literally and figuratively. He's always talking into my earpiece, deliberately increasing the decibels of his irritating, ear-grating voice just to spite me. But he's a good friend, and we joined the force at around the same time, so we've grown accustomed to each other's antics. The irritation I feel for him comes from a place of love. I think.

"Just walking in," I say, catching a few people staring at the snow I trail in on their precious white marble floors. "This place is like a doctors office, why is it so expensive looking?"
They even have a fucking reception. A reception. Damn, how rich is Tokyo?

Fitzy's giddy laughter interrupts my scanning of the place that I'm positive is more of a display than a work place, and I can only picture how excited he is, writhing in his spinning chair back at twenty four. He's like that, Fitzy. A little deranged. Not right in the head and maybe a little autistic. When he caught me striding out my front door from his window—he watches me sometimes. I've gotten used to it—and got told about this little excursion, that grin he always wears was back on his face as he pestered me all the way to my car with questions, and when I drove off, he turned on his earpiece just to pester me some more.

"Would you quit laughing like a maniac? I'm really not in the mood to have a front row seat to it. All these people are so stuck up, and you're not helping," I tell him, squeezing my eyes shut and the bridge of my nose.

Everything here is unbearably gold, brown, white, and black, the decor and doorknobs fucking colour coordinated. These people are not normal. Who the fuck is decorating police precincts now?

"Aw, I knew you loved seeing me happy," Fitzy's reply filters in as my feet take me to the reception, where a petite old woman with her greying hair in an elegant twist and lips painted as crimson as blood sits, a smile plastered on her face.

"Detective Rome, correct?" She asks, but I'm not even paying attention to her due to the fact that there's a huge glowing sign spelling out the words TWENTY TWO behind her. A fucking glowing sign.

"Yes. Here for Tokyo."

"Just up the twenty second floor," the receptionist says with the most superficial, sickly sweet voice I've come across in a long time, her pale fingers gesturing to the row of six silver elevators on my right.

Good grief, this place screams filthy rich.
And as I watch the elevator doors slide closed, I tap the button on my earpiece.

"They've got twenty two fucking floors, Fitzy."

"What the fuck?" I hear the exasperation in his voice. "Should all precincts be this bougie?"

"I don't know, but all I want to do right now is figure out what the fuck the situation is and go home. All these people here are so stuck up I feel like I'll be infected if I stay here a little longer."

And then the ding of the elevator cuts off whatever Fitzy was going to say, and even then, I wasn't going to pay attention anyway. He hears the ding too because either he stops talking or I tune him out, which I think is the latter because when does Fitzy ever stop talking? He's just never out of words or stories, that man, and it's honestly such a headache.

"Detective?" Yet another feminine voice that belongs to yet another petite blond woman with the tightest smile. "Right this way, Captain Tokyo is waiting for you in his office," she says, ushering me to the only door in what seems to be this vacant level.

The entire level to himself? The fucking greed.
With an affirmative nod, I follow her to the only door here, black with a gold doorknob and a matching sign that spells out COMMANDING OFFICER.

The woman knocks for me, and not even a second goes by before Tokyo's voice is booming from the other side telling me to come in.