The Counter Born (#Wattys2016)

Chapter Eight

The car is moving at a fast pace, and my head cracks against the window in mid turn. Shards of broken glass fly off and dig deep into my flesh. The engine is smoking, and debris is scattered all around. Through the flames and splattered blood, I see a figure stride towards me. I numbly haul myself up to see . . . a sinister man, or what looks like a sinister man. I cock my head, and he mirrors it exactly. His hood covers his head, creating a shadow that fills his lanky form like a black suit. His hair is mangled over his face in that stalker sort of way, so I can't really get a good look at it. "Who are you?"

"You did this," they whisper in a raspy voice with a wicked, sly smile. The only thing I can see are his lips moving vaguely.

"No, the other man in the vehicle did. He wasn't watching what the hell he was doing!"

"You weren't watching. You killed them. You did this," the man repeats. He takes off part of the tattered car door and holds it over my heart. "You did this!" I automatically wake up in a cold sweat and my heart is pounding. I rub my baggy eyes with my slick fingers, wondering when these night terrors are going to stop. I take needed breaths as I help myself relax. I process before taking my folded work clothes hanging off the foot of the bed and fitting into them. I continue with my daily routine, watching myself closely through every reflection in every mirror I come across. Afraid of what I might do.

These nightmares are going to cease. You're not going to see a psychiatrist. Stop thinking.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The precinct is unusually packed when I arrive. Uniformed men and women scurry around like ants, filling out paperwork and handing over filled out paperwork. They barely notice when I roll away from the threshold. The only one who does notice is the captain. He shakes my hand invitingly.

"Streeper. How is Morris doing? I hated kicking him out like that."

"Oliver? Oh, I don't know. I haven't talked to him since yesterday." The captain mutters something under his breath, and then places one hand on my shoulder.

"That doesn't matter right now. What does is the fact that there was a death late last night or early this morning. Whether it was an accident, a suicide, or a homicide, I don't know."

"That's terrible. Is that why this place is so busy all of a sudden?"

"Partly. It's also because the victim was . . . one of ours." I blink rapidly with my jaw dropped.

"An officer? Who? Why wasn't I notified earlier?"

"His name was Lenard Smith. I don't know if you knew him. The fire department had to extinguish the flames completely before it was safe for you to investigate," he breathes.

"Where was the fire?" I ask.

"His home. They found the body." Lenard Smith was a workaholic, and everyone knew that. He stayed late at the office, sometimes sneaking in after hours. He couldn't sleep because of some of the brutal cases he took. Then it was always on his mind, bothering him. I never understood his obsession with his job. Sure we're all about justice here, but we don't have to live it every day of our lives. So, when I saw the burnt corpse, it seemed more brutal than even Lenard would think. It was inhumane and nauseating. Jen comes up to me as I'm examining the body, and she pats my back.

"You're not angry with me?" I ask contently.

"Oh no, I am. I just wanted to remind you that you should go home. For crying out loud Landon, you can barely move your legs." Jen pushes me further back and kneels by Lenard.

"They look fine to me. I'm standing." She rotates around to me, as if she has to have a second look for herself.

"It doesn't mean the burns are healed all the way. Besides, what you went through was traumatizing. Go home," Jen orders. I plant my feet firmly.

"No, Jen. I'm not leaving," I respond. She shakes her head, irritated. "Okay everyone! Let's talk about the scene!" I clap my hands three times and the officers gather together like it's a thanksgiving day feast. I look at Tom, a newer employee who just graduated college four weeks ago. I figure this could be a good first attempt at a deduction. "What do you make of this, Tom? What do you think happened?" He shrugs.

"Suicide," he says simply.

"Why?" I wonder, smirking smartly.

"We found a match in the basement furnace ducts. I'd say he lit it, changed his mind about killing himself and tried to escape." I purse my lips.

"That's a well thought out theory. Nice try."

"Try? That's the only logical explanation!" Tom argues.

"You would be right if this fire fighter said that the flames began spreading over the course of a couple minutes. Instead, he said it began over the course of a couple seconds judging by the physical appearance of the furnace. Tell me, how does a man get from the basement to the front yard in so little time?" Tom is left speechless by my intellects. "I'm not trying to embarrass you. It was a good guess. The only thing left to figure out is why the murderer put the body out here. He clearly wants us to see it for some reason. Odd." One of my coworkers taps me lightly.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Lenard's family is here. Do you mind talking to them?" This is always the worst part of my day. Lenard's wife, now made a widow, trudges up to me with her two children. Her thin, graying hair is wind blown, and her face is flushed as if she had been running constantly. Wrinkles crease her eyes as if she hadn't slept in days.

She covers the body from the children. Even though I don't know why she would bring them to begin with. They're a young boy and girl about ten: too young to casually handle something like this. Nobody could casually handle something like this. But fear is heightened when they've hardly seen the darkness of the world: the darkness parents hide away.

"Were you here at the time of the incident?" I ask the mother uncomfortably. It's not my expertise or agenda to question grieving relatives, especially with children around.

"No," she sniffles. "I was on a family vacation with our kids. As soon as I heard, I came right away." She turns to her oldest. "Why don't you go wait by the nice police officer over there?" The boy nods and takes his sister's hand. I put my hands on my armrests after I finish taking notes.

"I know this is going to be hard information to accept, but we don't think this was an accident," I say. The woman stops crying.

"What?" I tug, leading her towards the back of the house. "No, please, I'm not going in there. I don't want to see it." I sigh, and pull the collected evidence out of my jacket.

"We found this at the scene of the crime." I hold the plastic bag closer to her face, and it contains the match, burnt to a crisp but still recognizable. "At first we thought the furnace overheated, but we soon found the match hidden in the ducts. I'm so sorry." She wipes her eyes which are red and swollen. "Do you have any idea who could have done this? Is there anybody who had the intention to kill Lenard?"

"Of course he made enemies doing his job, but I can't think of anyone who would want to do this."

"Are you sure, because-"

"I really don't want to answer any more questions right now," she snaps.

"I understand. Thank you for your time." I smile warmly and then turn to my team as she walks away. "This is now categorized as first degree murder. Jen, could you have the body covered and taken to the morgue?" She glares as she leaves me, ordering the examiners to remove the corpse. "Thank you." I squint as I study the rubble from underneath it, swearing something is hidden between the rocks. Tom squats on the opposite side, picking up a square of half burnt printing paper with bright red marks on it.

"The letter L. It's written in blood. You think it's Lenard's?" He shows me the crumpled sheet, and I nod slowly. "And I know why the murderer wanted us to see the victim. They're sending us a message."