Hunting A Killer

Chapter 8

P.O.V.- James

We arrived at an expensive looking mansion. Curiously, there was no police tape outside. Agent Smith explained that it was because they wished not to alert the neighbors, as this was a highly respected part of town, and only the room in which the murder took place was sectioned off. We went through the main doors, through a set of doors underneath a large, elegant double staircase, and down a hall to a study, which was sectioned off with police tape. There were four people in the room. A man and a woman in plasticy looking suits packing up photography equipment, a man standing in the shadows who I could not quite make out, and a man in his late fifties to early sixties laying back in a leather office chair with his throat slit. Levi started to get excited over the blood soaked desk and man, so I gently took his wrist and softly whispered in his ear to calm down or he would break something. He did. "Hey Tomas?" agent Smith called out. "You still here?" The man stepped out of the shadows. Agent Smith jumped back, as he obviously did not notice the strange man. "Boys, this is Victor Tomas." said agent Smith. "He's the investigator on this case. You guys will all be working together." Victor Tomas was an odd looking man. Odd as in he looked more like a drug addict than a forensic investigator. He looked much too young for the job, maybe being in his mid twenties. He had shaggy light brown hair down to his shoulders that covered most of his face. He wore glasses and a lab coat over a suit that looked like it had been picked up at a thrift store. His face, as young as it looked, was worn. He had bags under his eyes as if he had not slept in months and his mouth was pulled into a long frown. He muttered every word he spoke and had a nervous twitch that kicked in every thirty seconds or so. I introduced ourselves and stuck out my hand but he ignored me and went over to the desk. Levi and I followed. Mr. Tomas muttered an explanation on the body. Philip Andrews, age 57. A successful businessman. Wife died of cancer four years back. Only living relative is a son, Wallace Andrews, age 25. Alcoholic and ex gambling addict. Still 350,000$ in debt. On closer inspection of the body, the throat was not just slit, but a cleverly and strategically cut ellipse shape chunk was removed. There was little to no signs of a struggle, leading me to assume an anesthetic of some sort was used. "It was totally the son." Levi said, matter-of-factly. "Needs to pay off the debt, dad wont help, so he kills him in an extreme fit of drunken anger and is willed the money. Classic case." "I'm not sure about that, kid." said agent Smith. "We talked to him about it already. He seemed genuinely shaken up. You can talk to him yourself if you don't believe me." "No I'm good." muttered Levi as he crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "Besides," I start. "This is more akin to a serial killing. Whoever did this was proud of their work and had fun doing it."