Runaway Killer

     Beyond the closed office door of the homicide unit, distressed police officer Naia Finnigan scrutinized the scattered mess atop her desk. Photographs of her brutally murdered friend were splayed on top of a pile of documents, causing Naia's brain to replay the ringing of gunshot sounds in her ears. It has been fourteen hours since her partner's murder, and Naia was going to stop at nothing to send the ruthless killer behind the cold metal bars of life-long prison.

     She held between two fingers the bullet that had hit home in Officer Britta's neck. According to specialists at the investigation unit, the bullet had been fired from a semi-automatic handgun, a SIG Sauer P225 pistol. To her disappointment, this finding was useless in narrowing down a list of suspects. It was the most prevalent firearm in the country, issued to police officers, army officers, and civilians who wished to carry a gun for safety. Of course, these guns were not always used for the purpose of defense. They were more commonly used for murder.

     Naia flipped through the papers, revising again what she already had engraved into her memory. Britta was shot twice from long range, meaning she was likely not a random kill. She was targeted. But for what reason would someone want her dead? She was not robbed, nor was she raped. Meaning, this homicide was a case of revenge, and Naia was going to unravel who exactly hated Britta enough to kill her.

     A confident knock on the door interrupted her concentration. Probably a fellow officer.

     "Come in," she said, loud enough for whoever was on the other side to hear.

     Officer Harper strode in, holding a large plastic ziplock bag labeled evidence. His light green eyes were wiped over with a masked blankness, the way eyes became to those who belonged to the business of homicide. He tossed the bag to her and she caught it with one hand. There was a grey shirt and pair of jeans inside.

     "The dogs followed a trail of scent and discovered this behind a bush roughly four and a half blocks east from the crime scene," he told her. His ordinarily neatly combed hair was ruffled, like he'd run his hand through his brown hair too many times in frustration. "The trail stopped shortly after. Seems as though he got in a vehicle."

     "That bustard," Naia said. "Britta was so sweet. I can't believe anyone would want to kill her."

     "Nobody can believe it," he agreed. Then there was a pause where neither of them said a word, because one can't talk for long about how wonderful a dead person used to be without it leading to tears. He lightly cleared his throat, though he probably didn't need to. Nodding to the bag, he added, "The clothing came back positive for gun powder. Unfortunately, no hair or DNA was found on it."

     Naia looked down at her hands, tasting bile in her mouth at the thought of holding the murderer's clothing. She dropped it down on her desk. "Thanks Harper," she said, holding his gaze. Everyone here called each other by their last names, unless they knew each other outside of work.

     "No problem," he replied, backing towards the door. He gave her a friendly smile that didn't crinkle his gorgeous eyes. "Tell me if you need anything else."

     She nodded, and he closed the door behind him. Naia opened the evidence bag and inspected the clothing. The grey shirt was a men's medium and the jeans were smudged with dirt. She dug her fingers in all four pockets. In a side pocket she found a peppermint candy wrapper with the text Thank You written on it, the kind they give at restaurants after a meal. In a back pocket she discovered one profound mistake the killer made in executing the murder, providing her with her first lead. 

     A business card.

     Naia entered the office of the real estate agent on the business card. His room was of modest size on the second floor of a skyscraper building in the heart of the city. She flashed her badge to the secretary at the desk.