Psychotic

Psychotic
Short Story (Completed)

"It strikes me profoundly that the world is more often than not a bad and cruel place." 
― Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho

                                Amara Riverstone

I didn't choose to be a detective. It wasn't my life goal, nor was it my choice. The moment my father died, while on the job, was the moment I swore I would never join the force. It was tiring job and just not for me. But people wouldn't have it. Everyone thought that because my father was a great detective so I would be one too. However, that was what people wanted, not what I wanted.

So here I was now, standing next to my best friend as we eyed one of the most gruesome crime scenes we had ever seen.

There was blood everywhere. It was caked to the alley walls and the ground as if it belonged there. It looked more like a masterpiece, like someone took their time in killing the poor victim. It was disturbingly beautiful as the blood continuously spread and seeped into what looked like a picture of a rose. It framed the body almost perfectly.

"Shit," Harry said after a moment of silence. It seemed no one wanted to get near the mangled body. I didn't either, but I had to. Brushing past Harry, I moved closer to the victim making sure not to step into the large pools of blood. I secured my latex gloves around my fingers before touching what looked like the head. Tilting it from side to side, carefully and slowly, I noted that the person had their eyes ripped out. Which was pretty obvious considering they were missing.

I leaned forward just a bit more and noticed a small piece of paper within the breast pocket of the shirt. I pulled it out and examined what it  said as I tried to read past the bloodstains.

"Your time has come." It read, but it was printed out with a computer rather than written by hand.

Smart.

I pulled out an evidence bag and placed the sheet of paper inside.

"We need to move this body into a lab," I said as I stood up from my crouched position and handed Harry the small bag.

"Of course. I'll take pictures," he said shifting his camera bag to get the equipment he needed.

"Any idea on what happened?" Chief Markinson asked as I approached him. I looked back into the dark alley before shrugging slightly. I wasn't fazed one bit by the dead body; it was something that was becoming somewhat of a norm.

"No, not yet at least," I muttered and it was true. There wasn't much to build on. There was no murder weapon, no fingerprints, only a bloody piece of paper.

Markinson gave me a look as if he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure how to say it. I knew it had to be important because I was usually the first to know everything within our team.

"This isn't the first murder," Markinson stated matter of factually and I paused.

"Of course it isn't. People get killed all the time," I said brushing it off, but he wasn't finished.

"That's not what I meant. This isn't the first murder that has been done like this." I turned sharply to him and eyed Markinson down.

"What are you trying to say?" I hissed.

"There were six more murders like this within the past week --"

" --Excuse me?" I asked bewildered and he flinched at the fire behind my voice.

"It was something that we wanted to keep under wraps. We thought we would be able to solve this without a problem, but it has been happening everyday -- starting from Monday," he finished.