Dearest Detective · ONC

·1·

Detective Alvin Barrett slammed close the door on his car. The hustle and bustle of early morning New York rang in his ears. His partner, Detective Harold Martin, climbed out of the passenger side door and walked around the car to stand beside Barrett.

"Don't you love getting called in on a Saturday morning?" Harold asked.

Barrett grunted his response and strode over to the scene. Investigators swarmed the statue. And the man draped across it. The statue was of a moose, staring grimly in the distance, over the heads of every busybody. Its expression seemed to suggest that it knew of the horrible position it was currently in. Barrett looked up, towards the statue. But he was not looking at the moose.

"Have we ID'ed the victim?" he asked one of the members of Crime Scene Investigation. The man scratched his bearded face. "Unfortunately, no. We're still working on it. We wanted to wait to thoroughly check the victim after you got here. We didn't want to disturb any evidence. But, uh, please hurry. We think thie victims been up here for several hours. We don't want it to get rank."

Barrett nodded. "Thanks. We'll see what we can find." He whistled to Harold, who was standing back. Harold jogged forward beside Barrett. "

"You know you can stand with me now," Barrett muttered. "We're partners now."

Harold nodded. "Yes, sir. I understand." Barrett shook his head, exasperated. They were now directly under the victim. Dried blood covered his front. Immediately, something struck Barrett as odd. But he wanted Harold to figure out first. He watched the newly promoted detective closely observe the body. After several moments, and Harold not saying anything, Barrett finally said, "What's off about the scene?"

Harold looked at Barrett and back to the body quickly. "Well," he started, "Obviously... the fact he's in public. The killer made no attempt to hide the body. So, this must be a statement. Political or... something else."

Barrett nodded, trying to curb his frustration. "Yes, but there's something else. It should hit you across the head."

Harold shifted his feet and licked his lips. He opened his mouth and closed, dropping his head and shaking it. "I don't know, sir. What am I missing?"

"Look at the blood!" Barrett grabbed the back of his partner's head and jerked it skyward. "Why isn't the blood dripping down the man's neck, huh? He is laid across it like a kidnapped woman, on his belly. Tell me, what's wrong with the blood?"

Harold's eyes scanned the body, widening. Barrett let go of his face. Harold said, excitedly, "He must have been killed somewhere else!"

Barrett smacked the man across the head. "You don't say, ya fat-head. I wasn't saying he was killed on the moose. I was saying the blood dried out long before. He was dead a while before he was put here."

Harold's jaw clenched and he nodded. "Alright, boss." Barrett shook his head. Wanting to talk to someone actually intelligent, he turned to the member of the Crime Investigators. "Did he get a round to the back of the head?" he asked.

The man nodded. "Yes, as far as we can tell. It's a wonder he didn't get his head blown off in the process. But when we've been able to climb up there, it looks like any pieces shattered out of his skull were placed back together."

"Remorse?" Barrett asked. He then shook his head. "No, if it was remorse, he wouldn't be splayed out here on a moose."

"We'll see more when we take him down and get him to the morgue," the investigator said. "In the meantime, examine the scene and the body. You have a few minutes before we take him down. And also," he leaned forward and said, "Be nice to your partner." Barrett jerked back, glaring at the man. But the man walked away without looking at Barrett's face.

"Okay, Harold," Barrett called. "Get over here. We better check this body out before the buzzards get him."

· · ·

Barrett sat at his desk, looking through all the reports. He looked up at the Sergeant. "All of these?" he asked. The Sergeant nodded. Barrett dropped the reports. "This is over half a dozen murders," he said. "And I get all of them?"

"You and Detective Martin," the Sergeant said.

"Between you and me," Barrett said. "The kid's not the brightest."

"It'll take him more time to learn. You weren't any different."

"Yeah, but at least I could tell the difference between my heater and one of those hairdryer things my mom keeps asking for."

The Sergeant raised his eyebrows. Barrett raised up two fingers. "Twice," was all he said.

"Just take him under your wing and he'll get it," the Sergeant said. "Good luck." He turned and walked back to his office. Barrett sighed and opened the first report again. A murder. M.O. nearly identical to his investigation that morning. A male victim, 51, was placed in a tree after being shot. His skull was also put back together but he bled out all down the tree. The park was closed off for days until the scene was investigated and the blood rinsed into the grass.

Another murder. Same M.O. again. This time, a woman. She was shot in the back of the head. Her body was found in a fountain, the water tinged pink from her blood running through it. Barrett twirled his pen between his fingers in thought. This was evidence of serial killings but there was no certain type, physically anyway. If these were just random... Barrett sighed. No one was safe then.

A coffee cup was placed in front of him, to the right of the reports. Barrett looked up and saw Harold, holding his own coffee. He pulled out his chair and sat in it, sliding closer to Barrett. "I heard we picked up some cases," he said. He reached for a report file. Barrett pulled it away. "I'm the senior detective," he said. "I'll tell you about it."

Harold leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Alright."

Barrett opened another report. "We've got several murders in the past six months. All have the same M.O. But different types of victims."

"Are the murders increasing?" Harold asked. Barrett took out his notebook, his Case Book, where he kept all of his notes for all his cases. In the past 10 years he'd been a detective, he's filled up dozens of these. And he kept them all in a closet at his house. If his house caught fire and he had to choose between the emergency cash in the bookshelf or his Case Books, the notebooks would be saved every time.

Barrett drew up a timeline, going from November 13, 1939, to May 20, 1940, the day of the current murder. The murders started out sporadic, no pattern but in the last two months, there had been an alarming escalation.

"A total of 10 murders," Harold commented. Barrett held back a look and continued writing down details of the murders. "We've got our work cut out for us," he said. "Where should we start?"

"What if we check ties to the victims. Maybe there's a common denominator between them all."

Barrett groaned and pressed the heel of his palm into his temple. "You can do that. You know how hard that's gonna be?"

"We're detectives!" Harold said. "Isn't that what we do?"

"Yeah, yeah. Let's start with checking if these people have any priors. Then we'll go and talk to the families."

"Okay," Harold said. He took a long sip of his coffee. "My first serial killer. This will be interesting." He stood up and headed to the backroom where crimes were filed.

"And my first idiot," Barrett mumbled as his partner walked away.