Dearest Detective · ONC

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In the wee hours of the morning, the phone on the wall rang. Barrett rolled out of bed and turned on the lamp. Blinking against the light, he walked to the phone and answered it. "Barrett," he said through sleep.

"We got another one." The voice of his sergeant came through.

Barrett sighed. "Where?"

"Right in front of the station."

He was suddenly awake. "Someone was shot in front?"

"No. They were shot somewhere else and dumped here."

"Did anyone see anything?"

We got a high teenage boy that came screaming in about "reverse kidnapping. He says instead of snatching a kid, one was left. We think he saw it happen."

"Wait, a kid?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Barrett's heart dropped. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

He hung up the phone and began to get ready. The ticking clock on the wall read 4:12. He pulled on his shoes by the door, using the table to stabilize himself. His fingers brushed the letters from a few hours before. He grabbed them and shoved them in his jacket pocket and head out the door.

"Something wrong?"

Barrett whirled around in fright. Ms. Craw was standing at her door, robe and slippers on.

"Ms. Craw you about gave me a heart attack!" He was suddenly angry and immediately turned around and headed down the stairs.

He arrived one minute before his estimated time; His watch read 4:19. Harold was already there, not looking like he had just been roused from sleep like Barrett.

"We got a deceased boy, 'bout twelve years old," Harold said. "He's been here for only a few minutes but dead for a few hours."

A white sheet covered the body, to block the view of early passers-by. Barrett knelt down next to the boy and pulled back the sheet.

"Same M.O," he said. He waved for Harold to come closer. "Have you examined the body yet?"

"No, I was waiting for you."

"Good. Lead it."

Harold took a shaky breath and pulled back the sheet all the way. A pale body loomed up, a shattered head yawning wide.

"Alright," Harold said. He turned the boy's head to the side as much as he could. "Due to the smaller size of the head, the bullet caused more damage than the adults."

Barrett didn't say anything. In another situation, he might have said, "Really? You don't say?" But right now he was at a loss for words.

"There are no other wounds," Harold said, examining the hands. "No defensive wounds." He looked up at Barrett. "Maybe it was a blitz attack?"

"No. He knew what was going on. He was kneeling," he motioned to the dirt on the knees of the boy. "And he was executed."

"Do you still think these are mob hits?" Harold asked.

Barrett didn't answer. He didn't want to. The alternative to mob hits was something he didn't want to deal with.

"Barrett, is there station being targeted?"

"I can't tell. The boy could have just been left here because it's a public place."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Of course." He didn't. He stood up and a waved to the crime scene investigators. "We're done here. Do your work and take him to the M.E. Get him identified."