8:05 am, Tuesday.
Willow.
In the constant rain, I waited for Lieutenant Carter Blake's update. The raindrops, falling in a familiar rhythm on the ground, signaled the usual scene—one I've grown used to. Remarkably cutting through the consistent noise of rain, a distant hum got louder, telling me another vehicle was pulling up.
I sighed, hoping it wasn't more journalists. They tend to make everything more dramatic, turning facts into stories. The rain kept falling, like a natural soundtrack everyone was used to.
I held onto hope that the Lieutenant would uncover more evidence, even though I had dedicated an hour to scrutinizing every detail, only to find no new leads. In the quiet moments between the downpour, my thoughts inevitably drifted to Lieutenant Carter Blake, a figure I had come to dislike over time.
Much like the preceding victims of the Origami Killer, the current case involved a child aged between 9 and 13, a young boy. He was discovered holding an origami in his right hand, and an orchid delicately placed on his chest. The discovery unfolded when a passerby, out walking his dog in a desolate wasteland, stumbled upon the grim scene and promptly alerted the authorities.
My hope lingered in the rain-soaked atmosphere. Yet, with this hope, a subtle unease persisted beneath the surface. I felt more anxious, knowing that the upcoming arrival might bring a flood of questions, digging into secrets hidden beneath the surface.
The car door swung open, and a tall figure emerged into the chaotic scene, immediately catching my attention. It became evident, amidst the flurry of activity, that this man was likely the FBI profiler summoned by the chief. Despite his determined expression, the rain seemed to bother him. It quickly soaked him, making his movements a bit awkward. As he approached the police barrier, you could see a brief discomfort in his eyes, highlighting the challenge the rain presented. In this mix of determination and weather-induced awkwardness, his arrival made me hopeful—hopeful that he could bring valuable assistance to the ongoing investigation.
He weaved through the maze of reporters, seemingly indifferent to their energetic attempts to gather information. The guy deftly navigated the crowd until he reached the police barrier. In a fluid motion, the profiler produced his FBI badge. Then he expertly ducked under the yellow tape.
Advancing towards the gate, his observant eyes carefully scanned the surroundings. In that specific instance, our glances interlocked—I stationed myself by the gate, my detective badge prominently hanging from my neck, a visible emblem of authority in the midst of the unfolding investigative atmosphere.
"Excuse me!" His voice cut through the constant rain and the background hum of construction vehicles. I turned to face him.
"Hello, I'm Detective Willow Anderson" I introduced myself, offering my hand. "You must be the FBI profiler the Chief requested."
"Yes, I'm Agent Norman Jayden," he replied, shaking my hand. His grip was warm, a stark contrast to my own, likely chilled to the bone after spending an extended time out in the elements. Oddly, it didn't seem to faze him.
"Welcome to the madness, Mr. Jayden," I said, motioning towards the unfolding crime scene. "How can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Lieutenant Carter Blake," he informed me.
"He's the guy in the black coat," I pointed to a tall man with a goatee at the far end of the yard. Spotting him, Norman nodded.
"Thanks."
"Watch out, he's in a bad mood," I cautioned, crossing my arms and leaning against the fence post. I continued waiting for him to finish his report on the situation.
