sᴛᴏᴄᴋʜᴏʟᴍ sʏɴᴅʀᴏᴍᴇ | ˢᵒˡᵇʸ ✔

0.01

The body was gone, but not the smell. As Kansas homicide detective Brennen Taylor knew from experience, this kind of scene could hold the stench of blood for weeks, or even months to come. the crime scene techs had removed the bedding, but still, blood had a life of it's own. Seeping into drywall. Slipping behind wooden trim. Pooling between floorboards. Twenty eight year old Christine Ryan used to have approximately 4.7 liters of blood pumping through her veins. Now most of it saturated the bare mattress occupying center stage of this grim, grey space.

The call had come in shortly after 9:00am. Good friend Midge Roberts had grown concerned when Christine hadn't answered the knocks on her front door or the texts to her cell phone. Christine was the responsible kind. Didn't over sleep, didn't run off with a cute bartender, didn't come down with the flu without providing a heads-up to her best bud, who picked her up promptly at seven thirty each weekday morning for their joint commute at a local accounting firm.

Midge had contacted a few more friends. All agreed no one had heard from Christine since dinner the night before. Midge gave in to instinct and summoned the landlord, who finally agreed to open the door.
Then vomited all over the upstairs hall upon making the find.
Midge hadn't come up the stairs. Midge had stood in the foyer of the narrow duplex, and, as she'd reported to Brennen's squad mate Bradlee, she'd known. Just known. Probably, even from that distance, she'd caught the first unmistakable whiff of drying blood.

Upon his arrival, the scene had immediately struck Brennen with it's marked contrasts. The young female victim, sprawled spread-eagle on her own bed, staring up at the ceiling with sightless blue eyes. Pretty featured appearing nearly peaceful as her shoulder-length brown hair pooled softly upon a stark white pillow.
Except then, from the neck down...
Skin, peeled off in thin, curling ribbons. Brennen had heard of such things. At eleven this morning, he got to see them firsthand. A young woman, flayed in her own bed. With a bottle of champagne on her nightstand, Bradlee had discovered a pair of handcuffs. The kind purchased in a high-end sex shops and fur lined for comfort. Taking in the cuffs, the sparkling wine, the red rose...
Lovers' tryst gone awry, Bradlee had theorized, Or, given the level of violence, a jilted boyfriends final act of vengeance. Christine had broken up with some sorry sucker, and the last night, the sorry sucker had returned to prove one and for all who's in charge.

But Brennen wasn't on board. Yes, there were handcuffs, but not on the victim's wrists. Yes, there was an uncorked champagne, but none poured into waiting flutes for drinking. Finally, sure, there was a rose, but not in florists wrap for gifting.

The scene felt too... Deliberate to him. Not a crime of passion or falling-out between consenting adults. But a carefully staged production that involved months, years, perhaps even a lifetime of careful planning and consideration.
I'm Brennen's opinion they weren't looking at just a crime scene. They we're looking at a killers deepest, darkest fantasy.
And while this might be the first scene they we're investigating, a homicide this heavily ritualized was probably not the last.

Brennen's squad, the crime scene techs, the ME's office, not to mention a plethora of other investigator's, had spent six hours working the space. They'd documented, dusted, disagramed and discussed until the sun had set, the dinner commute was on and tempers we're flaring. As lead detective, Brennen had finally sent everyone home with orders to refresh, then regroup. Tomorrow was another day, when they could search federal databases for other murders matching this description, while building the profiled of their victim and killer. Plenty to do, many angled to investigate. Everyone had listened. Except of course, Brennen. It was nearly 10:00pm. He should be returning home. Kissing his wife hello. Chucking in on their three year old son, already tucked into bed at this late hour. Working on his own good nights sleep, versus hanging out at a darkened crime scene.

He went with the first option, deciding he would much rather go home knowing his wife, Maggie would be waiting for him.

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