The Killjoy

The Party

*Point out any mistakes you might find, my editing abilities are not fine tuned at the moment.*

*****

"Hudson!" Shouted the superintendant, "are you in the moon? Get down here fucking quick, these people are dying in my jurisdiction!"

Slash sat back upright on his seat. He was distracted, to the point the only thing he could think was Axl sitting on his lap, his neck exposed, the silky hair touching his face.

Izzy was late, nothing unusual, but he was very late today, the room almost filled to the brim with people, the patrolers with their immaculate blue uniforms, that Slash had never used, because , like Izzy, they were deemed more suited for investigation and were both recruited as soon as their graduation from the academy took place, Izzy being an exepcional shooter, and Slash being number one on his promotion. They were as seemed fit for each other as a horse was fit for a cow, but somehow made it work, both serious and dedicated to their work.

"Stradlin!" Thundered the Boss, as soon as Izzy walked in, his hands on his pockets and a paper boy cap firmly tucket in his head. "What the fuck happened to your face?"

Slash gave Izzy a baffled look. His chin was black and blue, and his bottom lip, that he licked continuously to keep it from bleeding, split.

"It's nothing Sir, Nothing of importance at least." Izzy said, in a foul mood.

Deputy Chief Newstead was a thin, fibrous, nervous man. With a penchant for perfection and expecting from everyone the same dedication he put into his work, he rarely went home, (Izzy had this wild theory that the man didn't have one) sleeping in a foldable cot on his office when exhaustion overtook him.

"Attention please, everyone." The Boss, as they all called him, started. "We have a big fucking problem ladies." He swiched a screen on and 5 corpses apperead on it.

"Five?" Asked Izzy.

"Yes, young lady, five." The Boss sneered at them. "But two of them at my, you hear me, my, jurisdiction. One more and we will have the fucking FBI ridding our asses until the son of a fucking bitch that is doing this is either dead or between bars.

"How do you know they are all by the same suspect?" A young officer asked.

"We? Do you have a suspect to give me, what's your name?"

"Dean Smith, Sir. And no Sir, I don't. "

"Slash", asked Newstead, "would you care to clarify to our young officer here, Mr. Smith, why do we think all these kids are being murdered by the same oger?"

"Izzy and I had the opportunity to examine the corpses of the two that are under our jurisdction." Said Slash, getting up to have a closer look at the pictures on the screen.

"And?" Pressed Newstead.

"Males. Late teens, early twenties to the max, thin, but well fed and groomed, no evident drug use on either. Both homossexuals and both sex workers."

"There you have Mr, Smith?"

"One , more thing. " Said Slash. "They were both red heads."

The room fell silent.

"My fellows have send me their files. Slash and Izzy, this ball is in your back yard. You will contact our lovely coroner to arrange for the corpses to be translated under his domain, I have the order for it, and I want you both on it 24/7. You will examine the bodies with Mick, then I want profiles. One for the victms, even that we already may have some clues, and one for the killer. If we do have a serial one, I want him, do you all hear me? I want him, dead or alive, before the fucking FBI take over my department." He puntuacted his words with a punch on the table and the corp was dismissed.