secrets buried deep inside.
Thirteen minutes later, a doorman stood
under the cloudy sky wearing his trench coat and protective hat. He was the
same doorman who had helped Janice into her building, and the same doorman who
also helped an army of the city’s finest to enter to clean up her corpse.
Brian trekked down the sidewalk
with his brown shoes battling the dank concrete, his SUV holstered in the
neighboring parking garage. He saw the doorman see him. Brian removed his
badge, but the doorman knew exactly whom the approaching man was and where he
was going.
“Excuse me, what floor—”
“Seventh Floor.”
“Thank you,” Brian responded with a sad grin
as he entered.
Down the hallway on the seventh floor
and inside the room marked “717,” police filled the two-bedroom condo like a
viewing for an Italian grandfather. Lt. Foster stood tall as he directed the
Crime Scene Investigation team in front of van Gogh’s masterpiece. Only one body
in the condo knew who painted it, and she was on the floor with a hole in her
head.
“…make sure all blood stains are
marked—” Lt. Foster ordered, but then a shadow near the door caught his
attention.
Brian stopped at the doorway as yellow
police tape mocked him. A bulky patrolman stood guard. Brian flipped his badge.
The brute simply nodded as Brian entered.
“Boise. Over here,” Lt. Foster shouted
from his perch. “Excuse me,” he said to his subordinates.
Brian slid past two examiners who were analyzing
the broken heel from Janice’s shoes. The place bustled with morbid activity, a
playground for a mad scientist. The stench of sweat hit Brian’s olfactory
nerve, but his thoughts prevented any physical reaction. His mind switched into
its highest clock speed. His eyes swept the area—blood on the wall, glass on
the carpet, bullet shell on the couch, flat-screen still on the wall, body on
the floor.
“What do we got?” Brian asked Lt.
Foster.
Both stared at Janice’s corpse as two
examiners snapped pictures. Her face, once soft and sexy, was now hard and
hideous. Every man used to yearn to have a taste of her sexuality and to enter
one of her holes with his hard dick. But now, that man would turn in horror, go
flaccid without even thinking, because the newly created hole in her head, a
dark hole filled with fragments of skull and brain matter, was the last place
he would want to enter. A look of terror permanently toughened the muscles in
her face as her once clean and perfect pores were now filled with blood that
had seeped from the largest pore on her face—the bullet hole into her brain.
“Looks like our perp again,” Lt. Foster
finally revealed.
“God…”
“ God is right.”
“Is the ballistics report back yet?”
Brian asked.
“Same silenced nine millimeter. Three
shots this time. Two to the shoulder and…you see the last one.”
“There he is. Detective Brian Boise,” a
boisterous voice roared.
Brian looked up at The Starry Night as his mind registered the voice. A knot constricted deep within his belly, an
all-too-familiar knot. He knew whom the voice belonged to because he was
anticipating this moment ever since the lieutenant had lowered his voice on the
phone. Brian turned and set his eyes on the captain, the man feared by most and
envied by all who carried a shield.
“Hello, sir,” Brian replied as he stole
a glimpse of the two-bar insignia reflecting the condominium’s spotlights.
“We’ve got ourselves a madman. And
this person, rather, this piece of shit , is ruining our image,” the
captain growled, moving closer.
“I totally agree, sir.”
The captain leaned in and lowered his
voice.
“I think solving this case will be good
for you. Your father would be proud.”
Brian stopped breathing for a moment.
Thoughts of his father’s badge and his father’s deadpan stare scratched his
mind. He knew his father would be proud, wherever he was. But then the last
moment that Brian had with his father, the last
Thirteen minutes later, a doorman stood
under the cloudy sky wearing his trench coat and protective hat. He was the
same doorman who had helped Janice into her building, and the same doorman who
also helped an army of the city’s finest to enter to clean up her corpse.
Brian trekked down the sidewalk
with his brown shoes battling the dank concrete, his SUV holstered in the
neighboring parking garage. He saw the doorman see him. Brian removed his
badge, but the doorman knew exactly whom the approaching man was and where he
was going.
“Excuse me, what floor—”
“Seventh Floor.”
“Thank you,” Brian responded with a sad grin
as he entered.
Down the hallway on the seventh floor
and inside the room marked “717,” police filled the two-bedroom condo like a
viewing for an Italian grandfather. Lt. Foster stood tall as he directed the
Crime Scene Investigation team in front of van Gogh’s masterpiece. Only one body
in the condo knew who painted it, and she was on the floor with a hole in her
head.
“…make sure all blood stains are
marked—” Lt. Foster ordered, but then a shadow near the door caught his
attention.
Brian stopped at the doorway as yellow
police tape mocked him. A bulky patrolman stood guard. Brian flipped his badge.
The brute simply nodded as Brian entered.
“Boise. Over here,” Lt. Foster shouted
from his perch. “Excuse me,” he said to his subordinates.
Brian slid past two examiners who were analyzing
the broken heel from Janice’s shoes. The place bustled with morbid activity, a
playground for a mad scientist. The stench of sweat hit Brian’s olfactory
nerve, but his thoughts prevented any physical reaction. His mind switched into
its highest clock speed. His eyes swept the area—blood on the wall, glass on
the carpet, bullet shell on the couch, flat-screen still on the wall, body on
the floor.
“What do we got?” Brian asked Lt.
Foster.
Both stared at Janice’s corpse as two
examiners snapped pictures. Her face, once soft and sexy, was now hard and
hideous. Every man used to yearn to have a taste of her sexuality and to enter
one of her holes with his hard dick. But now, that man would turn in horror, go
flaccid without even thinking, because the newly created hole in her head, a
dark hole filled with fragments of skull and brain matter, was the last place
he would want to enter. A look of terror permanently toughened the muscles in
her face as her once clean and perfect pores were now filled with blood that
had seeped from the largest pore on her face—the bullet hole into her brain.
“Looks like our perp again,” Lt. Foster
finally revealed.
“God…”
“ God is right.”
“Is the ballistics report back yet?”
Brian asked.
“Same silenced nine millimeter. Three
shots this time. Two to the shoulder and…you see the last one.”
“There he is. Detective Brian Boise,” a
boisterous voice roared.
Brian looked up at The Starry Night as his mind registered the voice. A knot constricted deep within his belly, an
all-too-familiar knot. He knew whom the voice belonged to because he was
anticipating this moment ever since the lieutenant had lowered his voice on the
phone. Brian turned and set his eyes on the captain, the man feared by most and
envied by all who carried a shield.
“Hello, sir,” Brian replied as he stole
a glimpse of the two-bar insignia reflecting the condominium’s spotlights.
“We’ve got ourselves a madman. And
this person, rather, this piece of shit , is ruining our image,” the
captain growled, moving closer.
“I totally agree, sir.”
The captain leaned in and lowered his
voice.
“I think solving this case will be good
for you. Your father would be proud.”
Brian stopped breathing for a moment.
Thoughts of his father’s badge and his father’s deadpan stare scratched his
mind. He knew his father would be proud, wherever he was. But then the last
moment that Brian had with his father, the last
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