had sparked the fire within me. It had nothing to do with the irritating actions of the police officers who had randomly ended up on the scene. It wasn't related to the late hour or the lack of any substantial leads and information. It was the all–too–recent memory of the victim, Daniels, lying prostrate on the floor, never to rise again. It was the knowledge that an innocent creature had been violated and slaughtered in such an ungodly way. It made me question mankind and curse the day God had ever created such despicable creatures.
But aside from stirring up a righteous hatred in my gut, Daniels' murder fixated my resolve unerringly on bringing the murderers to justice. Even if the result of my actions earlier that morning would prove to be my removal from the case, I solemnly vowed that I would still do everything within my power to bring the murders to justice. I felt no obligation to Miles or Mendoza despite the fact that I was technically under their employ: I just wanted to get retribution for what Sheldon and his buddies had done, if only to atone for the death of one innocent woman.
Not that anything will really make that right.
Despite the fog clouding my mind, I remembered to lock the Anglia before heading inside. On rubber legs, I made my way to the room at the end of the hall, my sanctuary. After lighting a fire in the fireplace, I flopped onto the sofa, still wearing my coat for the added warmth.
For a long while, I lay there, wide–awake. All I could do was think.
Before leaving the scene of the crime, I had briefly questioned the neighbors – the Dudsons – who had originally heard the commotion. Frank Dudson, a light sleeper, claimed to have been aroused by the sounds of a car outside. While he was using the restroom, he had heard the screams coming faintly from next–door, at approximately 1:30. According to Frank and his wife Sherry, the struggle must have been a violent one for them to have heard it so clearly.
I tossed my notepad onto the coffee table and laid my head back against the sofa's armrest, watching the ceiling grow lighter as morning crept steadily into the room. Frustration and lack of sleep were joining forces to give me a severe headache – not to mention the punch to the jaw I'd received.
Slyder and the Swedesboro CSI had gotten to the scene of the crime at about 2:00, roughly twenty minutes after Sergeant Cready had gotten the information from their DA, Seth Chauncey, that the case was under SPD jurisdiction and called them in. At 2:05, Slyder had called me over to get my hands dirty, about an hour before Cready's cops would return from their search for the getaway vehicle. According to the sergeant, they had scouted 55 from exits 20 to the merge with the Expressway, an expanse of roughly fifteen miles, but had not met with any success. They had put out the alert over all police channels about the vehicle and its dangerous occupants, but no one had seen a suspicious red Ford with no tags and a smashed driver's window at any time that night.
My swirling thoughts eventually surrendered me to the slumber of necessity, and I awoke to the smell of coffee at 7:00 on the dot. I blinked mist from my eyes and raised my head from the arm of the sofa, somehow feeling less rested than I had before nodding off.
Jill stood next to the coffee table, a gorgeous sight to wake up to, juggling a mug, sugar, and a bottle of CoffeeMate in her hands.
"Good morning!" she said, smiling and oblivious, setting it all down on the coffee table. "You looked like you were sleeping kind of restlessly. Are you okay?"
Swallowing the sour taste of sleep, I unwound my tie from around my neck where it had been attempting to strangle me. I always have had bad taste in ties.
"As far as I can tell," I replied sleepily, and began shrugging my shoulders free of the trench coat. For some reason, I was sweating – even though the fire in the hearth had burned
But aside from stirring up a righteous hatred in my gut, Daniels' murder fixated my resolve unerringly on bringing the murderers to justice. Even if the result of my actions earlier that morning would prove to be my removal from the case, I solemnly vowed that I would still do everything within my power to bring the murders to justice. I felt no obligation to Miles or Mendoza despite the fact that I was technically under their employ: I just wanted to get retribution for what Sheldon and his buddies had done, if only to atone for the death of one innocent woman.
Not that anything will really make that right.
Despite the fog clouding my mind, I remembered to lock the Anglia before heading inside. On rubber legs, I made my way to the room at the end of the hall, my sanctuary. After lighting a fire in the fireplace, I flopped onto the sofa, still wearing my coat for the added warmth.
For a long while, I lay there, wide–awake. All I could do was think.
Before leaving the scene of the crime, I had briefly questioned the neighbors – the Dudsons – who had originally heard the commotion. Frank Dudson, a light sleeper, claimed to have been aroused by the sounds of a car outside. While he was using the restroom, he had heard the screams coming faintly from next–door, at approximately 1:30. According to Frank and his wife Sherry, the struggle must have been a violent one for them to have heard it so clearly.
I tossed my notepad onto the coffee table and laid my head back against the sofa's armrest, watching the ceiling grow lighter as morning crept steadily into the room. Frustration and lack of sleep were joining forces to give me a severe headache – not to mention the punch to the jaw I'd received.
Slyder and the Swedesboro CSI had gotten to the scene of the crime at about 2:00, roughly twenty minutes after Sergeant Cready had gotten the information from their DA, Seth Chauncey, that the case was under SPD jurisdiction and called them in. At 2:05, Slyder had called me over to get my hands dirty, about an hour before Cready's cops would return from their search for the getaway vehicle. According to the sergeant, they had scouted 55 from exits 20 to the merge with the Expressway, an expanse of roughly fifteen miles, but had not met with any success. They had put out the alert over all police channels about the vehicle and its dangerous occupants, but no one had seen a suspicious red Ford with no tags and a smashed driver's window at any time that night.
My swirling thoughts eventually surrendered me to the slumber of necessity, and I awoke to the smell of coffee at 7:00 on the dot. I blinked mist from my eyes and raised my head from the arm of the sofa, somehow feeling less rested than I had before nodding off.
Jill stood next to the coffee table, a gorgeous sight to wake up to, juggling a mug, sugar, and a bottle of CoffeeMate in her hands.
"Good morning!" she said, smiling and oblivious, setting it all down on the coffee table. "You looked like you were sleeping kind of restlessly. Are you okay?"
Swallowing the sour taste of sleep, I unwound my tie from around my neck where it had been attempting to strangle me. I always have had bad taste in ties.
"As far as I can tell," I replied sleepily, and began shrugging my shoulders free of the trench coat. For some reason, I was sweating – even though the fire in the hearth had burned
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