And, of course, it's that wiry little crackhead from earlier. Eyes practically bulging out of that gaunt skull. The fucker reeked of piss, now that Fio was closer.
"I SAW IT!" Great start.
Steph had the good sense to prod at the guy. Good to know she's got more brains than Brad.
"Saw what, Sir?" She says, stepping down from the truck.
"TALL LANKY MAN SHOT GUY INSIDE! DEAD!"
''Oh shit," Steph utters.
And Fio is off to the races. His revolver grabs his hand and before he can even think, the cylinder swings open.
Six shots. More than enough to kill anything that walks on two legs.
His heartrate picks up. This is what he lives for.
The junkie keeps babbling like an unruly toddler as he waddles towards the building.
"Stay here," Fio orders him, for what little it's worth. And then he heads inside.
Starlight bleeds in through the ruined ceiling. Calling this place a building would be charitable. Just a pile of bricks, shit, and trash from a decade of neglect.
His voice echoes through the emptiness. "SHERIFF'S OFFICE. HOW ABOUT YOU MAKE THIS EASY FOR BOTH OF US?"
Nothing.
Fio's eyes immediately settle on the corpse, slumped against a wall, head hung low. The poor bastard's shirt might've been something other than red, once upon a time.
He calls it in. ''Fuck. 'kay, we got a body.''
He doesn't know why he bothers checking for a pulse. The skull was cratered.
Four gunshots to the head... Just like yesterday.
His mind was racing as he cleared the rest of the building.
Whoever did this was long gone. But in two days time, he-- or she, he supposed-- had left two bodies in their wake. And they had nothing but rumors and gore to pick through.
His radio chirped. "Wallace checking in."
"Lawrence, looks like we got a repeat of yesterday's performance from the slums."
"Any witnesses?"
"Couple homeless. We're lookin' for a--" he looked up from his radio. "What'd you say, Bell? Tall, lanky, white male?" She nodded. Fantastic description. Now they can narrow it down to, like, one third of the entire city. "--A tall, lanky, white male," he repeated into the radio.
"Copy. Gonna be on the lookout."
"With an automatic sub-gun," Steph tacked on, before she looked closer at the body. "Hey look, looks like they decided to hurt 'em before finishing him off. Maybe he tried getting away?"
There was a significant chunk of flesh missing from the ankle-- carved away like a slice of deli meat. And right above it-- etched into the skin, passively weeping red tears was a single letter.
' B '
"Great. Bastard's leavin' us a signature now."
"A signature? We have a serial killer on the loose? Here? Of all places?"
"Don't think it's a serial killer 'til we find a third body. Could be coincidence... unless the coroner finds a 'B' on our last vic, too."
He knew it was bad news as soon he called the Morgue.
"--Oh, I'm glad you asked. We were just about to call you. Found a laceration on your John Doe. Matches the one you brought in today."
...Fuck.
"I SAW IT!" Great start.
Steph had the good sense to prod at the guy. Good to know she's got more brains than Brad.
"Saw what, Sir?" She says, stepping down from the truck.
"TALL LANKY MAN SHOT GUY INSIDE! DEAD!"
''Oh shit," Steph utters.
And Fio is off to the races. His revolver grabs his hand and before he can even think, the cylinder swings open.
Six shots. More than enough to kill anything that walks on two legs.
His heartrate picks up. This is what he lives for.
The junkie keeps babbling like an unruly toddler as he waddles towards the building.
"Stay here," Fio orders him, for what little it's worth. And then he heads inside.
Starlight bleeds in through the ruined ceiling. Calling this place a building would be charitable. Just a pile of bricks, shit, and trash from a decade of neglect.
His voice echoes through the emptiness. "SHERIFF'S OFFICE. HOW ABOUT YOU MAKE THIS EASY FOR BOTH OF US?"
Nothing.
Fio's eyes immediately settle on the corpse, slumped against a wall, head hung low. The poor bastard's shirt might've been something other than red, once upon a time.
He calls it in. ''Fuck. 'kay, we got a body.''
He doesn't know why he bothers checking for a pulse. The skull was cratered.
Four gunshots to the head... Just like yesterday.
His mind was racing as he cleared the rest of the building.
Whoever did this was long gone. But in two days time, he-- or she, he supposed-- had left two bodies in their wake. And they had nothing but rumors and gore to pick through.
His radio chirped. "Wallace checking in."
"Lawrence, looks like we got a repeat of yesterday's performance from the slums."
"Any witnesses?"
"Couple homeless. We're lookin' for a--" he looked up from his radio. "What'd you say, Bell? Tall, lanky, white male?" She nodded. Fantastic description. Now they can narrow it down to, like, one third of the entire city. "--A tall, lanky, white male," he repeated into the radio.
"Copy. Gonna be on the lookout."
"With an automatic sub-gun," Steph tacked on, before she looked closer at the body. "Hey look, looks like they decided to hurt 'em before finishing him off. Maybe he tried getting away?"
There was a significant chunk of flesh missing from the ankle-- carved away like a slice of deli meat. And right above it-- etched into the skin, passively weeping red tears was a single letter.
' B '
"Great. Bastard's leavin' us a signature now."
"A signature? We have a serial killer on the loose? Here? Of all places?"
"Don't think it's a serial killer 'til we find a third body. Could be coincidence... unless the coroner finds a 'B' on our last vic, too."
He knew it was bad news as soon he called the Morgue.
"--Oh, I'm glad you asked. We were just about to call you. Found a laceration on your John Doe. Matches the one you brought in today."
...Fuck.
