tagNonHumanInto the Wilde Ch. 00

Into the Wilde Ch. 00


Dark, aged eyes took in the hustle and bustle of the early morning commuters making their way to their very first train of the day. Their sleek suits and polished briefcases making contact briefly with their neighbors, though no one ever minded. It was customary to feel the flow of traffic beside you, for it reminded everyone why they rose every morning and went to bed every night. It was to live, and to breathe, to go about life and to move on quickly, to thrive off the energy of others.

His tired gaze swung from person to person, car to car, building to building, blinking leisurely, but he always made his way back to the people. He was high enough where he could just make out the details of their faces but not nearly close enough to tell what expressions they wore. That was what he enjoyed the most. It was a game of truth, and if the average person knew how much one could gleam from a simple look at their features, particularly while at rest or while moving on autopilot as they often did, it'd terrify them.

It terrified him most of the time and this was what he did for a living. Like a siren's call, desperate and wanting, it drew him and made him seek out more. He was a nosey, cranky bastard but damnit he was good at his job.

The piercing bell of a car horn followed by several others shook him out of his reverie, and as leisurely as he'd taken in the passing strangers on the cement below, he took in a long and suffering deep breath. There was no use getting worked up over nothing, even though his city was definitely not nothing.

New York City, the city that never sleeps, and after 29 years on the job, he was starting to believe it.

Detective Ramsey took one last lingering look out the window and turned to the frenzied atmosphere inside apartment complex 22B-13 of West & 3rd Street.

There was a certain bite to the early morning air that belied the coming summer months. A little stronger than what was customary at this time of year, and definitely having everything to do with the mangled body that laid strewed across the lavish bed.

It was the kiss of death, or so they called it, following in the wake of every tragedy. It manifested itself in the pinched expressions of the forensic field agents and police officers patrolling the crime scene; it manifested itself in the chills raising the hairs on the backs of their necks, and the way they each avoided looking directly at the blood splatters and deep, gushing knife wounds-everyone but those paid to analyze them, at least.

And everyone, no matter how many years they'd spent in the field, couldn't deny the emotions a murder demanded of them.

It never truly got old.

He was sick of it. He loved it. It reminded him of his wife.

But this was New York and his dreams of completely abolishing the crime rate one case at a time had run its course. All that was left was the weary, mistrustful hatred for wrongdoers that fueled his ambition.

"What're we looking at?" The intern looked down from his lens cap to stare briefly at the cup of coffee clutched in one hand. The detective simply brought it back up to his lips for a sip. While this type of thing didn't faze him anymore, the analyst looked young, early twenties perhaps, so he'd cut the kid some slack. "I asked you a question, boy."

"Uh, male, late twenties to early thirties, Caucasian." His eyes alternated from staring his superior in the face to the twisted and torn bed sheets wrangled around the victim's wrists and ankles like a pair of makeshift shackles. Whoever he'd been with it seemed the victim had been in for a night of crazy, wild sex.

"I said," the intern was pulled from his inappropriate musings by the impatience bubbling in the detective's throat, "cause of death?"

The intern scrambled to gesture crudely at the four long, jagged lines spanning the length of the man's torso. They ran from the very top of his left shoulder to the end of his right hipbone. Oddly enough, judging from the angle of what appeared to be knife wounds, the killer had to have been under him when they struck the killing blow. The depth of the wounds hinted towards an awkward angle at the incision point, and the only reason he could think of was whomever the victim had been trying to seduce hadn't been too accepting of his charms. He told the detective as much.

"These two right here," he gestured towards the middle two lines, "had to be the ones. They pass right over his heart, shredding the topmost ventricles first. Instant death. There's something odd about the scene, however."

The detective nodded his head for the man to continue.

"I believe whoever had done this had to have been lying with the victim when it happened, but the angle of the blows suggest the height of the assailant to have been at least 3 inches taller than the victim."

"In this day and age is it unlikely for a man to lay with another man? This is New York City, my boy."

"We found a pair of female underwear in the foyer." The fact that they were already running it for DNA needn't be said.

The detective was skeptical still of the man's implications. The key to these cases was to never assume even a smidgen of detail. In this day and age, was it so hard to find couplings ranging from straight to x, y, and z?

"So, we're looking for either a tall woman or a cross-dressing man?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I also find it hard to believe someone could wield four knives at once while simultaneously lying under their target."

"Oh, you'd be surprised at the things humans are capable of."

They were both quiet for a moment, allowing his comment to sink in, and continuing on with their own perusals of the crime scene until the detective broke the silence once more. "Time of death?"

"Approximate?" His confidence, let alone his answer, was shaky at best. This was one of his first cases, and he still couldn't quite tear his gaze, or his stomach, away from the gruesome picture the scene made.

"Give me what you have." Detective Ramsey's voice was burdened, sounding years beyond his age. This was the part he hated the most, having to take the tattered remains of what had been someone's life to piece together their final moments, and it all began with a time.

The intern paused, sucked in a breath and released it as if considering his words carefully.

"5:56 AM."

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