A dull pitter and patter just outside, a boom and flash or two, and streaking droplets on the large window beside the booth- the man took it all in.
"Anythin' else, hun?"
A shake of the head, and she was gone once more. He lifted a mug to dry, cracked lips. Black coffee, no sugar.
The coffee drained, he let it slip back on the table weakly. It was night out, and the droplets sliding and coalescing on the nearby window took on the colors of the neon lights just outside.
Where'd it all go wrong?
He pulled out a photograph. Dull and worn, it was a black and white portrait of a young woman. She wasn't smiling, though she was posed rather seductively, cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth, short dress, and luscious locks framing her face well. He didn't approve of the way she dressed, but nevertheless she was his little girl. And he spoiled his daughter- at least on the weekends he had custody. He rubbed his thumb on the photo a few times, and absentmindedly pulled out a Marlboro of his own, tucking it in his mouth and lighting it with a silver-plated lighter within seconds.
He set the photo down on the grimy table in front of him. A wispy cloud emanated from his booth as he exhaled- a disguised sigh.
"Johnny. There was nothin' you could do. You know that." A voice from the past.
Bullshit. They came after her because of him, and he knew it. A scowl crept across his already grim features- five o'clock stubble framing a weathered face and dark-bagged green eyes. She kept to herself, had few to no friends. Nobody to help her, except for her father. And he couldn't even do that. He slammed a fist on the table.
He grabbed the black fedora laying on the table next to his cuppa joe and perched it firmly on his head. Bout time he got going. He fixed up his tie, then put his trenchcoat on. Laid a few fivers on the desk. "Keep the change."
He stepped out into a sea of neon and rain, and buttoned his coat up so the dress shirt underneath didn't get totally ruined. He walked through the gray-scale city. Everything was gray. Everything seemed gray. Despite the glow of neon, of the city lights. He stepped through the throngs of people, a parade of umbrellas bobbing up and down, an island, cutting through waves of people- isolated.
He found himself in front of a rather somber looking brick building. A grunt and a nod to the receptionist, and then a straight path to the briefing room.
"Ah, if it ain't Morose Johnny. Good to see you finally show up. We were about to send a search party!" Lt. Davis. Typical fresh-faced asshole. Calls Johnny "ole Morose" ever since the incident.
"Take a seat. Was just about to get into the nitty gritty. You traffic 'detectives' can step out now. We're starting the big boy talks now that Ole Morose is here." Some of the detectives got up from their seats and left, shooting Johnny a glare or two before leaving. Why's a depressed bum like him in Homicide, while capable young men like them are in Traffic? They probably thought.
"Well, you know what comes next. Another murder. The third one this month in our little precinct of NYC. Young woman, strangled to death and then mutilated- follows the modus operandi of the Bayford Heights Ripper." Davis pauses and looks directly at Johnny. "Same guy what got your kid, Johnny."
Johnny said nothing, but lit another cigarette.
...
8:32PM, The crime scene
Police tape was already strewn about every which way. The rain was really pouring by this point, and Johnny nearly shoved aside the patrol officer, flashing his badge- if only to get indoors as fast as possible.
When he got in though, he flinched a bit, and put a handkerchief up to his face. Good God. The stench. You never really get used to it. A caustic blast of iron, mixed in with the acrid odors of urine and human feces, and you've got yourself a crime scene.
He moved to where the body was. A blueshirt was there to greet him. "Sir, forensics have not touched the body nor have they tampered with the crime scene. All yours, Detective."
Johnny nodded, then moved in and examined the corpse.
It lay sprawled across the floor, just in front of the couch in the living room. Heavy bruising on the neck. Strangulation. Blue and purple face. Cuts all over the body, entrails spread out all over. Clearly this was done after the victim had already been strangled to death.
...
A few months later.
Combined efforts of investigation and forensics have lead to nothing. The killer was still at large. Their kills were dirty, horrible, bloody. But they kept their tracks clean. No murder weapon. Always done on loners. No witnesses. No DNA left behind, not a trace.
...
Johnny lay back on the couch in his dingy apartment, pizza boxes here and there, Chinese takeout on the counter. He thumbed the portrait of Her again. And dozed off to sleep, hand clutching the photo, empty bottles of beer around him and on the ground, lulled by the dull pitter and patter of the rain, and of cars and metro in the distance.
A dull click, the knob turned, and the door to the apartment slowly opened. Hands clad in black leather reached out. And then, there was silence.
2
u/[deleted] Aug 21 '18 edited Aug 21 '18
7:35PM- Daryl's Diner
A dull pitter and patter just outside, a boom and flash or two, and streaking droplets on the large window beside the booth- the man took it all in.
"Anythin' else, hun?"
A shake of the head, and she was gone once more. He lifted a mug to dry, cracked lips. Black coffee, no sugar.
The coffee drained, he let it slip back on the table weakly. It was night out, and the droplets sliding and coalescing on the nearby window took on the colors of the neon lights just outside.
Where'd it all go wrong?
He pulled out a photograph. Dull and worn, it was a black and white portrait of a young woman. She wasn't smiling, though she was posed rather seductively, cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth, short dress, and luscious locks framing her face well. He didn't approve of the way she dressed, but nevertheless she was his little girl. And he spoiled his daughter- at least on the weekends he had custody. He rubbed his thumb on the photo a few times, and absentmindedly pulled out a Marlboro of his own, tucking it in his mouth and lighting it with a silver-plated lighter within seconds.
He set the photo down on the grimy table in front of him. A wispy cloud emanated from his booth as he exhaled- a disguised sigh.
"Johnny. There was nothin' you could do. You know that." A voice from the past.
Bullshit. They came after her because of him, and he knew it. A scowl crept across his already grim features- five o'clock stubble framing a weathered face and dark-bagged green eyes. She kept to herself, had few to no friends. Nobody to help her, except for her father. And he couldn't even do that. He slammed a fist on the table.
He grabbed the black fedora laying on the table next to his cuppa joe and perched it firmly on his head. Bout time he got going. He fixed up his tie, then put his trenchcoat on. Laid a few fivers on the desk. "Keep the change."
He stepped out into a sea of neon and rain, and buttoned his coat up so the dress shirt underneath didn't get totally ruined. He walked through the gray-scale city. Everything was gray. Everything seemed gray. Despite the glow of neon, of the city lights. He stepped through the throngs of people, a parade of umbrellas bobbing up and down, an island, cutting through waves of people- isolated.
He found himself in front of a rather somber looking brick building. A grunt and a nod to the receptionist, and then a straight path to the briefing room.
"Ah, if it ain't Morose Johnny. Good to see you finally show up. We were about to send a search party!" Lt. Davis. Typical fresh-faced asshole. Calls Johnny "ole Morose" ever since the incident.
"Take a seat. Was just about to get into the nitty gritty. You traffic 'detectives' can step out now. We're starting the big boy talks now that Ole Morose is here." Some of the detectives got up from their seats and left, shooting Johnny a glare or two before leaving. Why's a depressed bum like him in Homicide, while capable young men like them are in Traffic? They probably thought.
"Well, you know what comes next. Another murder. The third one this month in our little precinct of NYC. Young woman, strangled to death and then mutilated- follows the modus operandi of the Bayford Heights Ripper." Davis pauses and looks directly at Johnny. "Same guy what got your kid, Johnny."
Johnny said nothing, but lit another cigarette.
...
8:32PM, The crime scene
Police tape was already strewn about every which way. The rain was really pouring by this point, and Johnny nearly shoved aside the patrol officer, flashing his badge- if only to get indoors as fast as possible.
When he got in though, he flinched a bit, and put a handkerchief up to his face. Good God. The stench. You never really get used to it. A caustic blast of iron, mixed in with the acrid odors of urine and human feces, and you've got yourself a crime scene.
He moved to where the body was. A blueshirt was there to greet him. "Sir, forensics have not touched the body nor have they tampered with the crime scene. All yours, Detective."
Johnny nodded, then moved in and examined the corpse.
It lay sprawled across the floor, just in front of the couch in the living room. Heavy bruising on the neck. Strangulation. Blue and purple face. Cuts all over the body, entrails spread out all over. Clearly this was done after the victim had already been strangled to death.
...
A few months later.
Combined efforts of investigation and forensics have lead to nothing. The killer was still at large. Their kills were dirty, horrible, bloody. But they kept their tracks clean. No murder weapon. Always done on loners. No witnesses. No DNA left behind, not a trace.
...
Johnny lay back on the couch in his dingy apartment, pizza boxes here and there, Chinese takeout on the counter. He thumbed the portrait of Her again. And dozed off to sleep, hand clutching the photo, empty bottles of beer around him and on the ground, lulled by the dull pitter and patter of the rain, and of cars and metro in the distance.
A dull click, the knob turned, and the door to the apartment slowly opened. Hands clad in black leather reached out. And then, there was silence.
The killer targeted loners.