Chapter 1
Kimberly Gate, the beatnik babysitter, was laughing into the upstairs landline too hard to hear the ongoing murder downstairs. She curled the wire of the phone with one finger as she held the phone up to her ear with her other, observing the evening rain pattering on her bedroom window. Ever since that pesky child downstairs started throwing tinker toys at her she decided to retreat to the walls of her poster-plastered room and into the voice of her unfaithful boyfriend. She didn’t notice the sudden silence that permeated all corners of the two-story residence until the banter-filled conversation grew still.
“You’re being paranoid, Kim,” the teenage boy said on the other side. “Besides, aren’t you the one who wanted to avoid him?”
“You’re not helping, Kevin!” Kimberly whined, tensing at every joint. “Just come over, now! Something’s seriously wrong-”
A dull thumping sound emanated from the living room, making Kim jump in her Polkadot dress. She ended the call with a frantic “Just get over here, Kevin!” as she slapped the handset onto the hook. She stood silently, listening for the noise to sound again. Nothing. Her hands began to shake with the arrival of adrenaline.
“Enough of this,” She muttered quietly to herself. She grabbed her baseball bat from underneath her bed, just as she always planned for something like this. She held the bat in her right arm, ready to swing as she opened the door with the other. The steel knob slid with the sweat of her palm as she attempted to open the door quietly, shuddering from stifled breaths.
The light of the kitchen illuminated the walls of the house, casting lengthy shadows of wooden pillars from the railing that bordered the perimeter of the second floor. Every step brought another bead of sweat to her shaking body as she pressed forward silently in the house. It was absolutely still. Soon, the front door came into view. Kimberly noticed the sound of pouring rain from the modest storm outside. Puddles of water glistened light from the white tile that accompanied the dull white wall color. That is until she caught sight of the water blending from clear to red and to crimson.
Then her eyes met the body.
The eight-year-old boy lay lifeless and throatless, his jeans and polo shirt covered in blood and red-soaked tinker toys. His green eyes were pried wide with horror, staring out of focus as if his life still flashed before them. They were the only parts of him that would still help remind anyone who he was. The shirt was torn from the middle to expose his torso, revealing a number thirty-nine cut into his chest.
The wind-driven door thumping into the wall called Kim back from her petrifying stupor, sending her into a shrieking frenzy for the phone to alert the police.
* * *
An hour later, ten police officers stood shocked at the grizzly murder scene. Local Adrian news reporters stood outside in the pouring rain, telling of the murder of one Davis Young, an eight-year-old victim. Amongst the many police cars parked outside the residence came a black-painted Plymouth Belvedere. An austere figure wearing a black trench coat exited the vehicle as he held his fedora hat tight to fight the rain entering his vehicle. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders as he approached the entrance of the Gate residence.
“Detective Quinn, he’s right in here,” a short male officer said to the man, “but I’m telling you, this isn’t like anything you’ve ever seen before.”
“Let me decide that for myself,” Quinn responded, unshaken by the short officer’s warning. He entered the house, hanging his fedora onto a coat rack to his right. His muscular figure worked past a few officers to reach what made his thick mustache nearly reveal an opened mouth. A child lay on the ground, chest exposed, throat shredded.
“What do you make of it, Quinn?” an officer from behind him asked.
“Do I look like I know everything?” Quinn said, annoyed at the untimely comment. “Damn, Perez, you sure know how to say the wrong thing at the wrong time.”
“Well, at least I’m asking something.”
“Are you supposed to be asking the questions, or am I?”
“I still have a few of my own to ask around here.”
“Yeah? Well go ask them where I can’t hear them, I already have plenty of my own.”
Quinn looked around, searching for any other clues of intrusion. His intuition suggested that the intruder made a hasty entrance and a hasty escape, noticing the back door was locked. He would have to leave fingerprinting to the forensics team, but all possibilities were to be considered until more evidence was secured.
Quinn scratched his mustache with a gloved finger. Frowning, he took out a notepad and began jotting down details of the scene.
Name of victim: Davis Earnest Young. Estimated time of death: 7:06 PM. Cause of death…
He paused, looking at the fleshy number nine engraved in the child’s right pectoral muscle. He noticed something unusual as he leaned closer. A small cluster of hair rested inside the crevice of the number’s engravement line, which Quinn plucked out with rubber gloves. He inspected the hairs, noticing how they aligned near perfection with each other in a row.
Black eyelash extensions, he quickly noted.
“Winslow,” Quinn called to another officer, “Bag this and take it back to evidence for analysis.”
The officer took it and walked away as Quinn took out his notepad again and jotted more notes.
Cause of death…homicide.
A team of officers and investigators stepped through the commotion and began taking photographs and drawing depictions of everything.
Suspect: Female.
