Crimson Ties

The cold air of the crime lab pressed closer as the first drawer slid open. Reed and Nate worked in synchronized rhythm, their gloved hands moving with practiced precision. The overhead lights cast a sterile glow on the body before them, illuminating the pale, slack face of a man in his late thirties.

Reed gestured to the faint bruising around the neck. "Manual strangulation," he said. His tone was matter-of-fact, but not detached—clinical yet still grounded. "Strong grip, precise pressure. Time of death matches up with your little altercation."

Vince gave a slight nod but didn't reply, his focus shifting to the second drawer as Nate rolled it open.

"Mid-twenties, this one," Nate said, motioning toward the sharp features of the second victim. His hair was disheveled, crusted with dried blood. "Single stab wound, right here." Nate tapped the space between the third and fourth ribs with a pen. "Pierced the heart cleanly. One strike, no hesitation. Death was instant."

Reed opened the third drawer, revealing a burly man, probably in his forties. Scars marred his hands, and his knuckles bore signs of old brawls—a lifetime of violence etched into his skin.

"Same MO as the second," Reed added, pointing to the wound just below the sternum. "Single stab, same angle, same precision. Whoever did this wasn't fumbling their way through—they knew exactly what they were doing."

Vince's jaw tightened as he leaned closer, studying the wounds. "So, two of them were finished off by someone else. After I handled the first."

"Looks that way," Nate agreed, arms crossed. "And here's the thing—no hesitation marks, no second attempts. The killer was methodical. Cold."

Vince straightened, thoughts swirling as he pieced together the implications. Someone had intervened after the fight, someone experienced and deliberate.

"Anything else from the scene?" Vince asked.

Reed shook his head. "Trace analysis is ongoing. Could take some time, but we're combing through every fiber."

Nate smirked, a teasing edge in his voice. "Assuming someone doesn't walk in here and contaminate my lab again."

Vince shot him a sharp look but didn't bother replying. His mind was already turning to the next clue.

Nate suddenly snapped his fingers. "Oh, wait—there was something odd."

Reed glanced at him. "The paper? You think it's worth bringing up?"

"Definitely," Nate said, striding to a drawer. He returned with an evidence bag containing a crumpled piece of paper. He handed it to Vince, who held it up to the light. The page was covered in cryptic symbols and characters, arranged in what appeared to be a deliberate pattern.

"We ran it through some basic decryption algorithms," Nate explained. "Got nothing. Either it's way too complex, or we're missing the key."

Reed crossed his arms, studying the paper over Vince's shoulder. "Might be an old-school cipher, something substitution-based. Or maybe more modern—double-key encryption, something like that."

"Not exactly cutting-edge tech," Nate added, rubbing his temple. "But whatever it is, someone wanted it to stay hidden."

"Where'd you find it?" Vince asked, still scrutinizing the symbols.

"First guy," Nate replied, gesturing toward the initial body. "Folded in his jacket pocket, like he wanted to keep it close."

Vince pulled out his phone and took a clear picture of the paper. The flash illuminated the room briefly, casting sharp shadows across the polished surfaces.

Reed shrugged as Vince handed the bag back. "If anyone can make sense of it, it's probably you. Let us know if you crack it."

Vince pocketed his phone, his expression unreadable. He walked out the BBPD, toward his car, the weight of the coded paper still lingering in his mind, as if the symbols themselves were pressing against the inside of his skull. He glanced down at the photo of the paper on his phone, his thumb absently scrolling over the blurry characters.

It didn't make sense. He'd seen codes before, but this? This was different. The arrangement wasn't random, but neither was it immediately recognizable. Some of the characters seemed like something out of an old book—symbols that didn't fit the typical encryption models. Was it a cipher? Maybe. But what kind? A substitution cipher? Too basic. A Vigenère cipher? It didn't align with the sequence. And steganography felt off, too. There was no image, no embedded secret.

A sudden thought crossed his mind—was it a code for something banal? A simple location? Or just a list of names? Something too obvious to recognize at first. But he rejected that immediately. The careful way it had been hidden—inside the jacket pocket—suggested it meant something important. Whoever left it behind had a reason to keep it out of sight.

But why go through all this trouble for something that looked like gibberish? It made no sense.

He could already feel the weight of the case pressing down on him, each thread pulling him in a dozen directions at once. The kidnappers, the murders, the mystery man who cleaned up the scene so efficiently—all these pieces felt like they were pushing him toward something, yet he had no idea what. Was this the work of someone with a grudge, or just a professional? A hitman cleaning up after a messy job? Maybe he was reading too much into it.

Vince stopped near his car, hands slipping into his jacket pockets, his mind still racing. Nothing added up. No answers, just endless questions. He looked at the phone again, the cryptic symbols staring back at him, then slipped it back into his pocket.

"All this thinking," he muttered under his breath, "and I'm back where I started."

Maybe he'd find more clues at the scene. Maybe the code would unravel itself with time. But for now, it felt like chasing shadows.

Saturday, October 12, 2024

Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City

Maple Leaf Park

Noon

Vince approached the scene, his footsteps crunching on the gravel path leading to the taped-off area. He nodded to the officers as they stepped aside, acknowledging him silently before moving toward the police officer nearest to the body.

The officer - William Johnson, a young man with a grim expression, glanced up as Vince approached, his pen poised over a notepad.

"Vince," Johnson greeted, his voice steady but carrying the weight of fatigue. "Victim's a 48-year-old homeless man. No ID on him, no one's reported him missing. We're still working on getting a name. But, well… you know how these cases go."

Vince nodded, his gaze settling on the body lying beneath a thin, dirty blanket. The sight was stark and unkind—a man who'd already been forgotten by society now rendered completely lifeless. The cold wind tugged at the edges of the blanket, revealing a face frozen in death. His vacant eyes stared upward, wide and glassy, as if caught in the final, horrific moment of realization. They seemed to lock onto him, accusatory in their stillness, as if silently screaming: Why didn't you stop this?

The victim's skin had the sickly pallor of someone who had spent years battling the elements. His cheeks were hollow, his lips cracked and dry, his hair matted with grease and dirt. The grime on his face couldn't mask the unnerving stillness of death. His mouth was slightly ajar, as if he had been mid-breath when the life was taken from him.

"What's the cause of death?" Vince asked, his voice colder than the wind cutting through the trees.

Johnson shifted, glancing down at the body before tapping his pen against a battered notepad. "Single knife wound. Right here." He gestured to the abdomen, where the blanket clung wetly to the victim's torso. A dark, rust-colored stain had seeped through, painting an ominous mark against the already grim scene. "One clean strike. Precise. Could've been quick, but until the coroner looks at him, we can't say for sure. No sign of a struggle, though."

Vince crouched down, the damp grass crunching softly beneath his boots. His sharp eyes swept the area, cataloging every detail. There were the usual signs of a place frequented by the homeless—crumpled food wrappers, empty bottles, discarded cigarette butts—but nothing screamed violence. There was no blood splatter around the body, no upturned dirt or crushed grass to suggest a scuffle. The lack of struggle suggested one thing: the killer knew what they were doing.

"Time of death?" Vince asked, his breath visible in the cool air.

"Rough estimate puts it around midnight," Johnson replied, glancing at his watch. "Couple of joggers found him early this morning. They come through this park regularly and said they've never seen him sleeping here before. Poor bastard was already gone when they found him."

Vince's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, studying the man's hands—calloused, rough, but oddly relaxed. There were no defensive wounds, no signs of a desperate fight to survive. He glanced at the ground again. "Where's the blood?"

Johnson frowned, his pen hovering midair. "What do you mean?"

Vince gestured to the ground beneath the body. "A knife wound like that would've caused a lot of bleeding, but there's barely anything here. Either he was moved after he was killed, or he didn't die here."

Johnson followed Vince's gaze, his expression tightening as the realization sank in. "You think the scene was staged?"

"Looks that way," Vince muttered, standing slowly. His eyes remained locked on the man's face. The lifeless stare seemed to follow him, almost pleading for justice. Vince's mind worked quickly, piecing together what little they had. "Forensics needs to sweep the area. This wasn't random."

Johnson scribbled something in his notepad, muttering, "I'll get them on it."

Vince walked a slow circle around the body, his gaze scanning the grass, the trees, the small details others might miss. The blanket, though thin and filthy, looked freshly placed—no dirt clung to the underside, suggesting it hadn't been here long. There were no drag marks in the grass, no visible trail leading to or from the body. Everything about this scene felt clean. Too clean.

His eyes drifted back to the victim's face, now half-lit by the dappled sunlight breaking through the trees. Those dead eyes seemed to hold a thousand questions Vince couldn't yet answer. The joggers hadn't seen or heard anything unusual. No witnesses. No sounds. Just a body left in a park like a discarded piece of trash.

"Why here? Why him?" Vince muttered under his breath. 

Johnson looked up, catching Vince's quiet words. "Think it's personal?"

Vince didn't answer right away. His jaw tightened, his mind working through the possibilities. A single knife wound. No signs of a struggle. No blood trail. Whoever did this wasn't sloppy. They knew exactly what they were doing—and they wanted it to look like no one had cared.

He stood up and looked toward the direction the officer was indicating. The couple had already given their statement, but the park still felt too quiet, too empty. "What did they say?"

"Nothing much," Johnson replied with a shrug. "They saw the body, called it in, but didn't hear or see anything suspicious."

Vince let the silence hang for a moment as he took in the scene. A homeless man, stabbed with one clean strike, no witnesses, no struggle, and no ID. Just another faceless victim, it seemed. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. Then he turned back to the officer.

"Any connections?" Vince asked, his voice low but firm.

"Nothing so far. No family or friends, no known associates. It's looking like another senseless death." Johnson shrugged again, clearly resigned. "We're still trying to dig into his history, but right now, we've got nothing concrete."

"Alright, get me a list of anyone who's been around here in the last few days. Anything that might stand out." Vince's voice was steady, commanding. "And let me know if anything else turns up."

Johnson nodded. "Will do. Anything else?"

Vince glanced over the scene one last time, a flicker of doubt creeping into his mind. "Not for now. But keep me posted."

As he turned away from the body, his mind drifted back to the previous night. Chloe, the kidnapping case, and the two vagrants he had encountered in the park—one sleeping, the other awake, directing him toward the abandoned warehouse. Vince's thoughts tangled as he tried to place the memory, the one vagrant who had been awake, the one who had spoken.

Now standing here, staring at the body, he couldn't shake the feeling that the missing vagrant might be somehow connected to this case. Where was he? What role had he played in all this? Something about the situation didn't add up, and Vince was determined to find out what.