There’s no malice in the word, not like before—just a dry edge of humor, the kind that doesn’t bite.
I nod, firm. “Yeah. I am.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes scanning my face like he’s trying to gauge whether I’m actually ready for this. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he gives a curt nod and turns back to the screen.
“This is 2-L-17, show me en route to Blacklidge Drive and First Avenue,” he says into the radio.
“Copy that, 2-L-17,” dispatch responds, the voice crackling faintly through the static.
Perez replaces the mic in its holder, then flips the switch on the light bar. The cruiser floods with red and blue light, reflecting off the nearby cruisers and the concrete walls of thelot. A second later, the siren kicks in—low and mournful at first, then climbing to a piercing wail that cuts through the early morning stillness as we pull out.
The drive is only a few minutes long, but it feels like it stretches on. Tension knots in my stomach, twisting tighter with each block we pass. My fingers toy with the edge of the vest draped over my lap, and I force myself to breathe evenly. I’ve read case studies, watched body cam footage, and taken classes. But this is different. This isreal.
Perez handles the cruiser with one hand on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road, expression unreadable. The only sound is the occasional chirp from the radio and the pulse of the siren.
When we turn onto First Avenue, I spot the yellow crime scene tape almost immediately, strung haphazardly between two dented metal posts near the edge of a rocky drainage wash. A white Community Service vehicle is already parked off to the side, and a small crowd has gathered behind the tape. Most of them are onlookers, but one woman stands apart—older, frail-looking, arms crossed over her chest. A golden retriever lies between her legs.
He kills the siren but leaves the lights running. “2-L-17 is 10-23,” he announces into the radio. “We’re on scene.”
He’s out of the car before dispatch can respond, rounding the front of the cruiser in long strides. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder and jerks his chin toward the tape.
“You coming or what?”
I snap out of my daze, unbuckle, and shove the vest over my head. The nylon clings to my shirt for a second before I adjust it and hop out. My boots crunch against the gravel as I jog to catch up with him as he approaches the older woman.
“Ma’am,” Perez says, his tone calm but authoritative, “can you tell me what happened?”
The woman turns, her face pale and drawn. She gives me a wary glance before focusing on Perez. Her fingers tremble as she clutches her phone to her chest like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
“I—I was walking my dog,” she says, her voice thin and shaking. “He wouldn’t stop barking near the tunnel. I thought maybe it was a rabbit or a stray cat, but then I got closer and… I sawit.” Her eyes fill with tears, and she presses a shaking hand to her mouth. Perez nods gently, softening his tone.
“You did the right thing calling it in. Thank you. Can you show me exactly where?”
She lifts a trembling arm and points toward the far edge of the wash, where the slope dips sharply behind a patch of overgrown brush and a rusted, half-collapsed fence. Through the tangle of weeds and broken fencing, I spot the mouth of a drainage tunnel. Lying partially in the runoff channel, caught on a cluster of rocks and debris, is a body.
From here, it’s hard to tell much. But the position—half in, half out of the tunnel—and the awkward bend of the limbs send a chill down my spine.
“The rain must have carried them out,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.
Perez follows my gaze, then steps forward, ducking beneath the caution tape. I follow behind, boots crunching over broken gravel and glass, my pulse loud in my ears as we approach the mangled remains of the fence that separates the wash from the back lot of a nearby strip mall.
The moment we reach the drainage tunnel, the smell slams into me.
It’s like hitting a wall—a suffocating blend of rot and wet earth, with the metallic bite of old blood clinging to the air. The sour tang of decay hangs thick in the air, layered beneath the damp musk of stagnant runoff and weeds. My stomach lurches,and I instinctively bring a hand up to cover my nose, forcing slow, shallow breaths through my mouth as Perez takes in the scene.
The victim is a woman.
She’s partially wedged in the runoff channel, her lifeless body tangled between jagged rocks and a length of rusted, broken pipe. Her clothing is soaked through, clinging to her like a second skin. The bright red of her low-cut top is now muted, stained with mud, grime, and something darker. The fabric is torn low in the front, revealing mottled bruises and deep gashes carved into her side. Her jeans are caked in dirt, ripped at the knees, and only one cowboy boot remains on her foot. Her blonde hair is tangled and streaked with filth, plastered to her face in wet strands. What’s left of her lipstick is a faint, smeared line along her parted lips.
Perez pulls a pair of black vinyl gloves from his pocket and slides them on with practiced ease, the softsnapof each cuff slicing through the thick, unsettled quiet. Then he crouches beside the body, his boots grinding faintly against gravel as he lowers himself into position.
He doesn’t rush.
His hands move with the kind of precision that only comes from repetition—efficient, careful, respectful. He pats the soaked fabric gently, checking pockets one by one, his fingers moving automatically. But there’s a shift—small, almost imperceptible—when he gets a better look at her face.
His hands still. His breath catches—just barely—and something changes in the way he’s crouched there, like the air’s been sucked out of him.
He leans in slightly, brushing aside a damp strand of blonde hair matted to the woman’s cheek. The makeup, the cut of her shirt, the red tint on her lips—it clicks all at once.
