I take a breath, grounding myself as the low growl of an approaching vehicle cuts through the heavy quiet. CSU rolls into view, its tires stirring up a small dust cloud as it eases beside the strip mall’s edge. The doors swing open, and two techs step out, already pulling on gloves and hauling out camera equipment and evidence kits with familiar efficiency.
Detective Meyer stands a few feet from me, a calm silhouette against the chaos. She pulls a notepad from her back pocket, flips it open, and clicks her pen. Her eyes remain fixed on the drainage wash, the body barely visible through the tangled brush and caution tape. That quiet stillness in her expression—the steady detachment—says she’s done this too many times. Seen too many people wind up this way.
“Victim is female. Mid-to-late fifties. Found partially submerged in a drainage channel. Signs of blunt force trauma to the head, multiple lacerations… possible defensive wounds.” The details roll out cleanly. Years of saying the same things in a dozen different scenes smooth the edges into procedure, but my stomach still tightens with every word.
Meyer’s pen scratches the paper. “Any ID on her?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But—” I hesitate, jaw tightening with the memory. “She’s a bartender at Zeke’s. The dive bar off Grant and Campbell.”
That catches her. Her stroke slows. The pen pauses. Her eyes sharpen like a lens focusing. “You know her?”
I glance toward the wash. Even now, her features are barely visible, distorted by bruising and grime. But I remember her. That red top. That gum-smacking smirk. Her southern drawl…
“Sort of,” I say with a sigh, peeling off my gloves. “I went out for drinks there last week with another officer. She was tending the bar. I think her name was Vicky.”
Meyer scribbles again, slower this time, then casts a glance back toward the wash. “Who were you with that night?”
I glance toward Raelynn, who’s watching the crime scene unit set up, but I know she’s still listening, eyes flicking between me and the techs like she’s trying to absorb everything.
“Officer Jacoby Kline,” I reply. “We met there after our shift. But the place was packed—other officers, civilians, regulars. Could’ve been anyone.”
Meyer nods. “Anything stand out? Anyone giving her trouble?”
I shake my head. “Not that I saw. But I wasn’t there long—an hour and a half, tops. She seemed fine. Friendly.”
“Alright,” she murmurs, wrapping up a final note before snapping the pad closed. She slips it back into her pocket and turns slightly toward the CSUs, who are now setting up the perimeter markers and prepping their gear.
“I’ll follow up with Officer Kline for his statement. For now, that’s all I need from you.” She turns to Raelynn with a faint smile. “You and Miss Carson are cleared to return to patrol. I’ll handle the scene from here.”
“Understood,” I say with a curt nod, casting one last glance toward the wash where the techs are zipping the body bag closed around what’s left of Vicky.
I let out a sharp whistle to get Raelynn’s attention. “Let’s go,” I call over, voice low and even.
Raelynn watches the techs lower the body onto the stretcher. The last glimpse of the victim—Vicky’s face slack with demise,the red of that top a faded punctuation—seems to line itself in Raelynn’s memory. When she finally turns away and walks toward the cruiser, there’s a measurement in her face I haven’t seen before—a quiet, fierce focus, like she’s memorizing the way death settles into the edges of a scene.
When she finally turns and joins me beside the cruiser, I catch the edge of that look still lingering in her expression.
“You okay?” I ask, unlocking the doors.
She pauses, scanning my face with more intensity than I expect. “I’m fine,” she says, voice steady. “Are you?”
“Not the first time I’ve recognized a body, Carson,” I reply as casually as I can manage, though the words land hollow in my throat.
She studies me for another second—something unreadable flickering in her eyes—then opens the passenger door and climbs in. I follow and settle into the driver’s seat, the door slamming shut behind me.
The crime scene burned through a solid hour and a half of the shift. As I turn the ignition, it’s quiet for a beat, the low rumble of the engine filling the silence.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a dead body, either,” she says softly, like she’s not quite sure if she wants to open that door but knows she’s going to anyway.
I glance at her, fingers resting loosely on the wheel. She’s staring out the passenger window, her profile lit in the soft morning light. Lips pressed into a thin line. Still. Quiet. But the tension in her jaw—tight, unrelenting—says everything she’s not yet ready to.
“How do you mean?” I ask, shifting the cruiser into drive and easing us away from the crime scene. Gravel crunches under the tires as we head back toward the road, the strobing lights from the CSU fading slowly in the rearview mirror.
She’s quiet until we’re a few blocks out, until the only sound left is the low hum of the engine and the occasional chirp of the radio.
“Last week,” she says, breaking the silence, “you asked me why I wanted to go into homicide.”
I glance her way. She’s still staring out her window.
